Chapter 28
Emily Windsor's POV
"Say that again, Emily."
The madness flickering in Luke's eyes sent my heart into overdrive, but the brutal truth of my grandmother's murder stood between us like an impenetrable wall, blocking out every instinct to back down or flee.
I met his gaze head-on, forcing my voice to remain steady even as my pulse thundered in my ears. "I said—my life is none of your business."
The air itself seemed to solidify.
His jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. His hands, braced on either side of me against the seat, turned bone-white at the knuckles from the force of his grip.
"Emily." His voice came out rough, gravelly. His hand shot up to grip my chin—not gently. "I should lock you up somewhere. Then we'd see if that smart mouth of yours stays so defiant."
Terror spiked through me.
The monster was actually considering it.
My entire body trembled. The revulsion in my eyes was impossible to hide.
I could hear his ragged breathing in the confined space. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he closed his eyes. When they opened again, the storm had been buried beneath a sheet of calculated ice.
"Emily." He released me, pulling back slightly. The suffocating pressure eased just enough for me to breathe. His voice carried a roughness he was clearly fighting to control. "Do you... have some kind of misunderstanding about me?"
Misunderstanding?
The word was so absurd that I actually laughed—a broken, bitter sound that came with tears I couldn't hold back.
I looked up at him through blurred vision, my voice shaking. "Tell me, Luke. What exactly is the misunderstanding? That my grandmother didn't die in that shooting? Or that the man who pulled the trigger wasn't named Woody?"
My composure shattered completely. "Your father—the Victor family—murdered my family!"
The words ripped out of me in a scream, my voice fracturing under the weight of anguish. "I spent years studying law, breaking my back to learn everything I could, so that one day I could stand in a courtroom and put those murderers behind bars. And what have I been doing instead? What have I been doing, Luke?"
My voice cracked. "I've been helping my grandmother's killer get away with it!"
The confession tore through me like a blade.
All the words I'd been holding back for days came pouring out, exposing the grotesque irony of everything I'd convinced myself I was doing.
"I already explained this to you," Luke said quietly.
"Explained?" I let out a harsh laugh. "You were making excuses. For yourself."
Luke remained silent, letting me unleash every ounce of pain, rage, and accusation. He didn't interrupt. Didn't defend himself.
When I'd finally exhausted myself, drained by my own grief, he spoke. His voice was low, weary. "Take us to St. John Cemetery."
I froze, confused.
He didn't look at me, just leaned back against the seat and pinched the bridge of his nose. For the first time since I'd met him, that face—always hard as carved stone—showed something fragile.
The car pulled smoothly into the night.
We didn't speak.
St. John Cemetery was one of New York's oldest and most exclusive private burial grounds. Only the elite were laid to rest here.
The car stopped before a massive wrought-iron gate, intricate with scrollwork. Luke led me inside.
The cemetery at night was eerily silent, save for the whisper of wind through rows of cypress trees. Cold moonlight spilled across endless rows of headstones, casting jagged shadows. The air smelled of damp earth and wilted flowers.
He guided me down a narrow stone path that wound deeper into the grounds.
Finally, he stopped before a pristine white marble headstone.
It was simple. No elaborate carvings. Just one elegant name engraved in the stone: Susan Victor.
Fresh white irises sat on the stone ledge before it—someone visited regularly.
I stared at the unfamiliar name, confusion deepening.
"My mother." Luke's voice broke the silence, carrying an unusual roughness.
I looked at him, stunned.
"She was a painter. From China." His gaze remained fixed on the headstone. Those ice-blue eyes, for once, held something soft. Something that resembled grief. "She hated it here. Hated the Victor name. Hated my father. She used to say she was a bird trapped in a gilded cage. All she wanted was to go home."
A bitter smile ghosted across his face.
"My father loved her. In his own way." His voice dropped. "He gave her everything—wealth, status, luxury beyond measure. Everything except freedom." He paused. "She died when I was ten. The last thing she said to me, holding my hand... was 'Don't become your father.'"
This was the first time I'd ever heard Luke speak about his past.
The man who'd always seemed invincible, cold, who treated everyone like pieces on a chessboard—he was standing before me now with every layer of armor stripped away, revealing the raw wound beneath.
He turned to face me. Those ice-blue eyes, bathed in moonlight, looked like twin oceans filled with sorrow.
"Emily, I didn't keep you close to watch some pathetic plaything squirm. I didn't do it for the sick irony of having my enemy's granddaughter work for me."
He hesitated, searching for the right words. "When I look at you... I see her. The same stubborn fire. The same refusal to belong to this world."
His gaze held mine with an intensity I'd never seen before. "I knew about your background. I knew about Woody. But the Victors weren't the only ones responsible for your grandmother's death—the Lowe Family was behind it all. They instigated the shooting. Woody was just a weapon in my father's hand. The Lowes were the ones who placed that weapon there and tried to drag everyone down to hell with them."
His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "My mother's death made me hate this life. Hate the family that trapped her here until it killed her." He looked at me with devastating honesty. "Emily, we're the same. We both want out of this godforsaken swamp."
Every word he spoke carried undeniable weight, slowly smoothing over the sharp edges of my pain.
Standing before his mother's grave, Luke told me his story.
He'd been groomed from childhood to be the ruthless heir of a mafia empire. His mother had been murdered in front of him over a family vendetta. His father never even allowed him to mourn—just pushed him deeper into the power struggle, until Luke finally wrested control of the family and avenged her himself.
Luke didn't look at me as he continued. "From the moment I could form memories, my father trained me. Combat. Marksmanship. Strategy." His voice was hollow. "He wanted to forge me into the perfect Victor heir—cold-blooded, powerful, immune to emotion. He told me my mother's softness was her fatal flaw. That my tears were shameful."