Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

No one is born evil.

Evil is created, not inherited―an inescapable tar that will inevitably succeed in devouring anything that crosses its path.

I wasn’t always evil.

I used to believe the notion that “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” —some messed-up terminal illness that only attacked the fiber of your morals instead of giving its victim chronic, lifelong symptoms.

But I never developed profound psychiatric instability. I didn’t inherit whatever sickness runs in their blood. I saw it for what it was—and I chose not to be like them.

My refusal to follow in the family’s footsteps, every decision to stand against what they built, was the freewill of someone who saw the cliff edge and turned away. But even that kind of choice comes with a cost.

Because in trying to stop the descent, you’re still falling.

And once in flight, there’s only one way to go―and it’s down.

Chapter Text

It isn’t hard to pinpoint when my life veered off course.

Some people might blame a crumbling marriage, a stagnant career, or the slow creep of regrets that accumulate with age. For others, the unraveling might be more gradual—an erosion of dreams or the gnawing absence of something they never even realized they lost.

For me, everything traces back to my mother’s death—well, her “suicide,” according to the Vervalle Police Department and the city coroner.

Vervalle wasn’t a city unfamiliar with the dark and gruesome, home to corrupt public officials and secrets buried deeper than the subway lines. 

It was no surprise that people here had learned to take things at face value, if only to avoid digging too far and unearthing something worse.

As the police chief’s daughter, I understood better than most just how difficult it would be to challenge the law—or the very idea of justice my father claimed to serve—when the evidence hinted at something far more sinister than anyone dared to admit.

No matter how many times I read the official report, I couldn’t shake the gut feeling that my mother had been murdered.

As imagined, the discussion never went over well at the dinner table. 

Conversations would quickly descend into heated arguments, each one sharp enough to leave a wound, until we were all talking past each other.

My father, desperate to protect his career and reputation, dismissed any doubts with cold finality. Mattias, my older brother, was caught somewhere between loyalty to family and the instinct to distance himself from a problem that felt too big for him. Luca, the youngest and brightest, was caught in the middle, forced to choose sides he wasn’t ready to take.

And then there was me, a teenager with more questions than answers, holding onto a truth no one wanted to hear.

Over time, those dinner conversations turned into a battlefield, and what was once a family slowly grew quieter and more divided. There was no room for understanding. No space for healing. 

Just silence and distance, thickening with every passing year.

The final nail in the coffin came with my career choice. I didn’t follow in the footsteps of dear old Dad like expected, or the golden child Mattias.

I chose something more in the gray area of the law—becoming a private investigator was a career that not only rubbed my father raw but also pushed me even farther from the prestigious Fontana name. A reminder that I wasn’t interested in his world of black and white or his way of doing things.

And that was a rift that could never be bridged.

My dad called me a vigilante—his voice always laced with disapproval. Luca, the only ally I had, called my rundown apartment home every now and then, though I knew he wouldn’t dare say it in front of the others. And Mattias? Well, Mattias never called.

I stared at the ceiling, sleep refusing to take me after another night of caffeine-fueled insomnia and my latest cold case.

My brain, being the overachiever that it was, decided three in the morning was the perfect time for a highlight reel of every bad decision I’d ever made. Same endless loop, same spiral back to the past—the moments that shaped me, the choices that complicated my relationships.

Not that I got much sleep these days, anyway.

Just as my eyes finally felt heavy enough to close hours later, my attempt to rest was interrupted by a sound cutting through the quiet. It was faint at first, steadily growing into an insistent beeping, piercing the haze of my subconscious as it neared its final crescendo.

I groaned, furrowing my brows as I reached out, blindly slapping at the nightstand for the snooze button on what I assumed was my dying alarm clock.

Then the smell hit me—sharp, acrid, wrong.

My eyes snapped open. Light from the blinds sliced through the room, throwing long, dramatic shadows across the walls. For a second, I just lay there, disoriented and struggling to connect the dots.

The burning smell grew stronger.

I shot upright, my heart hammering as the fog of sleep clung stubbornly to my thoughts. My first instinct? The stove. Had I left something on? Some sad, forgotten frozen pizza from last night?

Wait— what did I even eat last night?

That useless thought barely had time to register before I was already stumbling out of bed, my warm covers twisting around my legs in an attempt to drag me down. I nearly face-planted, catching the corner of my nightstand as I steadied on wobbly legs. 

Then, with all the grace of someone who hadn’t moved this fast in years, I staggered to the door and yanked it open, probably harder than necessary—just in time to see thick, gray smoke curling ominously from the kitchen.

Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.

Suddenly running on pure adrenaline—and the sheer will to not die in a fire—I bolted toward the source of the chaos, my smoke detector wailing in the background like it was auditioning for a horror movie.

My kitchen, my small, barely-functioning excuse for a kitchen, looked like a war zone. Smoke billowed in thick, angry tendrils toward the ceiling, turning the air hazy. The smell of something beyond burnt clung to my throat, making me cough as I skidded to a stop in the doorway.

And there, right in the middle of it all, was my panicked, idiot brother, Luca, wildly flapping a dish towel at the flames on the stove like some kind of unhinged bird.

“Are you serious right now?” I wheezed, waving smoke from my face, exasperation bubbling beneath the shock. “What the hell are you doing?”

Luca spun toward me, eyes wide and guilty—except, somehow, also mildly offended. “Making breakfast?”

I stared at him. Then at the very on fire pan behind him. Then back at him.

“Looks delicious,” I deadpanned, face blank as I finally noticed the charred remains. “What was the plan, extra crispy or incinerated?”

Luca scowled like he often did when he knew he messed up, grabbing the pan with an oven mitt and tossing it unceremoniously into the sink. 

A violent hiss of steam shot up as he cranked the faucet, sending another wave of heat into my already sweltering kitchen. 

The fresh assault made my eyes sting, and I gagged, stumbling to wrench open a window. The air that rushed in wasn’t exactly fresh —not in a place like Vervalle—but compared to the hellscape inside my apartment, it was practically a mountain breeze.

