Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Scottie

M y thoughts are a whirlwind of grief, anger, and old wounds as I press my thumb over the security screen to activate the entrance protocols on the safe house. Zane stands silently beside me, his presence both a comfort and a source of pain.

We're at the one place I never thought I'd return to—the safehouse my father kept for only me, a sanctuary for if and when everything in my life fell apart.

I've only needed it once before—and never wanted to come back. Not that there's anything wrong with it.

It's a perfectly lovely, small, nondescript row house at the end of a quiet street. The narrow driveway leads to the backyard and the one-car garage. Inside the garage sits an unremarkable white Hyundai Sonata—that blends in with every other unremarkable white car in the city.

Everything about this place is carefully planned to be forgettable. If only my memories from the last time I was here were.

But for tonight, the important thing is that Zane and I hide in plain sight.

"Scotland McCullough." I keep my voice even as I speak into the small voice recognition speaker beside the door.

When the door unlocks, we step inside.

The air is stale, the scent of dust and disuse filling my nostrils. I flick on the lights, illuminating the sparse but functional interior. It's exactly as I remember it—a small living room, a kitchenette, and two back rooms—one set up as a bedroom and one kitted out as an office. Everything we need to stay out of sight and figure out our next move.

Zane follows me in, his eyes scanning the interior of the house. "How did you know about this place?"

I drop my backpack on the couch and turn to face him, crossing my arms over my chest. "I stayed here during the weeks I was deciding what I wanted to do with my life."

The words hang between us, heavy with the weight of the past. I see the flicker of understanding in his green gaze, and then the regret that follows.

I'm too exhausted to delve into it. I need to focus on the present, on surviving, and avenging our fathers. I hold up my hand to stop whatever he might be about to say. "You don't need a lot of sleep, but I'm running on fumes. I figure you can go over the security feeds from the compound in the office while I sack out for a few hours."

"This place is wired into the security at the compound?"

"No. But Da has a private server and sends all data to a cloud file backup. We can access it from here, with no one realizing we have access."

"That will be handy for when we take things back, too." He purses his lips and lets out a long-suffering sigh. "They had no idea who they were dealing with when they came after our family."

I nod, unable to muster a response. Our family.

The pain of the day is too raw, the memories of the past too vivid. I glance around the small living space, my eyes landing on the cupboards. "I'll grab bread, milk, and supplies from the corner store in the morning. For tonight, we'll have to make do with cookies and bottled water."

"That's fine. I'm not hungry."

No. He wouldn't be. The puncture marks on those two men hustling out of his bedroom were fresh, and by the flush in his cheeks and the brightness in his eyes, he fed well.

Not that I care… because I don't .

Over the past seven years, he's likely fed hundreds of times—maybe thousands.

My gaze falls to his mouth, and I wonder about those men—both of them men. Is Zane gay? Is that why he pushed me away when I offered myself to him?

If that was all it was, why wouldn't he have told me?

We shared everything…

Shoving that line of thinking out of my mind, I move into the kitchenette and open the doors of the cabinets to find a bag of chocolate chip cookies, a bag of sour cream and bacon chips, and a bag of peanut M&M's.

I grab them all.

Eating my feelings seems perfectly acceptable tonight.

Pulling the top off the cookies, I take three from the first row and shove one into my mouth whole.

"I'm going to take a shower. Make yourself at home."

Without waiting for his response, I storm into the bathroom and shut myself in. Standing with my back to the door, I devour the next two cookies and wait for the endorphin rush from the chocolate to kick in.

With my eyes closed, I focus on the cool tiles under my feet. I won't pick at old wounds. There's enough tearing me apart right now that I don't need to relive the devastation of his rejection.

You know I love you, Scottie, but I'm a true-blood vampire and one day I'll be a Fondatori King. Sadly, you'll never belong in my world.

His words that night had cut me to the core of my soul.

They hadn't only destroyed me, they destroyed everything I'd believed in as his childhood playmate, his partner in crime as a teenager, and as a young woman in love at twenty-one.

I press a hand to my chest and forced myself to breathe. Despite my battered heart attempting to break all over again, I morph the hurt into anger so my devastation won't weigh in.

Anger, betrayal, and hate got me through the worst days and nights since. And after the attack at the compound, anger and hate are boiling in my blood.

