Chapter 35
Kayna’s POV
I knew I wasn’t supposed to hear it.
But once a word is in your ears, you can’t un-hear it. You can’t will yourself to forget.
Cosmo. Boston deal.
The word had fallen into the room like a heavy stone, rippling through everything. It wasn’t just a name—it was the project. Damian’s focus for weeks, the deal that had swallowed hours of late-night revisions and sleepless strategy sessions. It was the opportunity that could elevate Marshall & Co. higher than it had ever been.
And yet, the way Julian said it—low, careful, weighted—made my stomach knot. He hadn’t said it like a victory. He’d said it like a warning
I walked out of Damian’s office with the signed folder clutched to my chest, the door clicking behind me. On the surface, I kept my face neutral, composed. Ava didn’t even glance up from her desk as I crossed the reception, but my pulse thrummed in my ears like a drumbeat.
I told myself not to overthink it. That I’d misinterpreted. That maybe I hadn’t heard clearly through the static of my nerves. But the more I repeated those excuses in my head, the less I believed them.
Back at my desk, I typed, sorted, signed, and scheduled as though nothing was wrong. But my thoughts snagged over that single word, replaying the tone, the silence that followed, the way Damian had tensed before handing the folder back to me.
By the time I left the office, dusk had fallen, painting the city in streaks of pink and gray. The cold air should have been bracing, but it only made me more restless. I caught the subway uptown, sitting rigid in the corner seat, staring at the blurred tunnels as though they might offer answers.
They didn’t.
When I finally unlocked my apartment door, the weight of the day collapsed on me all at once. My bag slid from my shoulder, landing with a thud by the couch. I leaned against the door, closing my eyes, the echo of Damian’s voice still clinging to me.
I needed something to ground me. Something that wasn’t him, wasn’t Cosmo, wasn’t this growing storm I felt circling but couldn’t name.
And then I remembered.
The letters.
The attic. The box I had carried back from Boston with my hands trembling and my heart racing. They were still here, tucked deep into my closet where I’d tried to pretend they didn’t exist.
For days, I’d told myself I’d wait. That I’d be calmer back in New York, less fragile, more prepared. But tonight, with that word—Cosmo—lodged like a splinter under my skin, waiting felt impossible.
I dragged the box out, my hands brushing dust from its edges. My father’s handwriting scrawled across envelopes, worn and yellowed with time, stared back at me. So many words. So many secrets.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, the stack of letters spread out before me like pieces of a puzzle I wasn’t sure I wanted to solve.
One envelope was different. Newer. My name written across the front in firm, deliberate strokes.
I didn’t touch it. Not yet.
The thought of opening something written directly to me made my chest tighten. I wasn’t ready for those truths—not tonight.
Instead, I reached for the top of the older pile. The envelope was addressed to my mother, dated fifteen years ago. My hands shook as I tore it open.
The paper crackled, and then his voice—my father’s—spilled out across the page in looping, forceful handwriting.
Maria,
By the time you read this, I’ll have settled into the routine here. You don’t need to visit often—better you keep your distance for now. The men inside know my name, and most of them would respect it, but you and the kids… you’re safer staying out of sight.
I want you to remember something: everything I did, I did for us. I know what the papers said, what the courts called me. But they’ll never understand that building an empire means getting your hands dirty. Deals don’t close on handshakes alone. Sometimes you buy loyalty; sometimes you buy silence. And sometimes, Maria, you remind men who’s stronger by taking away the one thing they love.
If anyone ever tells you I lost, don’t believe them. I still hold the strings. Even from here, I can pull them. They’ll never cut me out completely. They know too much depends on me.
Take care of Kayna and Mateo. Tell them their father wasn’t weak. Tell them strength comes at a price.
Yours, always,
—Elijah.
The words swam in front of me. My father’s voice was as familiar as it was foreign—hard, unyielding, unapologetic. Not the bedtime storyteller who used to tuck me in with tales of kingdoms and heroes. Not the man who taught me to ride a bike in the park, running alongside me until I found my balance.
This voice was sharper. Colder. A man speaking not to his family but to a partner, someone complicit in the machinery he’d built.
The line that struck me deepest wasn’t about loyalty or silence. It was the part where he said he could still pull strings from inside.
Even from prison.
I folded the letter back into its envelope with trembling hands, sliding it under the pile. My chest tightened until I could barely breathe.
Because for the first time, I realized this wasn’t just about the past. It wasn’t just history.
My father’s world wasn’t dead.
And somehow, without understanding how or why, I was already tangled in its threads.
I pressed the lid of the box shut, forcing the papers down until they no longer threatened to spill out. My breathing was uneven, my skin clammy.
The letter with my name on it sat on the top, waiting. Watching.
Not tonight.
I couldn’t.
I shoved the box back into the closet, pushing it behind my shoes and coats as though burying it deep could silence the way my father’s words echoed in my head.
But no matter how hard I tried to shake them off, the last line clung to me like a shadow.
They’ll never cut me out completely. They know too much depends on me.
I curled up in bed hours later, sleepless, the city lights casting fractured shapes on the walls. And for the first time since coming back to New York, I wondered if I had ever really left Boston at all—or if my father’s reach was still stretching, threading, finding me in ways I hadn’t yet begun to understand.