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What if it’s a lie? A sick joke? What if someone’s playing with my head, trying to twist the truth into something it’s not?

Why would someone do this to me? Why would they tell me this now?

And then there’s Remo. Why is he always so damn closed off when it comes to my parents? Every time I mention them, he pulls away, like there’s something he’s trying to hide. Like he’s afraid that I’ll figure it out.

But he wouldn’t—he couldn’t have been the one to take them from me, could he?

No. It can’t be.

I force myself to breathe, to calm down, but the words still echo in my head. Remo did it. He killed my parents.

I know better than to trust anything that comes without a name, but the thought gnaws at me. Every time I try to push it away, it comes rushing back, biting harder.

The letter shouldn’t have gotten to me. I’ve seen the way things are usually handled. Everything gets screened. Nothing slips through the cracks unless someone inside is making it happen. But even that doesn’t make sense. It feels wrong, like someone wanted me to see this, wanted me to question it.

The next morning, I don’t waste any time. I wait until Remo’s busy with his men, and then I slide the letter across the table. He doesn’t even look up at first. He’s too focused on whatever plan he’s making with Livia. But then he finally looks up, and his eyes flick to the paper.

“Where’d you get this?” His voice is calm, but I can feel the tense tone.

“It doesn’t matter where it came from. What matters is what it says.” I cross my arms, trying to hold my ground, but I’m shaking inside.

Remo stays quiet for a moment, his eyes scanning the letter like it’s some kind of threat. Then, with a slow exhale, he leans back in his chair.

“I’ll find out who sent it.” His words are clipped and controlled. But I can see the way his jaw tightens, the way he stands a little too fast. He’s hiding something.

“Remo,” I press, leaning forward, “you’re not answering the question.”

His eyes flick up to mine, and there’s a flicker of something there—something close to guilt, something that makes the pit in my stomach deepen even more.

“I was under orders to take them out and make it look like an accident,” he says, and I can hear the weight of those words in his voice. “I had no choice.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. It feels like my whole world just shifted. Like I can’t trust anything anymore. The man I’ve been falling for? The one who’s been holding me every night and whispering promises I’m foolish enough to believe? He’s the one who took them from me.

I don’t think. I don’t reason with myself. All I feel is the rage, boiling up from deep inside, all the years of longing for answers, for closure, for revenge.

I stand up so fast that the chair crashes to the ground.

“You’re lying,” I spit, my hands shaking. “You’re lying. You—you can’t—”

I grab his shirt, my fist clenched, and for a moment, I just want to hurt him. I want him to feel the pain that’s been eatingme alive, the way I’ve been dragged through the mud because of the life he chose.

I scream at him, but it doesn’t even feel like it’s my voice anymore. It’s all the rage, all the hurt, all the things I never said but have been carrying since the day my parents died.

Two of his men rush in like they’ve been waiting for this. They’re quick to draw their guns, ready to do their job, but Remo raises his hand.

“Leave,” he orders.

The men hesitate, their eyes flicking between us. But when Remo doesn’t budge, they lower their guns, giving me one last look before leaving the room.

I can hear the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears. The world is spinning, and I can’t breathe. I want to fight him, but deep down, I know I’m in his house, in his world, and I don’t stand a chance.

“You’re a monster,” I mutter, barely able to get the words out.

“I did what I had to do,” he repeats, as if that makes it okay. Like it’s some justification for what he’s done. As if saying it enough will make it feel less like a crime and more like survival. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right,” I snap. “I don’t understand. I don’t want to understand.”

I can’t. I won’t.