I turn on the water, letting it heat as I carefully peel off my blood-stained clothes.

The gash in my side is gnarly and gross.

At least being here, I have access to a fully stocked first aid kit. After my shower, I'll be able to tend to it better than I could in a subway bathroom.

Ew, even saying that out loud sounds unsanitary.

Stepping under the spray, I close my eyes and let the hot water wash away the grime and blood. The physical pain of my wounds is nothing compared to the ache in my heart. I press my forehead against the cool tile, the events of the day crashing over me in a tidal wave of grief and anger.

My father is dead. Francesco is dead. And I'm bound to protect the one person who broke me.

The water mingles with my tears as I stand there, letting the reality of my new life sink in. The power transfer from my father is still zinging in my bones, the weight of my new responsibilities pressing down on me.

I will be strong.

I will protect Zane and secure the dagger.

I will avenge our fathers.

Even as I say the words to myself, I don't believe them. I don't feel strong enough to do any of those things. I'm hurt and broken and want to curl up into a ball and cry until Da wakes me up and tells me it's all been a horrible nightmare.

Lost in thought, I stay in the shower until the water runs cold, and the chill snaps me back to the present. I can't afford to fall apart… Not with Zane here to see it.

Stepping out of the shower, I wrap a huge, fluffy towel around myself and stare at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at me differs from the girl who lived here seven years ago. She's harder, stronger, but the pain of loss is there, etched into every line of her face.

I ignore the reality of that and grab the medical case from the linen cupboard beside the sink. I need to repair, rest, and then regroup. No other thoughts are allowed to highjack my mind. Da trusted me to be his successor.

Me being here with Zane is important—it's life or death.

I clutch the handle of the medical kit, take a deep breath, and head straight to the bedroom.

Zane is in the office chair across the hall and seems lost in thought as he stares at the monitors on the desk. It strikes me then—he could see his father beheaded.

I didn't mention that to him because I didn't want to even speak the words, but watching it would be worse without knowing.

"Zane?"

"Yeah?" He's still scrolling through the security video and doesn't look at me.

"I'm sorry about Francesco. He was a great man and deserved a shit ton better than to be taken down like he was. What they did was brutal. You don't want to see it."

Zane lifts his gaze from the monitors. Loss and agony swirl in his scarlet gaze like a fiery storm. "You're about ten minutes too late on that warning, Scots, but thanks."

I close my eyes, my stomach twisting around the undigested cookies in my gut. There's nothing I can say that will make either of us feel better. "We'll make them pay, Z. Whatever it takes, whoever is involved, their violent death is a done deal. Even if they don't realize it yet."

And with that, I retreat to the bedroom to tend to my wounds.

Zane

The walls are closing in and I'm not sure how to vent the violent anguish raging inside me. If I could leave, I would go to an underground fight club or, better yet, kill someone on my Dexter list of filth who deserves it. I can't leave—not yet.

But when I do, blood will be shed.

I tip my tumbler back and swallow the glass of whisky in one shot. The vintage Scottish malt is smooth going down but stokes a burning heat down the back of my throat and deep in my belly. I need the liquid sedation to take hold and ease some of the rough edges before I lose my mind.

I also need it to erase the tang of blood and sex that still lingers in my mouth. It offends everything in me—especially with the luscious scent of Scottie's blood hanging in the air.

I need to heal her, but she won't let me.

She doesn't want me near her.

She doesn't trust me.

And why should she? I broke her trust in the most intimate moment we ever shared and will spend the rest of my life wishing I could go back and handle things differently.

I'd fall on my knees and worship her.

I'd explain that I am a vile beast with violent cravings and what I crave most of all is her. But despite the gifts of mental manipulation of my family and the skills of witches in the world, there is no going back.

This is where we are now…drowning in the bitterness of grief and rage. My father is dead, Bran is dead, and the loyalty of the Toronto seethe is in question. I have no time to mourn, no time to grieve—I need to act.

Sitting at the desk, I continue to scroll through the security video from my family compound. The images before me are a sequence of snapshots into the horrors of the day, each frame a fresh assault on my senses.

My father's proud figure lying headless in his private chambers is an image burned into my mind. Bran's demise, a direct result of his bond with my father, only deepens the chasm of loss.

