Caspian
My private jet cut through the dark sky, heading straight for Ireland where my father's main residence was. Its engines purred softly, even and unruffled, but inside all was not quiet. The world beyond was an endless black vastness, broken only here and there by the diffuse glow of a far-off city's lights.
The cabin's faint light etched sharp shadows in my face, catching the tension around my mouth, the glint of steel in my eyes. The whiskey glass, untasted, on the tray next to me glowed like amber fire, though I had no intention of drinking. I needed to be clear headed for the confrontation I knew was coming.
I'd poured it more out of habit than desire. Had lifted it once. The scent—familiar, pungent, redolent with memories—hit me like a punch to the gut. Holland's scent. So I set it down again, a little more forcefully than I'd had to, and didn't touch it again.
My mind hadn't turned off since liftoff. I hadn't spoken. The rage in me was cold now—tempered into something lethal. I wasn't fueled by fury now. I was fueled by clarity.
My mother. Now Valentine.
They were both dead; ripped from me. Both victims of a game I hadn't even realized I was playing.
But I saw it now. All of it.
A chime sliced the air, we were landing. Ireland's lights unrolled beneath, a tangled spread of gold and shadow, steel and smoke.
The jet landed with a mere whisper. The moment the wheels grazed the tarmac, the car was there. The Graves family car. Its black body glistened beneath the overhead lights. The driver—older, silver-haired, and statue-still—stood by the door, quiet. Loyal to a fault. Like all of them.
I didn't bother say hello as I slid into the backseat.
The city smeared by in a haze as we rode, neon and sky silhouettes strobing behind misted windows. My phone vibrated once in my pocket. I didn't answer it. There was only one discussion that was important now.
The Graves estate loomed ahead like a slumbering monster. The wrought iron gates parted in front of us. The engine had barely died before I was out.
I walked through the massive doors as though I owned them. I did, in theory. But nothing in it was ever going to be truly mine. The halls gleamed, spotless and empty. The silence; I was used to. The air was perfumed with expensive wood, aged leather, and a trace of cigar smoke.
I knew exactly where he'd be.
I found Holland Graves in his study, where I knew I'd find him. The same wonderful room as always—walls lined with bookshelves, a fire crackling in the fireplace, and one single faint lamp bathing the room in gold.
He was sitting at his desk, the image of tranquility, stirring a glass of whiskey, a cigar resting between two fingers. His suit was immaculate. Not a crease out of place.
He didn't look up.
"To what do I owe the honor of you presence? It's been a while since you've been in Ireland." he said, his voice smooth, unimpressed.
I stepped forward,
"I came to let you know that the job you ordered is done. Your mess seems to have been cleaned up."
He looked at me now. Barely. "Don't speak in parables boy! What the fuck are you talking about?? SPEAK."
"Valentine is dead."
That got his attention. A flicker—not quite surprise. Not quite guilt. Something else.
"Is he now?" He sipped the whiskey, unconcerned. "That's unfortunate."
I didn't sit. "He was found in pieces. Just like Mum, Two days after he brought the report to me. Two."
Holland exhaled, before letting out a small laugh. The smoke twisted into the air between us, curling like a question.
"So what; you think I did it? Coincidences do happen you know, even in our line of work."
"You think I'm that naive?"
He leaned back, tapping ash into the tray beside him. "I think you're looking for someone to blame. Youre letting your anger and grief cloud your judgment."
I didn't move. "You had him killed."
He laughed. A soft, humorless, cold sound. "I didn't kill your little pet, Caspian. If I had, there wouldn't be any bits left for you to find."
The silence that ensued was deafening.
He let the weight of the moment sink in, then went on:
"You think I'm the only one who was aware of his little digging project? You were sloppy sending him digging that far. He was getting sloppy lately. He asked the wrong questions. Dug in places other people didn't want him to."
My jaw tightened. "What other people are involved apart from Dominic?"
Holland's eyes met mine. "The past has more eyes than even I can count."
I stepped closer, voice low and slashing. "You knew what he'd find. About you. About Kia. About your bastard child."
Something passed over his face—an old wound, maybe. Remorse? No. Something cold.
