"Sleep soundly, sweet Ivy."
I rise slowly and head for the door, activating the motion sensors I had installed in the room and then the electronic lock. Ivy can come and go freely, but not without me receiving alerts any time the door opens.
Securing her inside, I return the phone to my pocket and head downstairs to greet my guest.
"Would you like me to stay, boss?" Marco asks.
"No. Thank you, Marco. You can go."
He nods and shuts the door to my office, leaving me alone with Eli.
The old man is waiting for me in one of the lounge chairs by the fire, a cane propped against his leg. He seems to be progressing in his recovery, but it has done nothing to alter the frailty of his appearance. Or perhaps that is just my perception of him.
I walk to my desk and eye the bottle of scotch before thinking better of it. When I turn to meet Eli's gaze, there is a resolve in his eyes that surprises me. He is solemn but resolute as he forces himself to sit up taller.
"If you are going to do this here, I ask that you do it somewhere my daughters won't hear it."
"You think I brought you here to kill you?" I reply coldly.
"I expect as much." He shrugs. "I may be old, but I'm not stupid. You want Abel. He is wreaking havoc on your life. I'm sure you have considered all the possibilities, but we both know there is only one way to draw him out."
"Yet you came willingly." I frown.
His expression softens, and for a moment, I am reminded of the man I used to know. The man who spent countless hours at my side, imparting his wisdom to the interloper who would take over his position in IVI. At the time, I had thought it strange that he seemed to hold no resentment toward me. In fact, I had only ever regarded him to have admiration for me. He spoke as if he respected me, as if he were proud of me. And I had never known that I had thirsted for such approval until I had his.
Now, everything between us has changed. I have surpassed him in knowledge and exceeded all expectations for my role. I have outperformed his legacy on every level. I have commandeered half of his family and have made known my murderous intentions for the rest. Yet, he still comes when I call for him. He still looks at me as one might imagine a father should look at their son. I cannot comprehend it.
"I came because I accept that I am partly responsible for what happened to your family," he says. "And while I cannot confess to being as devious as you would like to believe, I set the events into motion unknowingly. And therefore, I understand your position. If my departure from this life will bring you peace, then peace you shall have. I know I cannot stop you, and I won’t hide from the inevitable. So long as you can guarantee that none of my daughters will ever be harmed by your hand."
I stare at him, blank, shaking my head in disgust. I can't tell if it's disgust for him or me.
"As much as I think it would please me to end your life, my wife claims she will never forgive me, and I am inclined to believe her."
Eli's hand shakes as he reaches inside his jacket, retrieving an envelope. "I have already written them both letters. I think it will be difficult for them, but in time, I hope they can move forward."
I glance at the envelope, curious at the contents, and then dismiss the thought entirely.
"I will need you to die, Eli." I prop myself against the edge of the desk and fold my arms. "But for now, it will be temporary."
His brows furrow together as his hand settles into his lap, still clinging to the letter. "You want to fake my death?"
"Thursday morning, the IVI coroner will arrive at the hospital and leave with your remains. An official statement of your death will be released by noon, and I anticipate by the end of the day, whoever is leaking information to Abel will deliver the news."
"And where will I be during this time?" he asks.
"You’ll be given a sedative for transport, after which you’ll be driven to a funeral home and smuggled out by my men. There's a small cottage on the property here for the groundskeeper. Marco has already secured it and outfitted the entire location with cameras. The refrigerator and pantry are well-stocked, and you will have what you need to survive during your stay there."
"How do you know this will work?" he asks.
"Because nobody but Marco and myself will know you are still alive," I answer bitterly. "Abel will have men watching, I'm certain, and it must look authentic when my wife and I attend your funeral at the end of the week. Your family’s grief must be real."
"You aren't going to tell her?" he croaks.
I look away, swallowing the tension knotting my throat. "I have no choice. Ivy can’t shut down her emotions. She can’t keep a secret like this from her family. She wouldn’t be able to watch them suffer while she knows the truth. This is the only way to ensure Abel’s return. So, as far as Ivy is concerned, you will have died of natural causes."
"But she won't believe you," he protests.
I meet his gaze, narrowing mine. "That is for me to worry about."
23
Santiago
I lower myself into the pew where my father once used to sit, staring up at the altar where his photo is displayed. The memorial photos of him and Leandro in the chapel have since been replaced, but something feels different about this space.
I am not the same man I was before, sitting here, mourning their deaths. I grieve for them still, but it is not the same depth of grief. When I look into my father's eyes, cold and hard, I find myself searching for his certain disappointment. And indeed, that is what I see. It is what I have always seen. If he were here now, he would tell me how weak and pathetic I am. He would rage that I have not accomplished what I set out to do.
For so long, I have carried the burden of those demands. A loyalty to a man who never spared so much as an ounce of affection for me. My guilt and shame have been heavy, weighted further by a hatred of the Moreno family. A result that felt like the natural response I should have. Somewhere to place the blame. A target for a lifetime of anger. But I am tired.
I am fucking exhausted of his expectations, even in death.
Perhaps that is what possesses me to rise and walk to the altar. When I reach up and pull down his photo, I can almost feel him rolling in his grave. He has dictated every move I have made for so long. Every emotion I never allowed myself to feel. Every failure that felt like another noose around my neck.
And when I look into his eyes, I know what Ivy said is true.
This is not love. This man who I have respected, and admired, and worshipped for so long did not love me. He controlled me. He was the master of strings, and I was the puppet. And even in his absence, he still manages to control those strings. As long as I allow him to dictate my future, he always will.
The weight of the photo pulls my arms down, and gradually, I watch it slip from my grasp, clattering onto the floor as glass shatters around my feet. For a few long moments, I stare at the remnants, and something comes over me that I can't explain. I stagger back, trying to catch my breath, my eyes burning with pain.
My breaths come shallow and then deep, turning to aching howls as I collapse back onto the pew and allow myself to feel the truth of my own emotions. My head collapses into my hands, and moisture leaks from my eyes, dripping down onto the floor.