Chapter 179

Chapter 179

"Jack." His voice was so hoarse it was barely there.

He wanted to go to him. He wanted to pick up that tiny body, pull it into his arms, and never let go, but his feet felt nailed to the floor, every muscle locked, like his own body had turned against him and decided he didn't deserve to move.

So he just stood there and stared at the small corpse on the ground, watched the flies crawl over it, watched rotting flesh peel away from bone, bit by bit.

He knew this was a dream. He knew this wasn't real.

But the pain, It was as though someone had plunged a hand into his chest, ripping out his heart while he endured every agonizing second
He thought of that morning, Jack standing in the doorway, waving at him.

"Daddy, come home early!" That was the last time he had heard Jack's voice.

No. Not the last time. That was the last time in his previous life.

The scene fast-forwarded like someone had hit skip on a remote, flashing in front of his eyes too quickly and yet horribly clear. He saw himself—no, his past self.

The man looked exactly like him, down to the same black suit and the same hard, cold expression, but the eyes weren't the same.

Past Jacob's eyes were empty, a dead blackness with no spark of life in them at all.

He saw himself sitting in the study, a photo of Jack placed in front of him.

It was the only photo he had of Jack, taken when the baby was one month old, the kid just a tiny wrinkled bundle where you couldn't tell who he took after.

He stared at that photo without moving, like a statue. Leon stood in the doorway, starting to speak, stopping, then finally forcing himself to get the words out.

"Mr. Smith, someone from the Moretti family is here. They want to talk truce."

Past Jacob didn't move, didn't even blink. "Let them wait."

Leon hesitated. "Mr. Smith, they brought terms. If you're willing to spare the Moretti family, they're willing to hand Lilith over for you to deal with however you want."

Past Jacob finally lifted his head.

He looked at Leon, and the corner of his mouth slowly lifted into a smile. There was no warmth in that smile, only a kind of cruelty that made your spine go cold.

"Lilith? What would I want with her?"

He stood, moved to the window, and looked out at the gray, heavy sky. "I want the Moretti family. All of them. Not one left."

Leon was silent for a long time, then nodded once and backed out of the room.

The scene shifted again. Jacob saw himself—not this self, but that other Jacob—being ambushed.

It was in an underground parking garage where the lighting was dim and harsh, and concrete pillars were everywhere like a forest of cement.

He got out of the car, and before he could even reach for his gun, people poured out from all directions, a dozen of them at least. Every single one was holding an iron bar, the metal rusty and dark, catching the weak light with a dull red sheen.

He took a few of them down, but there were too many. The bars slammed into his legs, once, twice, three times.

The sound of bones cracking echoed around the empty garage, and the pain shot up so vividly it might as well have been happening again, registering straight into his soul.

Even in that kind of scene, he still took out every last piece of trash.

He dragged himself forward, using his elbows to push against the ground, inching toward the car. His legs wouldn't work anymore; they lay behind him like two dead snakes, leaving a long streak of blood smeared across the concrete.

He crawled for a long time. Long enough that it felt like his blood had almost all leaked out, long enough that his consciousness started to fray at the edges. Then he heard footsteps. Someone came over and crouched down in front of him.

"Mr. Smith, are you okay?" It was Leon's voice. Jacob raised his head, looked up at Leon's face, and suddenly laughed.

"Okay." His voice was barely more than a whisper, so soft it sounded like he was talking to himself. "Not dead yet."

Leon didn't smile. His head was bowed as he looked at Jacob's twisted legs, his eyes rimmed with red.

The scene spun again. This time, Jacob saw himself sitting in a wheelchair, with a man kneeling in front of him.

The man's hair was graying, his face streaked with tears. He was shaking all over like some old dog that had been cornered and knew there was nowhere left to run.

It was Vincent.

"Mr. Smith, please, just let me live." His voice was hoarse and broken with sobs. "I'll give you all of the Moretti family's assets, I'll hand Lilith over to you to deal with, I'm willing to—"

"I don't need that." Past Jacob cut him off, his tone as calm as if he were commenting on the weather.

The color drained completely from Vincent's face.

He stayed on his knees, his whole body trembling violently, like a dead leaf barely hanging on in a strong wind.

He opened his mouth, tried to say something, but nothing came out. Then something seemed to occur to him, and his eyes suddenly lit up, like a drowning man spotting one last piece of driftwood.

"Mr. Smith, I have a secret. A secret you'll definitely want to know." His voice turned urgent, edged with the wildness of someone who felt the end coming. "I'll trade this secret for my life, okay?"

Past Jacob looked at him and said nothing.

Vincent swallowed hard and forced out each word. "Back then, that kid—it wasn't an accident. I had him sent to your door on purpose."

Past Jacob's gaze shifted.

Vincent kept going. "That woman, she was pregnant with your child. We found out and stole the baby, then dropped him at your doorstep. Don't you want to know who his mother is? As long as you—"

He never finished the sentence.

Because past Jacob raised his hand and put a bullet through his skull.

Vincent's body crumpled to the floor. His eyes were still open, his mouth still parted, frozen in the middle of words he never got to finish, like a puppet that got stuck before the last line.

Past Jacob holstered his gun and looked down at the body, the corner of his lips lifting into a smile that bordered on insane.

"I don't need to know."

Vincent was dead. But his lips kept moving like a fish with its throat cut, making one last, soundless struggle.

Jacob leaned in closer and finally heard the name Vincent forced out with his dying breath. "Elizabeth Windsor."

Past Jacob froze for a second. He frowned slightly, as if sifting through his memory to figure out who that name belonged to.

Then he remembered—the woman he once planned to marry for an alliance, then backed out on.

He turned his wheelchair and headed for the door. He didn't look back. There wasn't even the slightest hint of hesitation.

Jacob—the Jacob standing off to the side, forced to watch all of this unfold—went crazy. He hurled himself forward, trying to grab the wheelchair, trying to drag back that cold, numb man who didn't care about anything anymore.

But his hands passed straight through the wheelchair, through the man's body, like he was reaching into nothing but air.

"Go find her!" He shouted. "Go find Elizabeth! She's waiting for you! She's been waiting for you this whole time!"

But that man couldn't hear him.

He just pushed the wheelchair forward, slowly, one turn of the wheels after another, until his figure faded away at the end of the hallway.

The scene flipped again.

Jacob saw himself in the study, a file spread open in front of him.

Leon had brought it to him. It was the investigation report on Elizabeth. He skimmed it, then his gaze stopped at the last line. Married. Spouse: Henry Aiden.