Chapter 9 The Devil in the Walls

Emily barely slept. The shadows in Victor's estate seemed longer now, and the silence between footsteps echoed louder than ever. Whoever had called her last night wasn't bluffing-the voice had carried something Victor's never did.

Real power.

By morning, her instincts screamed.

She had to move.

She showered quickly and changed into a plain black dress-no silk, no red, nothing that looked like a weapon. She needed to blend in, not draw more fire. The ledger, still hidden under her mattress, felt like a ticking bomb. She stared at it for a full minute before slipping it into a hollowed-out hardcover book titled Domestic Tranquility: A Guide to Obedient Wives-the irony wasn't lost on her.

Downstairs, Victor was on a call, pacing. His jaw was tight, his voice lower than usual, barely audible over the soft hum of the espresso machine.

"No... I told you, she doesn't know anything," he was saying. "I have her under control."

Liar, Emily thought.

She walked into the kitchen, making her entrance casual. Victor noticed immediately.

He ended the call and turned. "Sleep well?"

"Like a corpse," she said. "Thanks for the mattress filled with cement."

His lips quirked. "I like women who stay uncomfortable."

"I prefer my discomfort voluntary."

Victor studied her, then gestured for her to follow. "Come."

She hesitated. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere you'll finally see the truth."

That didn't sound promising.

Still, she followed.

The estate's basement was colder than the rest of the house, filled with weapons, old documents, and... a reinforced steel door she hadn't noticed before.

Victor punched in a code. The door hissed open.

The room inside looked like a command center-monitors lined the walls, displaying feeds from dozens of cameras. Some were surveillance of rival territories, others on key political figures. But a section was dedicated entirely to her.

Emily's apartment. Her brother's hospital. The Westwood compound.

Every second of her life had been documented.

She stared at her own face blinking on the monitor, captured weeks ago while she brushed her teeth.

Victor stood behind her. "Still think you were just lucky to survive?"

She turned slowly. "What is this?"

"Insurance. Obsession. Call it what you want."

Her heart beat painfully. "You've been watching me even before I married Liam?"

Victor nodded. "You were always interesting. A woman willing to fake love to save a dying brother. That kind of sacrifice... that kind of fire... it's rare."

"You sick bastard."

He grabbed her by the arm, pulled her close. "Don't pretend Liam is any better. He's just more polished. We're all monsters, Emily. The only difference is who we pretend to be."

She yanked her arm free. "I'd rather die than become like you."

Victor smiled darkly. "Oh, sweetheart. That's not your choice anymore."

He turned back to the monitors. "Do you know what I did last night after our little chat?"

"No, but I'm sure it involved wine and mirrors."

"I paid your brother's hospital a visit."

Her blood went ice-cold.

"What?" she whispered.

Victor gestured to a monitor. Footage appeared-Daniel's room, still and quiet. But a figure stood at the window, half in shadow.

Victor.

"Don't worry," he said softly. "He's still breathing. For now."

Emily lunged, slapping him hard across the face.

Victor didn't flinch. Instead, he caught her wrist mid-swing and squeezed hard enough to make her gasp.

"You brought war into my house," he hissed. "You lied. You stole. You seduced. And now... now you're going to pay."

She stared at him, fury and fear swirling in her eyes. "You touch my brother again, I swear I'll burn your entire legacy to ash."

Victor leaned in close, lips brushing her ear. "You already have."

That night, Emily couldn't eat.

She sat in the garden, pretending to enjoy the moonlight while internally mapping every possible escape. She had the ledger. She had the evidence. And now she had a deadline.

Victor had let her live-for now-but not out of mercy.

It was a game.

And she was running out of moves.

Back at the Westwood estate, Liam paced like a man possessed.

"She hasn't checked in," he muttered. "It's been two days."

Celine crossed her arms. "You're not exactly easy to check in with. She probably doesn't want you compromising her cover."

Liam turned sharply. "She's not just cover anymore."

Celine raised an eyebrow. "You finally saying what we all knew?"

"I'm saying... I don't want her to die thinking I used her."

Celine softened. "Then go get her."

"I can't. Not until I know she's safe. If I storm Victor's place now, I'll start a war."

"Well," Celine said, handing him a tablet, "then you might want to prepare for one anyway."

Liam looked down. The screen showed a blurry image of a man inside Victor's estate. Not Victor. Not one of his usual guards.

Someone new.

"The guy who called her," Celine said. "We finally got a facial match."

Liam stared at the name beneath the image.

Lucien Moretti.

He felt the blood drain from his face.

"That's impossible," he said hoarsely. "He's dead."

"Apparently not."

Lucien Moretti. Once Victor's mentor. The man who trained half the underground elite. Rumored dead after an explosion ten years ago.

But now... he was back.

And watching Emily.

Liam stood up. "Get me the car."

"You're going after her?"

"I'm going to bury every bastard who touches her," he said. "Starting with the devil himself."

Meanwhile, Emily slipped a small note under the drawer in her room. A code.

A warning.

A plea.

Because if Liam didn't come soon, she wouldn't have a soul left to save.