Page 97 of Goldrage
“I… did it all…” she gasps, tears spilling down her cheeks and mixing with blood.
“For yourself. I know.” I let my own tears fall, not caring how my voice cracks around every word. “I loved you. Mommy, I loved you. And all I wanted was to make you happy. Make youproudof me. But you never really cared about that. You never loved me the way a mother should.”
As she opens her mouth to respond, I squeeze the trigger again. The second shot punches through her forehead, silencing her forever. Lady Harrow’s body jerks once, then goes still.
I stagger back, taking a moment to process what I’ve just done. Then I hover over her corpse, surrounded by the glassy-eyed stare of Lucian’s hunting trophies. I’m no longer the prey, and my future is finally my own.
I stare down at her for a long moment. Tears spill from my eyes but not from the loss of this woman who was no longer my mother. I cry for everything that could’ve been. For the loss of the illusion—all these years I thought my mother was genuinely supporting me and that she wanted what was best forme. That she lovedmeas a mother should love a son. I know that she felt some kind of care for me, but only in the way someone cherishes a tool, an object, something to help with their own goals. Her love was never selfless; she really didn’t give a shit what was best formeor my future.
After the tears spill, I’m left feeling nothing but a strange sense of completion. The woman who gave me life, who shaped me, who destroyed me, is gone.
Lucian is gone.
Lady Harrow is gone.
I’m free.
A soft knock on the office door brings my focus back to what I still need to do. “Boss?” Tony’s voice carries through the heavy wood. “I brought what you wanted from the Mancini estate.”
Now, with my mother’s blood on my hands and my brother’s fate in the balance, I prepare for one final confrontation that will determine whether any of us survive what we’ve become.
I holster my weapon and step over Lady Harrow’sbody to unlock and open the door. “Great,” I say as my expression hardens. “Bring him in.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
AURELIA
The Harrow estate is a war zone, crystal chandeliers swaying from the impact of gunfire as we fight our way out of the ballroom. Shouts echo off the high ceilings, punctuated by the sharp crack of gunfire and the crash of furniture being overturned as cover. Olivia’s men provide a barrier and we slip out a hidden staff exit.
We don’t exactly know where Julian is since he disabled all the security, but Valentine suspects he’ll go to the office or his bedroom. I stay close to Adrian’s left shoulder, my pistol steady in my grip.
As we wind through hallways, I realize Eleanora is gone. Just as I’m about to ask, she appears again, trying to catch her breath. “North hallway is secure. No sign of Julian or Lady Harrow.”
Adrian signals the advance, his tactical mind working even as he fires controlled bursts at estate guards who’ve chosen the wrong side. “My bet is thathe’s in the office, but we should cover our bases. We split up—cover more ground.”
My stomach drops. I don’t like us splitting up, but I trust Adrian’s judgment.
But as we reach a T-junction, an explosion sends everyone diving for cover. In the confusion of smoke and falling debris, I find myself separated from Adrian, Valentine, and Lorenzo, stumbling down a side hallway as gunfire erupts behind me.
I press my back against an ornate wall panel, heart hammering as I try to figure out where I am. This mansion is too big and too disorienting. The sounds of battle echo from multiple directions, making it impossible to determine where allies might be fighting.
Three men I don’t recognize—probably from a consortium family and they were stationed outside the ballroom—round the corner with weapons raised, their faces grim with the knowledge that they’re losing this war. I raise my pistol, managing to drop the first man with a clean shot to the chest before diving behind a giant bear statue as return fire chips stone around my head.
The firefight is brutal and close-quarters, furniture splintering under the impact of bullets. I peek around my cover, my training with Valentine growing up serving me well as I pick my shots carefully, making every round count.
But I’m outnumbered, and when my slide locks back empty, I realize with growing panic that I’m out of bullets. The remaining two men push toward me, theirfootsteps heavy. They’re confident now that they’ve heard the telltale click of an empty chamber.
“Well, well,” one of them says. “The Golden One, out of tricks.”
My fingers fumble for the spare magazine I should have grabbed, finding only empty pockets. God, how could I be so stupid? Adrian had offered me extra clips and I’d waved him off, too confident in my own abilities.
I can hear the men speaking in low voices, coordinating their approach like wolves circling a wounded deer. My mind races through options—run, fight hand-to-hand, try to bluff—but each scenario ends with me dead or captured.
A vase explodes near my head, ceramic shards slicing across my cheek. I taste copper on my lips. The bear statue I’m hiding behind won’t protect me much longer.
I scramble backward. My hands desperately search the marble floor for anything: a letter opener, a broken piece of sculpture, anything that might serve as a weapon. There’s nothing.
“Drop the empty gun,” one of the men commands. “Hands where we can see them!”