Behind me, Luca let out an exaggerated sigh and flopped against the counter, arms crossed like he had any right to be the vexed one here. I knew this move—classic damage control. He was winding up for an excuse.

“Okay, so, technically —”

“No.” I cut him off immediately, already done with whatever weak excuse was about to come out of his mouth. “There is no technically in this scenario. You almost burned my apartment down over what, scrambled eggs?”

“I did not almost burn your apartment down,” he protested, pushing himself upright, electing not to confess to whatever breakfast was supposed to be. “I had this totally under control.”

I gestured wildly at the lingering smoke swirling around us, my view of him completely obscured by the remnants of his incompetence. “Oh yeah. Super controlled.

He sniffed, rubbing at his red eyes from the haze. “It’s just a little smoke.”

“A little smoke?” I repeated incredulously. “Luca, the alarm’s still blaring.”

As if on cue, the fire alarm blared again, its high-pitched shriek drilling straight into my skull. I swore under my breath and grabbed the nearest broom, wielding it like a weapon as I jabbed at the detector. It wobbled and refused to shut up.

Luca, proving yet again that he was utterly useless in a crisis, leaned back against the counter and watched.

“You wanna help me out, genius?” I snapped, still aggressively whacking at the alarm.

He shrugged, raising an eyebrow like he was impressed. “You seem like you’ve got it contained.”

I nearly threw the broom at him.

A fresh wave of obscenities on the tip of my tongue, I opened my mouth to rip into my younger brother—only for the alarm to finally cut off, leaving behind an abrupt, jarring silence.

The sudden absence of noise left my ears ringing, the only sounds now my ragged breathing and the faint crackle of something still smoldering on the stove.

My head pounded—probably from the stress, lack of sleep, and whatever fumes I’d just inhaled. My apartment hung thick with the stench of singed food, a smell so potent it felt like disappointment had taken physical form and settled into the tiny room.

I exhaled sharply through my nose, pinching the bridge of my nose as I fought off the headache building behind my eyes. “Why,” I forced out, keeping my voice even, “are you even here?”

Luca hesitated, shifting uncomfortably like a kid caught in the act of something wrong. His green eyes flicked toward the sink, suddenly fixated on the scorched frying pan resting there like an unassuming weapon. “I, uh—wanted to surprise you with breakfast?”

I let out a slow breath, already spotting the lie.

He was dressed—not formally, but enough to suggest this wasn’t just a casual visit. His dark brown hair, usually a mess of unruly waves, was combed back with just enough effort to look intentional.

His button-down was slightly wrinkled, like he’d grabbed it off a chair instead of a hanger, the top buttons undone in a way that screamed laziness, not style. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows—attempting effortless cool—if not for the sneakers that completely ruined the illusion.

I crossed my arms, tilted my head, and shot him a look. “What part of ‘surprise’ involves setting off the fire alarm?”

Luca grinned sheepishly, his green eyes flicking toward the smoke still curling toward the ceiling—his failure on full display.

“The surprise part?” he offered weakly.

I cracked an eye open to pin him with another withering glance, but the truth was, despite the near-death experience, it was nice having him here. A reluctant warmth settled in my chest—one I’d never admit out loud. Even if my apartment and my sanity might not survive his visit, I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed having someone around.

Luca sat perched on one of my kitchen stools as he pushed a perfectly intact mug my way, looking far too comfortable for someone who had barged in unannounced. It was as if the last ten minutes hadn’t even happened.

I caught the subtle signs of nerves—the shift of his shoulders, his green eyes flicking to me every few seconds, gauging my mood.

I narrowed my eyes as I accepted the offering, noticing the lukewarm black liquid inside. 

I took a sip. Bitter. Of course. “So,” I said, setting the mug down, “Are you going to tell me the real reason you’re here?”

“Well, uh,” he started, voice too casual—carefully, too casual. “Could you drop me off at the police station?”

I took a slow sip of my coffee, letting the silence stretch long enough to make him sweat. Even hearing the word “police” sent a cold twist through my stomach. Any sort of visit wasn’t exactly high on my list of priorities.

“What for?” My voice came out clipped, more accusation than question.

Luca hesitated. Barely a fraction of a second, but I caught it.

“It’s the last day of that summer program Dad made me sign up for,” he said, forcing nonchalance. “I didn’t exactly have a ride this morning.”

I set my mug down with a deliberate clink, leveling him with a stare sharp enough to strip paint. “What time are you supposed to be there?”

Luca pulled out his phone, tapping the screen like he needed to check. His jaw tensed too much, his brows lifted in that fleeting way that screamed resignation.

Finally, he looked up, expressing a careful mask of indifference, though the twitch in his jaw betrayed him.

“Right now, actually.”

I froze, choking on my coffee, barely managing to swallow before it made a mess.

“Excuse me?”

Luca winced, his green eyes darting nervously to the sink before meeting mine again. He shifted in his seat, like he could already tell the wrath he was about to face. “We should probably leave, like, ten minutes ago.”

I stared at him for a long moment, my mind racing as I tried to process his request. Strangling him with my bare hands was very tempting. Marching back to bed, pulling the covers over my head, and pretending I’d never heard this conversation was a close second.

But deep down—deep, deep down, past all the annoyance and frustration—I knew there was only one real outcome here. I knew that no amount of dramatic stares or sarcastic quips was going to save me from the inevitable.

I groaned, rubbing a hand over my face. “You couldn’t have led with that?”

Luca scratched the back of his neck, clearly unbothered by my frustration. “I was getting to it,” he said, as though this was a perfectly reasonable defense. “Before, you know, the fire.”

I groaned louder, slamming my mug down on the counter with enough force to rattle the ceramic and send a few rogue drops splashing over the edge. I easily lived twenty minutes from the station—twenty-five if there was construction still on the main drag.

“We’re going to be so late.”