I search backward through the footage, looking for answers. The timestamp ticks away, showing me the events leading up to the coup. Unfamiliar figures move through the hallways of my home, and I save screenshots to identify the turned vampires responsible for the attack.

But who helped them?

Who opened the gates and let the traitors in?

My fingers fly over the keys, scanning through the feeds from different angles, different rooms. Finally, I find what I'm looking for.

"You motherfucking traitor."

Benoit, a cook from Montreal, first brought on staff for the spring solstice event, snuck three thugs past the guard during the weekly deliveries.

They took out the guard, opened the door, and just like that, fake fangers hemorrhaged into the compound like cockroaches.

The sting of betrayal spears me like a blade.

I place Benoit's image at the top of the list of the men who will die for the crime of killing my father. They will drown in their own blood. Every single one of them.

As much as I burn for vengeance, with my father gone, I must assume control of the seethe and the vast network of businesses that sustain it.

The Toronto seat of power is a multi-billion-dollar machine, handling everything from shell companies and legitimate downtown rental contracts to controlling the blood trade and trafficking of enchanted objects and relics.

Many enterprises are legitimate, while others are fronts for our more lucrative, illegal ventures. Well, illegal based on human laws and moral standards.

Either way, I need to retain control.

I continue to scan through the files on Bran's private server and my heart stops when I find a couple at the bottom of the list labeled with our names on it. There's one for Huntley, Scotland, and one for me.

Double clicking, I open the one labeled ZANE. A video with my father's face frozen in the first frame opens and a sob escapes my throat. I take in the mixture of pride, love, and sadness in his eyes. Swallowing past the lump lodged at the base of my throat, I click the mouse to play.

"Zanipolo, if you're watching this, then something has gone terribly wrong. First, know that I love you, son. More than words can ever express."

I swallow hard, my throat tightening as his words wash over me.

"I believe in you, Zane. You have the strength and wisdom to lead our people, to protect them and guide them through whatever dark times have hit home. You are my legacy, and I have no doubt you will do me proud. Make them pay, son, for denying me the honor of watching you marry and raise a family of your own."

His voice wavers slightly, as sadness clouds his gaze. "Fill the halls with children, l'uomo. It is my one regret. Your mother and I dreamed of a house full of laughter and love. You should've had siblings. Then we wouldn't have been such an easy target for upstarts looking to claim a seat of power."

I blink back the tears threatening to fall. My mother's death in childbirth left a void in our lives that my father never filled. He never moved on, pouring all his love and hope into me. And now, he's gone too.

"Be strong, my son. And remember, you are not alone. If you show them strength, our allies will stand with you. Trust in yourself. You have everything you need to succeed. I have faith in you. Ti voglio bene, my boy. Always."

The video ends, and I'm left staring at the screen, my mind and heart a maelstrom of emotions. My father's words resonate deep within me, fueling the fire of my resolve.

I will make them pay.

I will avenge his death and ensure that his legacy lives on.

Taking a deep breath, I grab the burner phone sitting in a docking station on the desk and access the contact list my father and Bran left for me. Scrolling through the names of our allies and business partners, I decide to speak to the other Fondatori rulers first.

Ashikaga Hikotaka from Kyoto is one of my father's longest-standing friends.

Taking a deep breath, I dial his number. The phone rings twice before a familiar voice answers.

"Hikotaka-san, it is Zane Vasari."

"Zane," he repeats, his tone respectful but cautious. "What's the situation?"

"My father is dead," I say bluntly. "Assassinated this evening by a turned seethe."

"Turned by who?"

"I don't know yet, but I'll find out."

"Is the diamond dagger secured?"

"It is." Sort of… I think.

There's a pause at the other end of the line. "You have my condolences, Zane. What do you need from me?"

"Loyalty," I say, my voice hardening. "I will stabilize the seethe and secure our interests. If you learn anything that you believe might help me, I would appreciate a heads-up."

"Your father has always had my loyalty, son, and now you will as well. I will find out what I can. Stay safe."

"That's the plan."

"And Zane… make them suffer. Your father was a man unlike any other."

"He was. Thank you for saying so."

The call ends and I let out a long breath as I scroll down to the next name on the list.

This is going to be a long night.