Chapter 42 .Now Let’s Get Our Stories Straight

Chapter 42 .Now Let’s Get Our Stories Straight

Zorak POV
“Stay here.”
That’s what I told her.
She was still on the bed, wrapped in one of my shirts, half asleep, hair damp, eyes heavy. She tried to reach for me when I turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” she whispered.
“Nowhere,” I lied. “Just stay here. Don’t open the door for anyone.”
The sirens outside cut through the night again, closer now — too close. Red and blue flashed across the walls, crawling over her skin like the ghosts of the fire.
Her eyes flicked toward the window. “Zorak…”
“Don’t.”
I bent, pressed my hand to her cheek. “No matter what you hear, you don’t come out. Understood?”
She nodded slowly, scared. “Who’s out there?”
“I’ll find out.”
I straightened and left before she could say another word.
The hallway was dark and quiet, except for the faint hum of the estate’s generators. I could still smell the smoke on my skin, in my clothes. Every step I took made the anger crawl higher up my throat.
How dare Arjona?
She knew Nolie was mine. She knew.
And she still tried to break her.
This wasn’t a feud anymore — this was a declaration of war.
By the time I reached the front of the house, the guards were already lined up at the gate. Their guns were holstered, but their faces were tense.
“Sir,” one of them muttered, “the police are outside. The sheriff himself.”
“I can see that.”
Three cruisers sat at the gate, engines humming. The local sheriff stepped out first — thick build, old uniform, cap pulled low. I knew him. My father used to play poker with him years ago.
He saw me and immediately raised both hands, the way a man does when he doesn’t want trouble.
“Evening, Zorak.”
I didn’t return it. “You got thirty seconds to explain why you’re here.”
He hesitated, glancing at the men beside him. “I don’t want problems. We just got a report—”
“You’re standing on Padrelli property, Sheriff. That is a problem.”
He cleared his throat. “We received information about a woman. Name’s Nolie Hartley.”
My jaw locked.
“She might be involved in—”
“Stop.” I stepped forward, voice low. “You might want to think about what name just came out of your mouth.”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I said,” I repeated, slower, “you better think before you say that name again in my presence.”
The men behind him shifted uneasily. One put a hand on his holster. My guards moved a little closer, silent but ready.
The air was heavy — like a gunshot waiting for an excuse.
The sheriff tried again. “Zorak, listen— I don’t mean disrespect. We just got a call. Someone said Miss Hartley was here and that she—”
“Mrs. Padrelli,” I corrected sharply.
He blinked again. “What?”
“She’s not Miss Hartley anymore. She’s my wife. And you just stepped onto my land accusing my wife of something. You want to tell me how that’s supposed to end well for you?”
“Zorak, I didn’t mean—”
“Say the word ‘murder’ and I swear you’ll forget your badge ever existed.”
He swallowed hard. “A boy died at the bullfight. The fire—there were witnesses. They said she was seen—”
“Witnesses?” I cut him off. “Who?”
He hesitated. “Anonymous call.”
I stepped closer until our faces were inches apart. “So no witness. No statement. No proof. Just a call.”
“Zorak, I’m following procedure.”
“Procedure,” I repeated, laughing under my breath. “Your ‘procedure’ brought you to my door in the middle of the night because of gossip? Who gave you the information?”
He didn’t answer.
I took another step. He flinched.
“Who gave you the information, Sheriff?”
He looked away. “I can’t reveal sources—”
“That’s not what I asked.” My voice dropped to a growl. “You keep saying ‘you can’t.’ What you can’t do is stand here pretending you don’t know who pulled your strings. Arjona sent you. Didn’t she?”
He said nothing.
“Say her name.”
“I can’t.”
“Say it,” I hissed. “Or I’ll have your men digging your badge out of the mud by sunrise.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His silence was enough.
I nodded once. “Thought so.”
“Zorak,” he started, “you don’t understand. There was a fire—”
“I was there,” I snapped. “She left the bullfight before it started. She got dizzy, said she needed air. I told her to wait in the car. You want me to bring you the driver who saw her leave? You want video from the security cameras?”
He hesitated. “I just need her to answer a few questions—”
“You’ll need a court order before you even say her name again.”
“Zorak—”
“Don’t test me.”
The guards behind me didn’t move, but I saw the shift in their posture — the one that meant they were ready to draw.
The sheriff raised both hands again. “I’m not here to start trouble. I’m just doing my job.”
I took another step, lowering my voice so only he could hear. “Then do your job somewhere else. Don’t make me do it for you.”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You think I don’t know who funds half your department? You think I don’t know how easily a man like you could disappear between counties?”
“Zorak, I’m not your enemy—”
“Then stop acting like one.”
Silence.
He adjusted his hat, breathing hard. “All right. We’ll leave. But if you’re hiding her, it’ll only make things worse.”
I smiled — slow, dangerous. “You really want to walk into that fire, Sheriff? Be my guest. But next time you step onto my land, come prepared to stay here. Permanently.”
He paled. “Is that a threat?”
“No,” I said softly. “That’s a warning.”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “Understood.”
He turned to leave, signaling his men. The cruisers’ lights swept across the gravel as they backed out. But before he got in, I called out again.
“Sheriff.”
He turned, hesitant. “Yeah?”
“Next time you get an anonymous tip,” I said, “you tell whoever gave it that Nolie Padrelli belongs to Lucifer himself. You got that?”
The way his face drained white told me he did.
He tipped his hat shakily. “Good night, Zorak.”
“Good night,” I said. “Try to live through it.”
The cars rolled out of the gate, tires crunching over gravel until the sound faded into the dark.
For a moment, all I could hear was the wind. Then I exhaled, slow and controlled, forcing the anger back down before it could rip through me.
Arjona had gone too far.
Sending police after my wife?
That wasn’t just provocation. That was suicide.
I looked up toward the main house.
There — movement.
A curtain shifted upstairs. Nolie.
She was watching from the bedroom window, her face pale behind the glass. When she saw me looking, she stepped back and drew the curtain.
I smiled to myself.
Good. Stay where you are.
I’ll clean this mess up.
But before I went back inside, there was one last thing to handle.
The woman.
The same farmhand I’d seen talking to Nolie earlier — small, nervous, always hovering near the servants’ hallway.
I walked around the side of the house. The night was cold now. The only light came from the windows and the faint orange glow from the barn ruins far off in the distance.
When I reached the servants’ quarters, I stopped outside her door. The faint sound of shuffling came from inside. My hands were steady, but inside I was shaking. Not from fear — from the kind of rage that could kill a man if I let it breathe.
I knocked once. Hard.
The movement stopped. Then, after a pause, the door cracked open.
She peeked out — young, maybe twenty, with tired eyes and calloused hands.
Her hands twisted the hem of her apron so tight I thought the fabric might tear. Her throat bobbed once, like she was trying to swallow her fear.
“Mr. Padrelli,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I didn’t do anything, sir.”
I leaned against the doorframe, calm. ““You mind if I come in?””
She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder like she was afraid someone else might be listening. Then she stepped back.
I smiled faintly. “Good,” I said, stepping inside. “Now let’s get our stories straight.”
The door closed behind me.