Chapter 8
The murder weapon wasn't a knife or a gun.
It was a wineglass.
Roman's team had recovered it from the restaurant that night—tipped off by one of his informants on staff.
The glass still contained traces of Aconitine—a plant-based poison that mimics cardiac arrest. Nearly undetectable without specific testing.
Nearly.
But I didn't release it yet. Because I wanted more.
I wanted the mechanic who'd tampered with my mother's brakes. I wanted the forged documents. I wanted every thread of Dominic's thirteen-year conspiracy laid out like a autopsy.
So I went fishing.
Dominic was paranoid now—but paranoid men make mistakes.
I used Serena Whitmore.
Her sin score was 58—mostly financial crimes, insider trading, a few blackmail schemes. Nothing I couldn't leverage.
I visited her office personally.
"Ms. Whitmore." I sat across from her desk, legs crossed, smiling pleasantly. "I believe we have mutual interests."
She regarded me with wary fascination. "The resurrected Mrs. Hale. What could you possibly want from me?"
"Information. Dominic's offshore accounts. His dealings with my father. Whatever skeletons you've gathered during your... partnership."
Her eyes narrowed. "And what do I get?"
"Immunity. When the investigation hits—and it will—you'll be a cooperating witness, not a co-conspirator."
I watched her calculate. The number above her head flickered—not changing, but... pulsing.
Interesting. They pulsed when people were conflicted.
"He'll destroy me if he finds out," she said.
"He's already destroyed." I slid Roman's business card across her desk. "But I understand loyalty. So let me show you something that'll make your decision easier."
I pulled out my phone and played a recording—one of Roman's surveillance intercepts.
Dominic's voice, crystal clear:
"Once this is settled, Serena becomes a liability. Handle it the same way we handled Eleanor."
Serena's face went bone-white.
"He's planning to kill you too," I said softly. "The moment you're no longer useful."
She stared at the phone. Then at me.
"What do you need?"
Everything. I needed everything.
And she gave it to me.
Hard drives. Encrypted files. Meeting recordings Dominic didn't know existed.
Among them—a video timestamp from thirteen years ago.
Dominic, twenty-two years old, meeting with a mechanic in a parking garage.
"Make it look like brake failure. Cash on completion. If you talk—ever—I'll make sure they never find your body."
I had him.
That night, I sat in Roman's study, surrounded by evidence that could bury three families.
He stood by the window, watching the city lights.
"You're quiet," I said.
"Thinking."
"About?"
He turned. The lamplight caught his jaw, his cheekbones—severe and beautiful.
"About whether you'll leave. After this is over."
I blinked. "Leave?"
"You'll have your inheritance. Your freedom. No reason to stay in this tower—or with me."
Something in his voice—beneath the careful control—was raw. Almost... afraid.
I stood. Walked to him.
His body went rigid as I approached, like a man bracing for impact.
I stopped close—close enough to feel his warmth.
"Roman."
"Mm."
"Your score is zero."
His brow creased. "My what?"
I hadn't told him. About the numbers, the ability. I'd been careful—letting him believe my "insight" came from intuition and intelligence.
But standing here, in the quiet dark, with this man who'd guarded me for seven years without ever asking for anything—
I wanted him to know.
"Since I woke up in that morgue... I can see things. Numbers, above people's heads. The higher the number, the more sins they've committed. And yours—"
I reached up, touching the air above his head where the zero glowed, invisible to everyone but me.
"Yours is zero."
His breath caught. Eyes widened—just barely.
"You see... sins?"
"I see truth." I met his gaze. "And yours tells me everything I need to know about you."
His hand rose—slowly, like he was afraid of spooking me—and cupped my face.
"Vivian."
"Yes?"
"I'm not staying away from you anymore."
His lips met mine—soft at first, then consuming. Desperate.
Like a man who'd been drowning for seven years and finally found air.
---
It was a wineglass.
Roman's team had recovered it from the restaurant that night—tipped off by one of his informants on staff.
The glass still contained traces of Aconitine—a plant-based poison that mimics cardiac arrest. Nearly undetectable without specific testing.
Nearly.
But I didn't release it yet. Because I wanted more.
I wanted the mechanic who'd tampered with my mother's brakes. I wanted the forged documents. I wanted every thread of Dominic's thirteen-year conspiracy laid out like a autopsy.
So I went fishing.
Dominic was paranoid now—but paranoid men make mistakes.
I used Serena Whitmore.
Her sin score was 58—mostly financial crimes, insider trading, a few blackmail schemes. Nothing I couldn't leverage.
I visited her office personally.
"Ms. Whitmore." I sat across from her desk, legs crossed, smiling pleasantly. "I believe we have mutual interests."
She regarded me with wary fascination. "The resurrected Mrs. Hale. What could you possibly want from me?"
"Information. Dominic's offshore accounts. His dealings with my father. Whatever skeletons you've gathered during your... partnership."
Her eyes narrowed. "And what do I get?"
"Immunity. When the investigation hits—and it will—you'll be a cooperating witness, not a co-conspirator."
I watched her calculate. The number above her head flickered—not changing, but... pulsing.
Interesting. They pulsed when people were conflicted.
"He'll destroy me if he finds out," she said.
"He's already destroyed." I slid Roman's business card across her desk. "But I understand loyalty. So let me show you something that'll make your decision easier."
I pulled out my phone and played a recording—one of Roman's surveillance intercepts.
Dominic's voice, crystal clear:
"Once this is settled, Serena becomes a liability. Handle it the same way we handled Eleanor."
Serena's face went bone-white.
"He's planning to kill you too," I said softly. "The moment you're no longer useful."
She stared at the phone. Then at me.
"What do you need?"
Everything. I needed everything.
And she gave it to me.
Hard drives. Encrypted files. Meeting recordings Dominic didn't know existed.
Among them—a video timestamp from thirteen years ago.
Dominic, twenty-two years old, meeting with a mechanic in a parking garage.
"Make it look like brake failure. Cash on completion. If you talk—ever—I'll make sure they never find your body."
I had him.
That night, I sat in Roman's study, surrounded by evidence that could bury three families.
He stood by the window, watching the city lights.
"You're quiet," I said.
"Thinking."
"About?"
He turned. The lamplight caught his jaw, his cheekbones—severe and beautiful.
"About whether you'll leave. After this is over."
I blinked. "Leave?"
"You'll have your inheritance. Your freedom. No reason to stay in this tower—or with me."
Something in his voice—beneath the careful control—was raw. Almost... afraid.
I stood. Walked to him.
His body went rigid as I approached, like a man bracing for impact.
I stopped close—close enough to feel his warmth.
"Roman."
"Mm."
"Your score is zero."
His brow creased. "My what?"
I hadn't told him. About the numbers, the ability. I'd been careful—letting him believe my "insight" came from intuition and intelligence.
But standing here, in the quiet dark, with this man who'd guarded me for seven years without ever asking for anything—
I wanted him to know.
"Since I woke up in that morgue... I can see things. Numbers, above people's heads. The higher the number, the more sins they've committed. And yours—"
I reached up, touching the air above his head where the zero glowed, invisible to everyone but me.
"Yours is zero."
His breath caught. Eyes widened—just barely.
"You see... sins?"
"I see truth." I met his gaze. "And yours tells me everything I need to know about you."
His hand rose—slowly, like he was afraid of spooking me—and cupped my face.
"Vivian."
"Yes?"
"I'm not staying away from you anymore."
His lips met mine—soft at first, then consuming. Desperate.
Like a man who'd been drowning for seven years and finally found air.
---