"I knew he'd find trouble. I told you not to dig."
"And you think this absolves you?"
He stood then, slow and deliberate, and walked to the fire, his back to me. He took a long drag on his cigar.
"You think you know betrayal, Caspian. But you don't. Not yet. You're still looking for villains. Heroes. Answers. You don't see that in this world, none of us are clean."
"You're avoiding the question."
He turned, eyes gleaming like burnished steel. "And you're not ready for the real answer."
"Then tell me the truth."
He paused. Then, in a low tone: "Someone else knew what Valentine found out. Someone with enough power to silence him. Maybe Dominic, maybe someone else; a copycat killer perhaps. But you're swimming in their pool now."
I closed my eyes. Not from fear. From understanding.
"You want vengeance? Be warned. You're a piece in a game where your name and status can never guarantee your safety. Man up and stop sulking about your staff like a little bitch."
I looked at him, unwavering. "He wasn't just my staff."
"Then that was your mistake."
I finally understood.
Valentine's death was a warning.
Not from him, but from another player.
Someone else doesn't want me digging; that just makes me want to keep doing it for kicks.
Though I'm pretty sure whatever I can find, Valentine would've already found.
"It's time, Caspian."
My fathers words made me feel like I had been awoken from a deep sleep with a bucket of ice.
And then, as if the conversation we just had meant nothing, as if death was just an inconvenience, he tapped his cigar on the edge of his ashtray and stared me directly in the eye.
"Genesis Moretti," he informed me, the name spilling from his lips like a business transaction. "Your soon to be fiancée. Your ticket to getting laid, finally. We can't wait any longer.".
A shiver ran down my spine, icy fingers closing around my ribs.
"You're sending me to New York?" I echoed, bitterness tangling in my throat. "To marry her."
He nodded, as immaculate as ever. "To secure our dynasty."
Dynasty. As if all of this—all the blood, deception, manipulation—was some honorific dynasty worth securing. As if Valentine's blood wasn't still warm in the air between them.
My laughter was cold, slashing, scraping the sides of my throat. "So there it is. You ignore the blood on your hands. You ignore the bodies piling up. And you expect me to fall in line and act like nothing is wrong."
Holland rose from his chair with the lazy, easy elegance of a man who had never, for an instant, anticipated backtalk. He walked the space between us, the soft clink of his whiskey glass the sole sound between us.
"Do you know what separates men like us from the weak, Caspian?" he asked, his voice low and steady.
I didn't answer.
His hand came down on my shoulder—a firm grip, more possession than solace. "We do what needs to be done. No matter the cost."
For the first time in years, I did not look at him as a father, not even as the puppet master of the empire—but as the monster he was. In designer suits, with age-old law and immoveable pride. A king without a conscience.
I stepped back, my breath steady but flavored with fire. "I'll marry her," I said to him. "But don't confuse that decision with obedience to your plans."
A smile played on his lips—knowing. As if I was performing an act from drama he'd written years earlier. As if he was conversant with the behavior of sons like me.
"Ah, son," he growled, his back to me, his silhouette rimmed by the flickering firelight. "You'll find out soon enough; everything I do if for your future"
"No matter how many times you say that dad; its never going to be any more true.You don't do anything for my future, you do everything for your legacy. Nothing you do is for me, nothing Richard does is for Genesis. Noone is here to look out for us, so I will be taking my future, her future and our future together into my own hands."
I didn't wait for him to respond to that. I spun on my heel, pushing open the doors to the study with enough force to send echoes ringing down the hallway. The air outside that room was colder, fresher. My heels click down the marble hallway and deep beneath my calm exterior, something stirred.
Nothing but Anger and Defiance.
But somewhere deep down, there was anticipation.
Genesis Moretti.
To my father, she had been stitched into the tapestry of my obligation to him. A symbol of unity for his life. A figure in a future he wanted for me. The girl he had promised me to, bartered like a valuable relic.
But to me; she was not a relic.
She was flesh, bone and everything in between.
The reason im still breathing and the reason I wake up in the morning.
She's MINE.
And I finally get to meet her after 17 years. See her in person. Touch her. And eventually marry her.
Not for my father.
Not for peace.
For me.