 “I know.” Luca shrugged, his eyes flicking toward the clock on the wall before quickly looking away. He didn’t even bother checking his phone, just shoved it into his pocket with a little too much force, like he already knew he wouldn’t like what he saw. His sneakers scraped against the tile as he grabbed his bag from the floor, leaving his untouched coffee behind.

Sunlight filtered through the kitchen window, catching the faint shadows beneath his eyes. The easygoing mask he usually wore cracked, just for a second, revealing something more raw—tension, maybe even guilt.

He wasn’t acting normal anymore. He was acting nervous.

“I’ll take the blame,” he offered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll tell Dad it was my fault we didn’t make it in time.”

I snorted, already heading for the laundry room to throw on something that didn’t scream I just rolled out of bed . “Don’t bother, he’s going to pin it on me regardless.”

Luca’s frown deepened, not even trying to argue. 

His shoulders slumped as he reached for a piece of toast from the counter—a scorched husk of regret, abandoned and blackened at the edges. He hesitated, then took a bite anyway, like sheer stubbornness could make it edible. His jaw worked through exactly one chew before his face twisted in a grimace.

But, out of misplaced pride or sheer determination, he swallowed it anyway.

God help us.

With a sigh, I cast one last, mournful look at my source of caffeine before shoving him toward the door. “Move it, firestarter. I need to look presentable.”

“Hey, that’s slander,” he protested, managing a small grin.

“Sure. You can sue me later.”

I grabbed a jacket draped over the back of a chair, shrugging it on as I reappeared. The familiar weight settled over my shoulders—not much, but enough to make me feel at least a little more like a functional human being.

Luca trailed behind me, his footsteps light, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his usual laid-back act. Whatever the real reason for his early visit was, it had nothing to do with the summer program. That much was obvious. But whatever it was, it would have to wait. I wasn’t in the mood to dig into it now.

The door slammed shut behind us, and the cool morning air hit like a slap to the face as we exited the main entrance.

My car sat in its usual spot by the curb, the fog still clinging to the streets in thin, ghostly wisps. I slid into the driver’s seat, and Luca followed, settling in beside me with forced ease. His posture screamed casual indifference, but I could feel the storm of thoughts brewing beneath the surface—his and mine.

Dread coiled in my stomach, familiar and suffocating. That tight, constricting weight that always settled in my chest whenever I had to walk into that building.

The police station.

The last thing I needed today was to deal with my father.

Salvatore Fontana—the police chief. The man who never needed to raise his voice to make his disappointment hit like a bullet. Who always seemed ready to bring the hammer down, especially when it came to us.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, my eyes locked on the road even as my mind spiraled ahead to the inevitable confrontation. He wouldn’t just be irritated that I was late. He’d be furious—especially when he found out I’d been around Luca.

In his eyes, I was the problem. The bad influence.

“He’s gonna love this,” I muttered under my breath, more to myself than to Luca.

Luca’s grin flickered, then faded entirely, replaced by an edge of unease. “Hey, it’s not like I meant for things to go up in smoke,” he said, the joke weak, his voice lighter than he felt. He didn’t want to deal with Dad either.

I already knew how this would go: I would be the one to bear the brunt of it. I always did.

My fingers curled tighter around the wheel, knuckles white. “Just don’t make this worse than it already is.”

He readily nodded, but his expression was tight. He wasn’t thrilled about this either, and I knew he hated Dad’s lectures almost as much as I did.

Luca had a heart too soft for a family like ours—too attuned to the quiet, constant tension that simmered beneath the surface.

My place in this family didn’t just bruise me. It bruised him, too.

Chapter Text

The second those overly polished doors clanked shut, I realized I’d just walked into my very own prison cell—minus the dignity of an actual sentence.

Luca stood close by, and I noticed with extreme dismay that I was glancing upwards just to meet his eyes.

When did that happen? 

Last I checked, I still had a solid inch on the kid. Now he was nearly a head taller, clearly proud of it, judging by the smug tilt of his head.

I shot him a sideways look. “Are you planning to keep growing or are you just doing this to spite me?”

He shrugged, unbothered. “Maybe both.”

Great. Just what I needed—an adolescent with attitude and better posture.

The scent of orchids hit us like a wall the further we trailed into the station. Purple and white flowers sat perched in vases at strategic corners of the lobby, their sweet fragrance mingling with the sterile chill of the air-conditioned space. It was the kind of odd combination meant to soften the harsh, uninviting environment of this place.

It didn’t work.

The building would be considered a gorgeous time capsule, reminiscent of the early days of Vervalle—if it wasn’t so heavy with the kind of history they don’t print in school textbooks. 

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering every couple of seconds like they were warning me to turn back. A high-pitched hum that felt like a constant reminder that I was walking into an interrogation room every time I set foot in here. 

I noticed belatedly that the main lobby wasn’t overly packed for it being a Thursday morning, a scattered amount of officers and workers roaming the open space. A few offered a quick greeting upon seeing us, others too consumed with paperwork to even notice our presence.

At the heart of it all, the central figure, Darlene sat with her ever-present, heartwarming smile—the kind that made it seem like she was always stuck in a simpler, better time, when life felt less complicated.

Her silver hair was pulled into a neat little bun that probably hadn't moved in decades, and she was hunched over her paperwork, no doubt filling out the same mind-numbing forms she’d been filling out since I was in diapers. 

In a place like this, Darlene was the only thing that made it feel even remotely human.

“Well, well—look who finally decided to show up,” she chirped as we walked in, her voice as cheery as ever. She glanced up at us, her eyes twinkling with that familiar glint that made it impossible to tell whether she was scolding us or simply entertained by our existence. “I hope you have a good excuse.”

Luca shrugged, looking entirely unbothered, a mix of innocence and mischief on his face. “It would look bad if the police chief’s kids were caught speeding, right, Darlene?”

The older woman let out a small, almost rueful laugh, and the sound told me everything I needed to know—she knew what we were walking into.

I didn’t waste our already pressed time with small talk.

