Chapter 842
In the damp, early morning light, the abandoned Gothic church on the outskirts of the city looked less like a sanctuary and more like a torture chamber. This had been a Tate family stronghold — a place where sins were confessed only to be buried, never forgiven.
Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of wet dust, old incense, and the metallic tang of dried blood.
Lucian Graves stood before the shattered remains of a rose window. Its jagged glass teeth framed his silhouette, casting long, fractured shadows across the stone floor. He wore a black trench coat that seemed to absorb the dim light, its collar turned up against a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. At his feet lay a chaotic carpet of shredded documents — the Tate family’s legacy, reduced to confetti by his team before they had dragged Thomas downstairs.
“Boss,” a mercenary called out, stepping over a pile of stripped server racks, his boots crunching on the debris. “We’ve scrubbed the drives found in his luggage. Most of the data was corrupted, but we found a recurring contact.”
𝖬𝗼𝗿𝘦 𝗻𝗼vе𝗅s 𝘰ո 𝘨аlno𝘷𝗲𝗅s.𝘤о𝗺
Lucian didn’t turn. He stared at the horizon, where the sun was trying and failing to burn through the fog. “Of course. Rats always have a lifeline.”
He crouched down, his leather-gloved hand brushing aside a piece of charred wood to reveal a photograph that had fallen from the files. It was half-burnt, curling at the edges from the heat. The image showed a younger Thomas Tate standing next to a woman with ice-blonde hair and eyes like chips of flint: Celeste Cain. Lucian’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes — cold, predatory, deliberate. “Hello, Celeste. I wondered when you would crawl back out of the woodwork.”
He folded the photograph meticulously and slid it into his breast pocket. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “Dead men tell no tales. But broken men? They never stop talking.”
A low, guttural scream drifted up from the crypt below — a sound stripped of dignity, raw and animalistic. Lucian adjusted his cuffs. “Time to go to confession.”
He walked toward the stone stairs leading to the basement. His Italian leather shoes clicked against the granite steps in a steady, rhythmic beat, like the ticking of a doomsday clock.
The crypt was lit by a single, naked bulb that swayed gently, sending shadows dancing across the damp walls. In the center of the room, Thomas Tate was bound to a heavy wooden chair. His expensive suit was ruined, stained dark with sweat and blood. His face was a map of violence — one eye swollen shut, his lip split.
“I don’t know…” Thomas wheezed, spitting a glob of blood onto the floor. “I swear… I don’t know where Liam is… or where the plane is going…”
Lucian stopped just outside the circle of light. He picked up a pair of rusted surgical shears from a metal tray table, turning them over in his hands. The metal screeched softly as he opened and closed them.
“You misunderstand, Thomas,” Lucian said smoothly, stepping into the light. “I didn’t ask about Liam. I know where Liam is. He’s recovering from being a hero.”