Page 51 of Take Me Darkly

“Where do you suppose the snake fits into all of this?” I wondered aloud, not expecting an answer.

Serena looked up at me, and I saw the wheels turning in that brilliant mind.

“It’s possible that the Serpent’s Disciples believe they’re somehow descended from Cleopatra and Mark Antony.” She paused, seeming to turn the concept over before shaking her head. “If they weren’t murdering people, it would sound like a delusion of grandeur. A modern crime syndicate hiding behind ancient mythology.”

“You don’t buy it?”

“I’m an archaeologist, Anton. I deal in facts, not fantasies.” She closed the journal partway, her hand resting protectively on the leather cover. “The research Zeke provided showed the Serpent’s Disciples came into existence in the 1970s. There’s no possible connection to an ancient past. They’re just a modern criminal organization using ancient places and things to advance their agenda.”

She was right, of course. The information Zeke obtained from Hale Fulton was ironclad, complete with criminal records, financial trails, testimony from informants. The Serpent’s Disciples were drug traffickers and money launderers, not the guardians of some ancient bloodline.

“This only adds to the questions we already had,” I said, my voice hardening. “Why was your father researching lineage? And what’s the connection to the drug smuggling routes?”

Serena reopened the journal, flipping through more pages. Her fingers moved faster now, searching for something.

“I don’t know. Maybe there isn’t one.” She paused on a page filled with more sketches. “Maybe he didn’t realize what he’d found at first. Maybe he was just following a historical thread, and the Disciples realized his research was going to expose their smuggling network.”

“Or he found out what they were actively hiding,” I suggested, the thought sending a cold wave of anger through me. “Something worth killing for.”

Her hand trembled against the paper. I covered it with my palm, lacing my fingers through hers. She didn’t speak. Instead, she pulled the journal closer, her coffee long forgotten and cold on the table beside us. We sat in silence for a moment, both trying to process the what ifs of it all.

Serena leaned back against the back of the couch and released a sigh of frustration that I understood all too well. Instead of answers, the journal only provided more questions.

Finally, I broke the quiet.

“Well, there is one bright spot in all of this,” I said, needing to shift the mood before the weight of it crushed her completely.

She tilted her face up to mine, her blue eyes searching. “What’s that?”

“This whole thing—your father’s obsession with Mark Antony and Cleopatra—it’s what led me to you in the first place.”

A faint trace of curiosity replaced her exhaustion. “How?”

“The Brutus Denarius. The coin I was trying to acquire at the Met Gala. Just when I thought the coin was unattainable, I got a solid lead on it. I showed up at that gala fully prepared to negotiate, to offer whatever it took to get the coin.”

“But you never found it,” she said softly.

“No. I found you instead.” I said, cupping her face in my hand, my thumb tracing her cheekbone. “I found something infinitely more precious instead. You were the prize, Serena. I just didn’t realize it yet.”

A tiny frown touched her brow. “But you still want the coin.”

“Of course. It would have completed my private collection.

“Tell me about this collection.”

I frowned, suddenly realizing that she had never seen it. There were so many pieces of my life that I’d kept compartmentalized, separate from what we had in this protected bubble. It was time to start letting her in.

“I have six of the top ten rarest ancient coins in existence,” I told her. “The Denarius would have been seven.”

“Obtaining that many coins is extraordinary—and no small investment, I’m sure,” she said quietly, studying my face with an intensity that stripped away my armor. “A man of your wealth could collect master paintings, luxury yachts, or rare real estate. Why ancient coins?”

The question hit deeper than she knew. I’d never really explained it to anyone—not even to myself. But sitting here with her, the truth seemed to demand its way out.

“Because they survived,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. “Empires collapse. Kings are murdered. Civilizations burn to ash. But these small pieces of metal endure. They’re tangible proof that something real existed, that it mattered, even after everything else is gone.”

I held her gaze, letting her see past the ruthless billionaire, past the owner of Club O, and straight to the boy who had survived the dark. That boy was driven by pure desperation and determination.

“When I hold a coin that was struck two thousand years ago,” I continued, unable to stop now that I’d started. “It reminds me that nothing is permanent. Not power, not grief, not even pain. But the rare things, the extraordinary things—that’s what lasts. To me, acquiring them isn’t about wealth or collecting just for the sake of owning something. It’s proof of survival.”