“I take it he’s mad?” I asked with a sigh, doing my best to hide the grimace threatening to slip onto my face.

Darlene’s eyes flickered between the two of us, a silent assessment that spoke louder than any words. For a moment, I felt the full weight of the pity she had for us—especially me.

She pushed her glasses up her nose, still smiling, but this time, there was an edge to her amusement. “Mad? Your father’s blood pressure is so high, I can feel it rising from here.”

The pit in my stomach tightened, anxiety rising. The urge to collapse into my hands and sink into the floor was only fought off by the fact that I was an adult—barely—and there were cameras everywhere

My father was a living pressure cooker. He made type A personalities look like they were cruising through life. Being late? Unforgivable. If I were three minutes late, he’d treat it like the world was on fire.

I could almost hear his voice in my head now, repetitive and irritated: “You know better than this, Evangeline.”

It was as if every second of my life had to be accounted for—and if I wasn’t on time, I might as well be breaking the law like the criminals he spent his days with.

Luca glanced at me, already seeing the storm cloud forming over my head. I was so not in the mood for this. “We better get him on the phone, Darlene. Before he sends out a squad car to pick us up.”

Darlene raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by the whole situation. She at least had the decency to give me a sympathetic look. “I’ll ring him up now. Brace yourselves.”

With a practiced motion, she picked up the phone, dialing with ease. Within two rings, our father’s voice crackled through the receiver, distorted and clipped. It wasn’t just his words that were biting—it was the way the sound seemed to vibrate through the line, each syllable like a warning. I didn’t need to hear him to know the irritation practically hummed in the air.

“Yes, Darlene?”

“Chief, they’re here,” she announced, french tip nails curled around the worn plastic of the receiver. She added with a soft chuckle, trying to lighten the mood but having zero effect, “They’re just about to head to your office, but I thought you’d like a heads-up.”

There was a pause on the other end. A heavy silence before the harshest sigh I’d ever heard.
“Send them in.”

I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. Yeah, that sounded like a man ready for a pleasant family reunion.

I could practically feel the weight of his disappointment through the phone, even though I wasn’t the one on the receiving end. I had a sinking feeling I was about to get called out for a list of offenses—my complete lack of punctuality would be the first, despite not even knowing what I was walking into.

Darlene hung up the phone with a soft click. Her expression shifted, the lightness draining from her face, replaced by something closer to quiet concern. She didn’t smile. Not this time. Just gave us a look that felt like a silent prayer.

“Good luck,” she said, her voice softer now, almost reluctant. “You know I’m rooting for you.”

I let out a low chuckle—dry, humorless. I’m sure my expression was more pinched than my tone. “Thanks, Darlene. I’ll need it.”

Luca bumped my shoulder with his, that same easy grin on his face like this was all some kind of game. He was the picture of calm, even when we both knew exactly how this would play out. Always the buffer.

“Don’t worry, El. You’re a pro at this by now.”

If that wasn’t the unfortunate truth.

“Yeah, sure,” I muttered, though the knot in my stomach had lodged itself in my throat, thick and suffocating. The pressure made it hard to breathe, let alone talk. “You so owe me for this.”

I pushed open the door to his office without waiting for Luca’s response, every muscle braced for the fallout.

Salvatore Fontana may have been my father, but he wasn’t a man of warmth or welcome. He was control in a suit, expectations in a voice, disappointment in human form.

And I couldn’t even remember the last time we’d spoken. Weeks? Months? My brain didn’t bother keeping track anymore. 

Whatever the gap, it hadn’t been long enough.

The door clicked shut behind us, and the silence that followed felt like an executioner's final blow. His eyes—sharp, unblinking, and the exact same shade as mine—swept between Luca and me like a tornado.

The weight of his judgment was already crushing.

“Luca,” he began, his voice pointed and direct, deep voice jarring. I had to force myself not to jump out of my skin. “You spent the night at your sister’s apartment without telling me?”

Luca stiffened like a soldier caught in the wrong uniform. His eyes flicked toward me, a hint of panic sliding in under his calm façade.

Now that was interesting.

I shot him a glance, lifting a brow and giving him the subtle we’ll talk later look. Whatever lie he’d told, it hadn’t involved me—and I wasn’t about to get dragged under by it by saying the wrong thing.

I knew for a fact Luca hadn’t been at my place. Maybe he’d stayed at a friend’s house he wasn’t supposed to see, another individual deemed too far beneath the Fontana name to be anything other than sidewalk scum.

He hesitated, scrambling for footing. “I—no, I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie.”

Salvatore’s voice cut through the room like a scalpel, cold and precise. “I expect you to be honest with me, Luca. Your sister’s poor decisions are already a problem—I don’t need you slipping into the same cycle.”

My jaw clenched so tightly I thought my teeth might crack. ‘Poor decisions,’ huh? 

That was rich, coming from a man who treated control like love and obedience like loyalty.

I didn’t say anything. Not yet. I could feel the heat rising in my chest, a slow burn behind my ribs, but I held it back. This wasn’t about me, even if it felt personal.

This was his way of parenting Luca, as backwards and demeaning as it was. If I stepped in too soon, as opposed to waiting for the opportune moment to speak, I’d damage their relationship as badly as I had damaged ours. 

Luca stood there, caught like a deer in headlights—his shoulders tense, his jaw working, trying to form words that wouldn’t betray either of us.

He didn’t want to lie. But he also didn’t want to confirm whatever version of the truth Salvatore had already made up in his head.

“Dad,” he tried, voice lower now, “it’s not like that. I—”

Salvatore raised a hand—swift and final—and Luca fell silent instantly, as if trained to obey the command.

“Enough,” our father said, each syllable clipped and devoid of warmth. “Go. Join the rest of the volunteer group on the third floor before your sister’s nonsense rubs off on you any more than it already has.”

The words landed like a slap. Not just the insult—but the dismissal. Like I wasn’t even worth addressing directly.

