Chapter 293

Chapter 293
Calloway

The federal visiting room at ADX Florence felt like the coldest place on Earth, and it had nothing to do with the temperature.

I sat across from Dad—Griffin Montgomery, the man I'd idolized my entire life—and barely recognized the person staring back at me. His once-pristine appearance had deteriorated dramatically. His hair was greasy and unkempt, his prison uniform stained and wrinkled, and his eyes held a manic intensity that made me want to look away.

"Calloway," he said without preamble, "I hope you're here to tell me you've found a way to get me out of this hellhole."

I didn't answer immediately. Couldn't answer, really. How do you tell your father that everything he'd worked for, everything he'd planned, had crumbled to dust?

"It was all a trap," Dad continued, his voice growing agitated. "Coming back to Boston, rescuing that bitch—all of it. Beckett played me like a damn violin, and I walked right into it."

He leaned forward, his hands clenched into fists on the metal table between us.

"Do you know what it's like in here, son? Do you have any idea what those animals do to new inmates? I haven't had a decent night's sleep in weeks. Every meal is a potential poisoning. Every shower is a death trap."

His voice was rising now, attracting glances from the guards stationed around the room.

"They've got me surrounded by killers and psychopaths, and half of them worship Beckett like he's some kind of prison god. I'm living in constant fear of my own shadow!"

Still, I said nothing. What was there to say? That he'd brought this on himself? That he'd chosen this path when he decided to kidnap and torture an innocent woman?

The silence stretched between us until Dad's agitation turned to suspicion.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" he demanded. "Calloway, what's wrong with you?"

Finally, I found my voice.

"We were wrong, Dad."

The words came out barely above a whisper, but they might as well have been shouted for the impact they had on the room.

"What did you just say?"

"We were wrong," I repeated, louder this time. "About Beckett, about Rosalind, about all of it. We went after people who didn't deserve what we did to them, and now we're paying the price."

Dad's face began to turn red. "Are you out of your mind? They destroyed our family! They humiliated us! They—"

"They defended themselves," I interrupted, feeling tears beginning to burn behind my eyes. "Dad, we tried to have an innocent woman tortured and killed. We conspired with criminals. We broke federal laws. We're not the victims here—we're the villains."

"Villains?" Dad's voice cracked like a whip. "Calloway Montgomery, you are talking about your own father! About your own family!"

"I know exactly who I'm talking about," I said quietly. "And that's why I think we should try to make amends. Apologize. Beg for mercy. Maybe if we show genuine remorse—"

"MERCY?" Dad roared, half-rising from his chair before a guard moved closer. "You want me to grovel to those bastards? You want me to admit defeat?"

"I want you to admit you were wrong!" I shot back, my own voice rising now. "Because you were, Dad! We both were!"

"Listen to me, you pathetic worm," Dad hissed, leaning across the table. "I still have assets in Europe. I still have connections in this city. There are people who owe me favors, resources I can tap. We don't surrender—we regroup and we strike back!"

I shook my head sadly. "Dad, Celestina's been arrested."

His face went white. "What?"

"She tried to strangle Rosalind yesterday. In front of witnesses. With recording devices running. The Vandoren family is finished, Celestina's going to prison for attempted murder, and their entire social network has abandoned them."

Dad stared at me in horror. "But... but the European assets..."

"Being seized by the FBI as we speak," I said gently. "That intelligence you gave Beckett about Juan? It worked both ways. They didn't just use it to take down the drug networks—they used it to trace your financial connections. Every account, every property, every business relationship. It's all gone, Dad."

The color drained from his face completely as the full scope of his defeat finally hit him.

"No," he whispered. "No, that's impossible. I was careful. I covered my tracks."

"You were also desperate," I said sadly. "And desperate people make mistakes."

For a moment, we sat in complete silence. Then Dad's shock began transforming into something uglier.

"This is your fault," he snarled. "If you'd been stronger, if you'd been smarter, if you'd been the son I needed instead of this weak, sniveling—"

"Stop." I held up my hand, and something in my voice made him pause. "Just stop, Dad. Please."

I could feel tears streaming down my face now, but I didn't care anymore.

"I can't help you," I said through my tears. "I can't fix this, I can't make it better, and I can't keep pretending that what we did was justified. We hurt innocent people, Dad. We ruined lives. We became the monsters in someone else's story."

"You're weak," he spat. "You're pathetic. You're not my son."

"Maybe that's for the best," I replied quietly.

The words seemed to hit him like a physical blow. His face turned purple with rage, and he began shouting at the top of his lungs.

"How dare you! How dare you turn on your own father! I gave you everything! I taught you everything! And this is how you repay me?"

The guards were moving now, converging on our table as Dad's shouting echoed through the visiting room.

"CALLOWAY!" he screamed as they moved to restrain him. "Don't you dare walk away from me! Don't you dare abandon your family!"

I stood up slowly, my legs feeling unsteady but my resolve firm.

"Dad," I said, my voice cutting through his rage. "We were wrong. I was wrong. And I'm not going to keep being wrong just because it's easier than admitting the truth."

The guards had him by the arms now, preparing to escort him back to his cell.

"I'm going to leave Boston," I continued. "I'm going to find a job, maybe go back to school. I'm going to try to build a normal life with normal people who don't think violence and revenge are acceptable solutions to every problem."

"You're nothing!" Dad screamed as they began pulling him away. "Nothing without me! Nothing without the Montgomery name!"

I watched them drag him toward the exit, this man who'd once been my hero, my role model, my entire world. When he was almost through the door, I called out one last time.

"Dad."

He stopped struggling and turned to look at me, hope flickering briefly in his eyes.

"I forgive you," I said simply. "But I can't be your son anymore. Take care of yourself."

The hope died, replaced by a hatred so pure it was almost physical.

"You're dead to me," he whispered. "Dead."