Page 131 of The Last Call Home
There’s a long silence.
Mom is the first to crack.Her shoulders deflate.“We thought if we kept you away, if we never told you the truth ...they wouldn’t come looking.”
“They didn’t forget,” I whisper.
“No,” she says, voice trembling.“They didn’t.”
“So, what am I to them?A legacy?A code?A throne?”
They exchange a glance.My father looks like he wants to lie.My mother seems to have run out of ways to protect me.
“You were supposed to be free,” she says, almost inaudible.“Desmond wanted to marry you to one of his men ...give him the right to take over so he could step down.”
Wow, arranged marriage and all.I’m ...not sure how to take this at all.“Why would they think I’m that important?That marrying me matters.”
“You’re my child and the only heir.”My father sighs like the truth is heavier than the room can bear.“It mattered to them because they believe the family legacy is power.Not just money.Not just land.Power rooted in things we don’t talk about in daylight.You weren’t supposed to be involved.But you were always the contingency plan.The one they’d come for if everything else failed.”
“How did you know where to find me?”I have to ask, because honestly I had no idea if anyone could reach me before these people killed me.
“We had some people in the Syndicate that gave us the information,” he states.
“And Malerick?Cassian?”My throat tightens.“Did you know they’d be there?”
“No,” Mom says quickly.“But thank God they were.I just don’t think Cass is a bartender and Malerick a sheriff.”
She narrows her eyes, voice dipping low.“You don’t learn that kind of training mixing drinks and handing out speeding tickets.”
Instead of acknowledging her suspicious, I look down at the band on my wrist—hospital ID, room number, last name.The plastic feels too tight, like it’s cinching a version of me I no longer recognize.Each letter is a stranger's tattoo burned into my skin.I’m not sure if it’s mine anymore.Everything feels wrong.Stolen.Like I’ve been dropped into someone else’s nightmare and told to survive it like I remember the rules.
“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore.”My voice is hollow.Not fragile.Just ...a void.
I have a father who was never dead.My destiny wasn’t pastries, but being a wife to some asshole who could take over a criminal family.
“You’re mine,” Mom says fiercely, taking my hand like she’s trying to stitch me back together with her grip alone.“You’re still my daughter.Not theirs.Not his.You don’t belong to them.You never did.”
My father doesn’t argue.Doesn’t defend himself because he knows he lost that right when he never came back.He just nods slowly, like every word she says slices through something inside him.It’s like he’s already lost the right to claim me, and he’ll have to live with that.
Before anyone else can speak, the door groans open and Cassian walks in.
He’s breathing hard, jaw clenched, fists raw.The collar of his shirt is torn.His eyes sweep over me—quick, like a scan for injuries—and then remain locked there, unreadable, and searing.Protective.Possessive.Alive.
My pulse skids.Not from fear.
“Where is Malerick?”I ask, my voice pilling out faster than thought.“Not that I’m not happy to see you, but I want to see you both.”
“In surgery.”Cassian’s voice is low, ragged.“According to Simone’s nurse, no organs were hit.Bullet passed through clean.He’ll be sore as fuck and I’m going to have to play nurse to both of you.But if you survived this, you two will survive me.”He winks at me.
I notice then that his knuckles are split, with red crust dried around the gashes.One hand curls around the doorframe like he’s holding himself back—like if he steps further, he might lose whatever grip he has left.
The relief hits me like a wave, too sudden to resist.My knees threaten to buckle, though I’m not standing.My whole body sinks deeper into the mattress like it’s the only thing catching the free fall.My hands clench the blanket, twisting it until the cotton bites into my palms.I’m trying to keep myself from spiraling—to the space where Malerick was, where I almost wasn’t.
Cassian sees it.His jaw works once.Then he’s moving.
Every inch he closes between us makes it harder to breathe, harder to keep pretending I’m not falling apart inside.He stops at the edge of the bed but doesn’t touch—not yet.His chest rises and falls like he’s been holding this breath since he arrived at the docks.
“You should be resting,” he murmurs.
“I was trying to, until my mother told me I’m some heir to the mafiosos, my father is alive, and then you showed up looking like a fucking crime scene,” I whisper back.