The sting hit harder than I wanted to admit. I knew how he saw me—like a cautionary tale dressed in my mother’s features. A disappointment he couldn’t quite scrub from the family name. But hearing it aloud, so blunt and surgical, made it harder to ignore.

Luca opened his mouth to protest, but when our eyes met, I gave a small shake of my head. He hesitated, then lowered his gaze.

He looked torn—caught between the loyalty we’d built and the fear that still clung to him around our father. After a beat, he dipped his head, throwing me a quiet, apologetic glance as he mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

I nodded back, trying to make it reassuring. It didn’t feel like enough.

The door clicked shut behind him, sealing me in with the one man I never wanted to be alone with.

Salvatore didn’t wait long. His gaze cut into me, frosted steel.

“I understand your aversion to speaking with me,” he said, his voice low and needling, “but you couldn’t be bothered to call? To tell me he was with you— again? How many times must I remind you of your responsibilities, Evangeline?”

He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping.

“Your mother would be appalled.”

My jaw clenched at the mention of her—his favorite weapon when he wanted to draw blood without lifting a finger. He always knew how to wield her memory like a knife.

“I’m sure she’d be thrilled,” I said, my voice tight and biting. “I’m sure she’d love to know I’m being punished for living my life on my own terms.”

The words hung between us like a provocation, sharp enough to draw blood if he reached for them.

If I got anything from him, it wasn’t his approval—it was the fire behind my fury. His anger, inherited and refined, burned in my chest like a legacy I never asked for.

Salvatore’s eyes flashed, and for a moment, I thought he might lash out, but instead, he only leveled me with a glare that could’ve cut through steel.

“I’ve warned you before, Evangeline. You don’t get to live on your own terms when you carry my name.” His voice lowered, the menace in it unmistakable. “I expect you to straighten out, God only knows why your youngest brother looks up to you.”

I stood there, staring at the wooden desk in front of me, my fingers flexing at my sides. His words—his tone—cut deeper than I wanted to admit. He was always like this, attacking whatever target was closest. Today, for some reason, that target was me. 

I could feel his frustration build up, or maybe it was my own, pressing against my chest like a vice.

I swallowed down the angry words I wanted to say, my mouth dry. “I was busy,” I said flatly, not bothering to sugarcoat some bullshit excuse. “Had some things to handle before coming here. It's not like the world’s going to end because I’m a few minutes late.”

He let out a laugh, almost finding what I said comical, leaning back in his chair as he scrutinized me. “You think this is some game, don’t you?” His eyes narrowed, his lip curling slightly. “Every minute you waste, every rule you break, reflects poorly on me. Do you know how much work it takes to keep this family together? To keep up the image I’ve spent years building?”

He leaned back, eyes narrowing. The faintest smirk curled at his lips, as if to say everything he’d built—everything he was—was beyond reproach. I was just a minor inconvenience

I clenched my fists, knowing better than to snap back. He wouldn’t care. He didn’t care about anything except appearances.

I straightened my back, pushing down the weight that threatened to crush my chest. “And what about Luca? Are you really going to hold him accountable for everything I do now? He’s not even in high school yet.”

He scoffed, clearly not buying my defense. “He’s following your example, Evangeline. You think I don’t see the way you’re pulling him into your mess? Just wait until Luca’s the one paying the price for your selfishness.” He let the words hang in the air, thick with accusation.

My younger brother’s face flashed in my mind. The last thing I wanted was for him to get caught up in this mess, battling it out with the only parental figure we had left. 

He didn’t deserve to be dragged into the warpath my father and I had created with our own two hands.

I took a moment to study my father, seeing him without the usual bias. As he stood, his tall frame stretched to its full, intimidating height. His police chief’s uniform—dark navy, polished brass buttons, and a gleaming badge—gave off a cold, authoritative gleam in the harsh light. 

The sharp lines of the fabric framed his broad shoulders and tapered to his waist, where the insignia commanded respect. 

His sleeves were rolled just enough to reveal cufflinks, and the crisp collar and pressed jacket showed how meticulous he was. Every detail, from the leather belt with its holster to his polished boots, exuded control and precision.

With his arms crossed, he looked every bit the embodiment of law and order, as though the uniform itself gave him the power to bend the world to his will.

Once upon a time, I looked up to the man. His presence had always been commanding, but in those days, it filled me with pride instead of dread. I remember when his approval was the highest form of validation, when I would catch glimpses of him at his desk, his uniform sharp and immaculate, and feel like I could conquer anything just by being in his orbit. 

Back then, he was everything—a protector, a symbol of unwavering strength. I believed in his vision of justice, the one that he had promised would guide me, even when I didn’t fully understand it.

Now that same law and order, which once felt like a shield, felt more like a cage, the bars closing in tighter with each passing day. The man I once admired had become a prison, and I was trapped inside, suffocated by his expectations and the weight of his authority.

I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice. “You act like I’m willingly trying to sabotage him.”

His voice dropped, low and controlled, but it carried an unmistakable edge of menace. “You’ve already managed to screw up your own life. Do you really want to ruin his too?”

The final blow had been delivered, a stark reminder why I kept the exchanges brief and mainly in passing. I didn’t dignify him with a response; I didn’t have to. The silence between us carried more significance than any rebuttal could. My face, however—my face betrayed me.

And he saw it.

There was no hesitation, no flicker of regret. No softening of his tone, no attempt at an apology. Just cold, calculated certainty. He truly believed I was a stain on Luca’s future, a blemish on the family name he polished with obsessive care. In his eyes, I was already lost—unworthy, disposable.

And it wasn’t even noon.

His pager shrilled through the stale air, high-pitched and demanding, breaking the silence like a slap.

“Damn it,” he muttered, already halfway to the desk phone. He snatched the receiver with a practiced urgency, his voice snapping into something colder, more clipped. “Fontana,” he barked. 

Business mode. I’d seen it more times than I could count—how quickly he could switch off emotion, how effortlessly he could compartmentalize even the ugliest of moments.

