Chapter 196: ~ Adrian?

{Daisy's POV}

The hallway went dark long before I reached the end of it, lit only by a single lantern whose flame had already started giving up, flickering low and orange against the walls. It was enough, barely, to make out the shape of her chained to a rusted support beam jutting out from what used to be a load-bearing wall, and I stopped a few feet away, letting my eyes adjust before I let myself actually look.

Lillian lifted her head and found me there.

"Hey, roommate."

I didn't answer. I just stood there, staring, and after a moment she laughed, though nothing about it carried any real humor.

"I know," she said. "You've come to tell me how disappointed you are. How you never expected any of this from me. How much all of it's hurt you. Let me guess."

"No," I said. "That's not why I'm here."

"Oh." Something flickered behind her eyes, curious now instead of defensive. "Interesting. Why, then?"

I noticed it as she waited for my answer — how little of the desperate, tearful woman from the courtyard remained in her now. That version of her had needed to beg for her life at gunpoint. This version didn't, not right this second, and whatever had replaced the fear looked almost cruel in how settled it was, like she'd already made peace with wearing it.

"I just want to know why," I said.

"That's a good, short question." She shifted slightly against the chains. "The answer's simple enough. I've always liked this world — the mafia, the power, all of it, same as I told you before. And when DeLuca showed up in our lives, I wanted him. But then you had him, and I never figured out how you managed that, because somehow he was completely under your spell. So I told myself, if I couldn't have him, I'd have something better instead. And what's better than DeLuca, though? What's better than that specific, ridiculous specimen of a man?" She let the question hang there like she still found it genuinely funny.

"Money. Power.” She continued. “I found the answer, and once I did, I didn't waste a second going after it. I found the right person to put me exactly where I needed to be, and I did what I had to do. Then the tables turned, so I turned with them. And now, unfortunately, here I am. So yeah. That's the whole summary."

With that, she went quiet, and I let myself actually process it.

"You don't sound like you regret any of it," I said finally, the words coming from somewhere lower and rawer than I expected. "You don't sound like you feel bad. I thought we were friends."

"I don't sound like that because I don't regret it, Daisy. It was never personal. Whatever it did to you, hurting you was never the actual goal— you got something better out of it, something I've wanted for longer than I even realized. So none of it was personal." She tilted her head slightly. "But I do value you. I did before, and I still do now, because I already know you won't let them kill me."

The hurt in my chest wasn't about the plan, or the betrayal, or even the danger she'd put me and everyone I loved through.

It was about the absence sitting right in front of me where a person used to be— no trace of the Lillian I'd actually known, the one who used to fall asleep mid-sentence during our late-night talks, gone completely, replaced by someone wearing her exact face and voice like a costume.

And underneath that hurt sat something worse: she was right. Despite everything, I didn't want her dead. I never had.

I let out a heavy breath and turned to leave.

"That's the real difference between us, Daisy," she said, to my back. "You are kind because you can't help it. I am not because I can’t be. One day you'll understand that kindness was never your virtue. It was just the first weakness anyone ever found in you."

I almost stopped walking.

I didn't. I just kept moving until the dark swallowed the sound of her voice completely, and I left that place behind me.

The atmosphere shifted the second I walked back into the main part of the building, swinging hard from whatever heaviness I'd been carrying out of that hallway into something sharper— tense, alert, everyone around me caught somewhere between preparation and dread.

DeLuca stood near the center of it, already halfway ready to leave, and the moment he spotted me, something in his posture eased, like he'd been quietly searching for me the whole time without wanting to admit it out loud.

"Are you good?" he asked, closing the distance between us.

I nodded, and his gaze flicked briefly past me, toward the hallway I'd just come from, before returning to my face.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."

He leaned in and kissed my forehead, and I let my eyes fall shut for a second, taking in the warmth of him like it might actually hold me together for a little longer. Then he held me by both arms, steady, and we just looked at each other for a moment— him tired and strong at once, the same stiffness from earlier still sitting somewhere in his jaw, refusing to fully let go.

"We're leaving now," he said. "When I get back, all of this will be over."

He kissed my forehead again, starting to pull away, and I held on instead.

"I'm coming with you."

"There's no need, Daisy. I'll be fine. If anyone deserves your worry right now, it's that asshole, not me."

I shifted closer anyway. "I know. I know you'll be fine. I just want to be there. This might be the smallest fight left in all of this, since neither Nico nor your father have many men left standing. But it's also the biggest one, because it's your father. So I want to be there. Please."

He studied me for a long moment, and I caught it plainly on his face— how much heavier this particular confrontation sat with him than he wanted anyone to see.

Finally, he said, "Okay."

The airport, when we reached it, turned out to be nothing like the quiet, half-lit tension I'd expected. It was nighttime, technically, except the lighting inside made everything look like the middle of the afternoon, bright and clinical and completely indifferent to the fact that somewhere in this building, my entire life was about to reach some kind of ending.

"It's really bright in here," I muttered, mostly to myself, glancing around at the rows of fluorescent panels overhead. It wasn't that I'd never been in an airport before. I just hadn't spent enough time in one to build up any real familiarity with how relentlessly cheerful they insisted on looking, even at an hour like this.

We sat together near a row of chairs while ordinary life moved past us, unaware and unbothered, travelers dragging suitcases, announcements droning overhead, none of it acknowledging the fact that something enormous was about to happen a few feet away from all of them.

I found myself staring at DeLuca's hand, at the phone resting there, and started to stress over what would happen when it—

It rang.

I swallowed hard, nerves climbing fast, while DeLuca lifted the phone calmly toward his face and answered it, putting the call on speaker without a flicker of hesitation.

The screen read Father. Padre.

My heart squeezed painfully the second I saw it, and then the voice filled the space around us, clear and unbothered.

"Nico. I'd been expecting your beep. I started to worry until I saw it come through. Good work finishing everything off. I'm pulling into the airport now— once I confirm my flight's been rescheduled, I'll call, and we can talk about what happens with DeLuca."

Hearing this, tension locked every muscle in my body at once.

But DeLuca's voice came out perfectly calm.

"All right, Father. Can't wait."

With this, silence stretched on the other end of the line.

Then the voice came again, different now, shaken.

"Adrian?"