Artemio Fuegerro stood before Lara, the row of medals on his left breast catching the muted midday light. Even beneath the shade of the veranda, the polished metal gleamed with the same ruthless precision as the man who wore them.
"You are very difficult to find these days, Lara."
His voice was quiet, almost conversational.
That made it worse.
Lara remained still, her hands relaxed at her sides, her eyes fixed on the man whose love and approval she had spent eighteen years chasing.
Eighteen years of trying to become worthy.
Eighteen years of believing that if she obeyed perfectly, fought perfectly, killed perfectly...
...he would finally look at her with pride.
He never had. Not once.
And now she no longer wanted him to.
"I know you've recovered all your memories," Artemio continued. "Yannis never told me."
His lips curved faintly.
"He didn't have to, because I knew."
His gaze sharpened.
"And yet, you never contacted me. Not once these past few months."
