[ZEKE]
I pace the length of my father’s old office, the sharp burn of whiskey sliding down my throat doing nothing to dull the ache in my ribs. The glass hangs loose in my hand, heavy, useless. I don’t even know why I came in here. Instinct, maybe. Or masochism.
The place is spotless now. Polished wood, dust-free shelves, curtains drawn just so. I’m almost grateful for that. Last time I was in this room, Roman was lying on the floor, dead in my arms. My brother. My blood.
That day, I swore this office was cursed. I wanted it gone—torn down, burned to ash, the memory buried with him. But right now, I know I was right to keep it. Ruin needs a monument.
Marco stands across from me, hands clasped behind his back, eyes locked on me like he’s waiting for a command. The report he brought say
