Chapter 13
Anthony Rusk did not disappear from the city.
My men found him before dawn.
He had been hiding in an old apartment above a closed tailor shop once used by Julian’s crew.
When they brought him to me, he looked tired rather than brave.
He saw Genevieve.
Then me.
Then the silver box.
His face changed.
I asked about Elena first.
Not Ethan.
My son was alive.
My wife was not.
“What did Genevieve ask you to do three years ago?”
Rusk stared at the floor.
“Follow her.”
“Why?”
“To scare her.”
“How?”
“Make her believe Moretti men were behind her.”
My jaw tightened.
“Did you touch the car?”
“No.”
“Did you chase her?”
Silence.
I stepped closer.
“Yes or no.”
“Yes.”
The room went cold.
“You followed her on the mountain road.”
“Yes.”
“How close?”
He closed his eyes.
“Too close.”
My hands curled.
Genevieve spoke sharply.
“I never told you to force her off the road.”
Rusk looked at her.
“You told me she could not reach her sister.”
Genevieve’s face hardened.
I turned toward her.
There it was.
Not an explicit order to kill.
Something cowards love.
An instruction vague enough to deny after someone dies.
Rusk continued.
“She sped up.”
My throat tightened.
“I stayed behind her.”
“And?”
“A turn came.”
Silence.
“She lost control.”
I looked away.
For three years I imagined Elena alone.
An accident.
Rain.
Bad road.
Now I knew she had been fleeing a man my aunt sent after her.
Genevieve whispered:
“I never wanted her dead.”
I turned slowly.
“No.”
My voice became very quiet.
“You only made sure she was terrified when she died.”
Her face changed.
That was worse than shouting.
Then I looked at Rusk.
“And Ethan’s cake?”
He swallowed.
“Genevieve said this time nobody dies.”
This time.
The phrase settled over the room.
Genevieve had learned one lesson from Elena.
May you like
Not compassion.
How to design cruelty with more control.