While he spoke, distracted and pacing slightly, my eyes wandered.

Something on the corner of his desk caught my attention—barely visible beside the cold case box he never touched anymore. A stack of folders, thick and worn, some nearly falling apart at the seams. What made me pause were the newer folders shoved in among them—crisp, pristine manila that didn’t belong with the rest. Someone had tried to hide them, to make them blend in.

But they didn’t.

They practically screamed for attention, the way fresh blood stands out on old scars.

I took a hesitant step forward, my pulse ticking faster now.

“Chief,” I asked, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. “What’s this?”

He turned, briefly. Just a flick of his gaze before he dismissed me again.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he snapped, sharp as a slap. “Old cases. Useless dead ends. Now unless you’re finished with your little tirade, I suggest you leave before I lose my patience completely.”

I should’ve left. I knew better than to push him when he was like this.

But I also knew my father. And I knew when he was hiding something.

The twitch of his fingers. The too-casual tone. The way he hadn’t even looked directly at the files.

He was lying.

He didn’t just want me out of the room—he wanted me away from those folders. And that was all I needed.

He turned back toward the cabinet behind his desk, rifling through papers like the conversation had already ended. My breath caught as I slid closer to the desk, keeping my movements small, casual. My fingers adjusted the lapel of my jacket—and then, quick as a flick of a switchblade, dipped down toward the stack.

I felt the cold paper meet my skin, the edges sharp against my fingers. I slid two of the newer folders free and tucked them under my jacket. Quick. Quiet. Years of growing up in the shadows of secrets had taught me how to move without making noise.

He didn’t notice.

He was too busy snarling into the receiver. “I don’t have time for your excuses, Mayor. You said it was handled .”

The words faded behind me as I moved toward the door, every step louder in my ears than it was in reality. My heart thudded against the stolen files, each beat a reminder of what I’d just done—and what it could cost me.

Just as my hand touched the doorknob, the door swung open.

I forced down the startled breath that caught in my throat, snapping my head up to see who I’d nearly slammed into.

With dawning horror, I realized it was Mattias.

He caught himself first. Of course he did—Mattias never stumbled. Never lost control. His eyes scanned me in a heartbeat, flicking down to the way I clutched my jacket, then back to my face. His brow furrowed.

“Why are you here?” he asked, voice calm but clipped, already bracing for a response he wouldn’t like.

This was his territory—his and our father’s. Their names were etched into the bones of this building, carved into the marble with every conviction, every press release, every sacrifice made in the name of order. They were legacy wrapped in law, tradition dressed in tailored suits. Mattias was the heir apparent, already halfway into the role, with polished shoes and perfect posture to match.

I was the anomaly here, the fracture in the foundation

“Dropping off Luca.” I answered stiffly.

He raised one eyebrow, slow and skeptical, like I’d just told him a half-truth—which, to be fair, I had. But Mattias was fluent in subtext. He took one glance at the way I was awkwardly holding my jacket closed and I knew he’d noticed. The way his eyes narrowed slightly said it all.

Behind me, Salvatore’s voice rang out again, cold and clipped through the receiver. “If it leaks, it’s on your head.”

Mattias’s gaze lingered, thoughtful now. He didn’t ask what I was hiding. He didn’t need to. I could see the recognition behind his eyes, the silent calculation—how far he could push, what it would cost, and what it meant that he chose not to.

I didn’t wait for him to press further.

I brushed past him, shoulder grazing him as I slid through the doorway like a ghost with something to hide.

Because, in truth, I was.

Just as I stepped into the hallway, I heard his voice again—low, almost an afterthought. Not meant for Salvatore. Maybe not even meant for me. But I heard it anyway.

“Be careful, El.”

The sound of it stopped me for half a breath.

He hadn’t called me that in years. Not since before everything splintered between us, before silence filled the space where trust used to live.

I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. But my grip on the stolen files tightened, the weight of them a reminder of how far I’d already gone.

I walked away, pulse loud in my ears—and for the first time in a long while, I let myself hope.

Maybe he wasn’t as far gone as I thought.

Chapter Text

The hiss of the espresso machine cut through the café’s steady hum, a familiar, if slightly aggressive, interruption to the low murmur of conversation that threatened to pull me under.

Bitter Grounds wasn’t fancy. It barely scraped by on health codes, but it was the only spot in Vervalle where you could get strong coffee without sacrificing your dignity or your wallet.

There was no pretension here. No artful latte foam, no curated playlists. Just flickering lights, mismatched chairs, and a bathroom sink that threatened bodily harm if you turned the knob too far to the left.

The espresso? Unmatched. Strong enough to cauterize your regrets, cheap enough to fund your slow self-destruction without breaking the bank.

I came here when the walls started closing in. When the apartment felt too small, the office too suffocating, and caffeine was the only thing keeping me upright after chasing a dead end. Bitter Grounds didn’t ask questions. It didn’t care if you showed up half-alive. You could sit in the back, drink your weight in espresso, and be left alone.

Red, the owner, had the kind of face that hinted at too many fights and too few apologies. He called it atmosphere. I called it functional, somehow borderline welcoming.

But the coffee was decent, the judgment was minimal, and for nights when the case felt unsolvable, it was enough.

Cups clinked, the outside traffic raged on, and someone laughed too loud at something that probably wasn’t that funny. The world around me kept spinning—oblivious and more unconcerned than I had felt in days—as if nothing had shifted beneath its feet.

But I had noticed.

And now I couldn’t ignore it.

I sat tucked into the farthest corner of the café, half-hidden behind a wall of stolen case files, their contents spread out like a jigsaw puzzle only I seemed desperate enough to solve. Pages were stacked and scribbled on, ring-stained and dog-eared, forming a paper trail of obsession that had quietly consumed the last few days of my life.

My double shot, technically my third, sat forgotten beside me, long since gone cold. The curl of steam that had once risen from it had vanished hours ago, much like my faith in the system I’d once believed in.

