Page 12 of Goldrage
Lorenzo gave me a new leather-bound diary because he knows how important it is for me to let out my thoughts. But what truth can I possibly commit to paper when everything I believed has crumbled to ash? Life is so changed now and I’m struggling to see the path forward.
I press the pen to the page and force myself to write down the only thing that’s still certain: my hitlist.
#1Lady Harrow— My primary target. The puppet master who orchestrated it all. She tried to murder her own son and wears motherhood like a costume. She burned me with a cigar and promised to carve me into pieces for the Consortium’s entertainment. Even if I don’t kill anyone else on my list, this bitch is going down.
#2 Gregory Whitman— Marcus’s brother, the one who traded my mother like currency in his gambling dens. He collected his percentage while she was passed around like a prize.
#3 Sergio Castellano— The trafficker who evaluated my mother like livestock.
#4 Olivia Marlowe— Victoria’s sister. Their mother was involved with torturing mine, though the two sisters didn’t do anything directly. Victoria hadn’t been born yet and Olivia would’ve been a toddler.
I stare at the last name, feeling a little unsettled. Victoria was technically innocent when it came to my mom, though she did plenty of other nasty things as a Consortium member. I killed her because I judged her asa bad person, but that’s not revenge, is it? Am I just killing whoever I want now?
Olivia is slightly different. She did participate in burning me with that cigar. And it was left on my breast, the bitch. But… she only did it once, and it was much lighter than other members. I do have a scar, but it’s mild compared to the rest, only a slight half-moon arc.
When she had leaned in that night, ready to burn me, Lady Harrow had been watching her like a hawk. Olivia had told me, “Too bad you got wrapped up in Julian. He’s the only reason I’m doing this. Nothing personal, you know?”
At the time, I didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but it was clear that Lady Harrow was hovering, pressuring everyone to participate.
What if Olivia didn’t want to do it but had to because Lady Harrow would’ve punished her for not obeying?
I go over my list again. The names stare back at me like they’re waiting for punishment, but they also feel distant now. They’re like relics from another life when revenge was my only oxygen. Lady Harrow—yes, sheneedsto die. But the others? Once, I would’ve carved out their hearts without blinking. I would’ve savored their terror the way they savored my mother’s.
Now all I taste is exhaustion.
What’s the point when the world has already ended?
The door opens without warning and I slap my diary closed as a reflex. I glance up to find Eleanora standing there in the doorway, her silhouette framed against the ornate hallway sconces that somehow survived the attack. The mirror across from my bedcatches her reflection, making it seem like there are two of her watching me. Yeah, just what I need.
And why doesn’t she ever knock? She always startles me.
She enters with some medical supplies and that look of determination she’s had since rescuing me. I remember just a few months ago when all she seemed to wear were purple dresses with flowing fabrics that matched her vibrant personality. Now she’s all about practical jeans that hug her curves and tight black tops that won’t slow any movements. Her long black hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail that accentuates her sharp cheekbones and amber eyes. This version of my best friend moves like a soldier—each step precise while her gaze constantly sweeps the room for threats. The gun holstered at her hip isn’t even trying to be subtle.
Could this woman somehow be a twin? I’ve considered it. But her personality is exactly the same, only… less focused on boys and fashion, with none of her usual excessive jewelry or manicured nails. Her hands are now callused and a small scar crosses her right knuckle that I don’t remember seeing before.
“Time to change your bandages,” she announces, setting her supplies on the nightstand. Without warning, she snatches my diary off my lap.
“Hey, what?—”
“Oh, interesting,” she says as she’s already reading it.
My body is still too stiff and wounded to put up any kind of a fight, so I slump back on the bed.
Her eyes flick to me. “What’s this listabout?”
I only blink at her and don’t respond. She has secrets and I have mine.
She closes the diary and drops it on the bed. “Fine. Lift your shirt.” She grabs some fresh gauze and waits for me to follow her command.
I comply, biting back a groan as the movement pulls at my wound. The bullet hole in my side throbs in rhythm with my heartbeat, a constant reminder of Julian’s parting gift. Eleanora’s fingers work carefully and peel away the old bandage. She’s gentle so I don’t feel too much pain.
“You’re getting good at this,” I say, watching her clean the wound. The edges are raw but healing, according to the doctor Lorenzo brought in. Still hurts like hell though.
“I’ve had practice.”
“More than just me?”
She ignores my question and focuses on what she’s doing.