I rested my hand over one of the reports, fingers brushing the edge of the page. The paper was soft and worn, the ink smudged slightly from where I’d already read it too many times.

Still, I hadn’t turned it.

“Your usual’s dying a slow death.”

I looked up, pulled from the fog my brain was lost in.

Nico stood behind the bar, a clean dish towel slung over one shoulder like it was part of the uniform. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with faded ink and tiny scars from years of navigating too-hot steam wands and a rough childhood. He raised a brow at me, his expression worn from working all morning. Still, the kindness in his eyes caught me off guard, how naturally it showed up.

By day, Nico worked behind the coffee bar like he was conjuring something holy, acting like the patron saint of exhausted souls. By night, he was all sequins, eyeliner, and jazz smooth enough to disarm a god, lighting up The Lantern Room like it owed him rent.

We weren’t close, not in any way that mattered, but Nico always knew how to give space. He didn’t demand explanations, or anything more than what you were willing to give. 

I valued that more than I ever admitted.

Without asking, he placed a fresh cup in front of me, steam curling upward in a soft, comforting spiral. “Forgot your drink?” he asked, keeping his tone light. “Should I alert the press or just assume you’re in the middle of a mental breakdown?”

I gave him a look , unimpressed by the theatrics.

Even I knew it wasn’t biting enough.

“You’ve been in that spot for hours,” Nico said, leaning casually on the edge of my table like he wasn’t worried I might spontaneously combust. “What is it? Big case? Someone’s missing cat causing city-wide panic?”

My gaze fell back down to the written scrawl bound together by manila, tethered to its content like it might start breathing on its own. 

“Something like that.” I breathed, unintentionally bitter as I stared into the dark liquid of my drink, my weary reflection flickering faintly beneath the bubbles foaming along the edges.

Nico didn’t press further, getting the hint that it wouldn’t end well. Blowing a curly strand of hair out of his face with a sigh, he nodded like we were discussing the usual, gloomy weather.

“I’m off in ten,” he offered helpfully. “If you want to vent or pretend my advice is brilliant while you ignore every word of it, I’ll be around.”

I blinked, a little thrown by how gently it landed. Nico rarely said anything he didn’t mean, but he also didn’t usually hand out comfort unsolicited.

“Thanks,” I said softly, anxious fingers playing with the unraveling thread of my shirt’s hem. “I’m just trying to figure things out.”

“Aren’t we all,” he murmured, tapping the edge of the nearest folder with two fingers. His gaze lingered a little longer than usual, something thoughtful flickering behind it. “Just be careful where you dig, El. Some things like being buried.”

And then he was gone, back behind the bar in three unhurried steps, already teasing the next customer with a crooked grin like the words he’d left me with hadn’t just lodged like a splinter.

This was the first time I’d looked at all the files together. I’d stolen them in a rush—stupid, desperate—right after shouting myself hoarse in my father’s office.

His voice still echoed in my head, sharp and dismissive. It was years old, but it never lost its edge. The same reprimand, repeated over and over.

You’re chasing ghosts, Evangeline. You don’t know what you’re talking about.

But I did.

I do .

And it’s so much worse than I thought.

So I did the one thing I’d been avoiding for hours. I turned the page.

The pattern wasn’t in who the victims were, it was in who they weren’t .

They weren’t the loud ones who screamed for attention, or the connected ones with people who’d raise hell if they vanished.

They were the quiet ones. The invisible ones. The ones who slipped through the cracks without anyone noticing.

A waitress who never came home after her last shift. A college dropout who vanished without a trace, forgotten by the world he left behind. A single mother whose absence was met with silence, no family left to ask where she was.

Different names. Different faces. Different stories. All gone the same way: quietly, without ceremony, as if their lives didn’t matter enough to make noise.

One name stopped me cold: Amari Vega.

I sat up straighter in the wooden chair, my heart skipping like it recognized her before my brain caught up. The name rattled something loose, distant remnants of a case I hadn’t researched in years..

I flipped backward through the stack, fingers trembling just enough to slow me down.

There it was, buried in an old internal report. Decisively basic, intentionally vague, it was the perfect setup for a document that was meant to be forgotten.

At the bottom, in neat, looping script:

Signed, Senior Investigator R. Fontana.

My mother’s signature.

Clear as day.

I stared at her name until my vision began to blur. Amari had disappeared five months before my mother died, but the report was frustratingly sparse, deliberately designed to lead nowhere.

The cause was listed as unknown, the file marked inconclusive.

There was something unfinished about it, like my mother had known more than she dared to write down in black in white. 

Like maybe her death hadn’t been an accident at all.

A cold knot twisted in my stomach as I flipped back to Amari’s file once more, the weight of what I was uncovering pressing down harder with every page.

In the margin, someone—hopefully my father, but probably my mother—had scrawled a hurried note in faded ink:

Associated with G.T.

George Thorne.

I read the name again, and again , just to be sure.

A low curse caught in my throat as the weight of it settled, refusing to vanish or belong to anyone else. Somehow, this already worst-case scenario had just hit rock bottom.

I knew exactly who George Thorne was, as did most people born and raised in this hellhole. Because of my connection to this city’s backbone of justice, I was privy to the grittier details most never saw in the local papers.

There was a time when the name Thorne actually meant something. Power. Fear. Blood on the pavement, deals in the dark. But George? George was the sad little spark still pretending the fire hadn’t gone out years ago.

Son of a notorious crime boss, George was everything his father warned against: an informant one day, a leech the next, selling secrets to the highest bidder without a shred of loyalty or shame. While his father’s empire crumbled from within, George dragged their name through the mud with every reckless, desperate deal he made.

He was considered a joke, a man with nothing left to lose.

But cornered animals are dangerous, their unpredictability driving these victims straight into the jaws of slaughter.

If Amari had been tied to George, then maybe she had known something. Something worth more than whispers and rumors, something that made her a target.

Had my mother also known something she wasn’t supposed to?

I stared down at the page, but my thoughts twisted and unraveled, spiraling out of control as the weight of what I might uncover pressed harder with every line.

The files blurred before my eyes while the café buzzed around me like I was some kind of ghost. Cold and detached, I watched everyone else’s lives carry on like I’d been put on pause.

I was stuck behind a glass wall of my own making, banging on an illusion that wouldn’t crack, watching a world I used to be part of but could no longer reach.

I took a slow breath and reached for my coffee, desperate for something to steady my shaking hands. It was thankfully still warm.

How far did this go?

How far was I willing to go to find out?

Because if George Thorne was involved, if my mother had known what was happening to those people—if she died because of what she uncovered—then this wasn’t about justice anymore.

It was something darker. Messy. Corrupt. Way bigger than anything I was ready for.

And once I stepped in, there’d be no stepping back.

My hand froze on the zipper of my bag as I shoved my research and a practical obituary inside, forcing myself to reconsider every option like my life depended on it.

Because, well, it did .

Did I really want to do this?

If I was right and my mother hadn’t just taken her own life, then someone had really killed her.

Someone important, with power enough to bury the truth so deep I might never dig it up.

I couldn’t shake the image of my father’s face the first time I’d confronted him about those files. His eyes flickered for a fraction of a second, dark and haunted, reflecting the same fear and determination I felt swirling inside myself.

That fleeting moment of panic, so quickly buried beneath a mask of anger and control.

What if his fear wasn’t for my safety?

What if it was for the truth I was about to uncover, something so dangerous it threatened to unravel everything he’d built?

A tight knot formed in my throat as I swallowed the question whole.

By now, there was no turning back. I’d already stepped through the doorway into something far darker than I ever imagined.

I couldn’t pretend anymore that I hadn’t seen the cracks in the story, the shadows lurking just out of sight.

And I certainly couldn’t pretend I didn’t care.

The only place I could hope to catch George Thorne off guard was Vervalle’s hottest nightclub. He’d holed up in the VIP room, clinging to whatever scraps of power he could, rarely stepping out of the cage he’d built around himself.

Nocturne.

Nocturne had a way of drawing in those who preferred anonymity, individuals with secrets to bury and deals to make under the cover of darkness. It wasn’t just a nightclub; it was a hub where power whispered instead of shouted, and loyalties shifted as easily and unpredictably as the neon lights that bathed the room in a restless glow.

Rumors swirled like smoke around who truly controlled the place. Some said it belonged to one of the city’s most infamous families, others whispered about alliances so tangled no one outside the inner circle could ever understand.

If that man really walked those halls, weaving through that world, then that was exactly where I needed to go.

No matter who stood guard at the door.

No matter the price I’d have to pay.

Slowly, reverently, I gathered the rest of my scattered files, hands trembling with the quiet realization that this was a promise I could never take back.

I slid the papers into my bag and zipped it shut, the sound final, like locking away a secret I was bound to uncover.

On my way to the door, I paused and turned back.

Nico was standing by the counter, wiping down the bakery case with hurried, furious strokes, like the glass had personally insulted him.

“Hey,” I called, my voice hoarse and frayed from disuse. I cringed when a few people in line turned to glance at me. “That offer still stand?”

He looked over his shoulder, finding me instantly, curiosity sharpening as he gave me his full attention. “The listening part, or the pretending-to-give-advice-while-you-ignore-it part?”

“Neither,” I said, stepping closer, lowering my voice as the ridiculousness of what I was about to say caught up with me. The last thing I needed was more attention. “I need a wig.”

He blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. “You need a what?”

In the time it took me to blink back, he was already abandoning the counter and beelining toward me like I’d just said the magic word.

I didn’t exactly smile, but the corner of my mouth made a valiant effort.

“I need to blend in somewhere I absolutely shouldn’t be,” I said, like it wasn’t a terrible idea already unraveling at the seams. A tiny voice in my head suggested I go home, eat something normal, and not end up on a missing persons list. I continued to ignore it. “Figured you might have something that could help.”

Nico stared at me like I’d just handed him the keys to the universe.

“Oh, honey,” he breathed, hands clasped to his chest like he was witnessing some miracle. “You’re asking me to be part of spy business?”

“I’m a private investigator,” I reminded dryly, adjusting the strap that was falling off my shoulder with little patience. “So no, I’m asking you to help me not get murdered,”

“Even better,” he said, eyes lighting up with unrestrained glee. “Stay right here.”

He disappeared into the back like a man on a mission. Probably the kind that involved sequins and zero common sense.

A few minutes later, Nico reemerged like a fairy godmother who’d raided a drag show, holding up a sleek black wig with blunt bangs and a bob sharp enough to file a restraining order.

“Her name is Dahlia,” he said, reverent, cradling it like a crown. “She’s been worn only twice. Handle with love, I need her for my gig next week.”

I took it like it might shatter, already knowing the amount of tutorials I was going to have to watch later on how to put it on. An unexplained emotion cracked open in my chest as I smoothed it in my hands—gratitiude, maybe. Or the beginnings of full-blown panic.

“Thanks, Nico.”

He didn’t follow me to the door, just leaned one hip against the counter and gave me a knowing smile, like he was in on the secret now. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” he said, which narrowed my options to maybe three things. “And if I don’t get that wig back, I swear I’ll haunt your wardrobe forever.”

I gave him a small nod, tucked Dahlia into my bag like she might explode, and walked out.

The last of my coffee hit the bottom of the trash can with a dull splash. The bell above the café door jingled like it always did.

Too bright, too cheerful, too normal .

Outside, the cold wrapped around me like a whisper of doubt dressed as wind.

I didn’t flinch.

Through the glass, Nico stood with his arms crossed, watching me like he already knew how this night was going to end. His face was unreadable, somewhere between proud and quietly terrified. It was impressive that it managed to blend between both.

I turned up my collar and stepped off the curb like it was a cliff.

I was going to Nocturne.