7
Christian
My private jet descended smoothly through the late Friday afternoon sky, the low hum of the engines a constant presence as Maryland's landscape stretched beneath me. I landed at Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport, the cold, unfeeling asphalt waiting beneath the plane's wheels. I didn't even bother with pleasantries as I stepped off the plane.
The sleek, black sedan awaited me just a few steps from the tarmac, and the city didn't feel like mine anymore. It hadn't felt like home in years. The drive from the airport to the townhouse I had grown up in was a short one, but each second felt like a personal reckoning. Every street corner, every familiar landmark, was a reminder of what had been lost.
The townhouse wasn't anything special in terms of architectural marvels—more like a relic of old money's taste. Built in the early 1900s, its brick façade was overgrown with ivy, the kind of elegance that stood out without trying. But I had no love for it. The place felt hollow. Empty.
As the massive gates loomed ahead, a rush of memories hit me like a tidal wave, forcing my breath to hitch. The gates. The night my mother, Alessandra, had been killed right here. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the memory seep in—the feeling of helplessness, the confusion of seeing her blood spill onto the stone driveway, the harshness of the cold air that night.
Two men.
I clenched my fists, the bitter thought rolling over in my mind.
I found one of them—Maxwell Kensington—the first, the man who had orchestrated it all. But the second was still out there, a ghost. My jaw tightened, and I gripped the armrest as the car neared the gates.
The Kensington name had become an obsession. Maxwell had been smart, too smart, too slick to be caught in the act. He had help that night, and I was going to find out who. The feeling of being so close to the truth gnawed at me, and yet, the puzzle pieces never seemed to fit. I could almost taste the satisfaction of making them both pay. Slowly. Painfully. Every cut. Every bruise. Every second of agony I had felt in the years after my mother's death.
The car passed through the first security checkpoint smoothly, the sleek black vehicle's make and model recognized instantly by the system. Mercedes S-Class, equipped with biometric technology, armed with software that tracked everything.
The vehicle's cameras scanned the surroundings. A small, hidden display in the back showed the trees lining the driveway, the garden lights flickering with a soft golden hue as we passed by. Everything is still exactly the same, I thought. And for a moment, it was too much to bear. The technology in the car didn't comfort me; it only reminded me how trapped I was in this endless cycle of revenge.
The main gates slid open with a barely audible hum, responding to the car's encrypted code. They had always been prepared for any threats, always one step ahead. I watched the gates open automatically, wondering how the hell those two men had managed to slip through the fortress that night. There had to be someone on the inside. Someone who knew the layout. Someone who had tipped them off.
Four large security guards stood by the gate, their eyes trained ahead, their posture stiff as the car rolled past. They couldn't see me, of course—the windows were tinted black. Only the driver was visible, but the guards still offered a salute, acknowledging their boss in silence, their professionalism evident.
I didn't acknowledge them, not with a nod, not with anything. I didn't even have the energy. It was all so... routine. Everything about this place, this city, felt like a shadow of what it used to be.
The car continued its drive toward the massive estate, and with each passing second, the house came closer, waiting for me, like a cold, empty shell.
As the car came to a stop, I opened the door and stepped out, the cool evening air hitting my face immediately. My shoes clicked against the pavement as I walked toward the front of the house, the familiar smell of the manicured lawn reaching my senses. Durand, the chief of staff, stood by the entrance, greeting me with his usual professional smile. I barely acknowledged him, offering only a curt nod as I moved past him.
The staff, the gardeners, the cleaners—all of them scattered around the property, their eyes on the ground as I passed. A few murmured greetings, but I didn't bother to respond. I didn't have the energy for pleasantries. My focus was elsewhere, as it always was when I was back here.
But then, I heard it.
"Chrissy!"
I froze, the voice cutting through the silence of the afternoon like a knife. I turned my head, my gaze automatically finding the far end of the house where the pool was. And there she was—Veronica, my stepmother.
She was lying by the pool, her body stretched out in a perfect sunbathing pose. As she spotted me, she stood, reaching her arms up dramatically, her fingers curling in that practiced way women did when they wanted attention. A maid, I think, wrapped a silk shawl around her bikini before she started making her way toward me.
I didn't move.
I just stood there, staring at her as she approached. Veronica was everything I hated about this family, about this world. She was nothing but a trophy wife—perfectly manicured, always in the right place at the right time, never lifting a finger unless it was to pick up a glass of champagne or wave at the cameras. All she did was shop, socialize, and host parties.
Her every step oozed an air of superiority that made my stomach churn.
"I didn't know you were coming this weekend," she said, her voice too sweet, too false. She tilted her head, a smile spreading across her face. "We would have prepared better to welcome you."
I didn't answer right away. My eyes scanned her with the kind of disdain that only came from years of pretending to tolerate her. She was exactly what I expected her to be, and more.
I grunted in response, the sound low in my throat. My arms crossed over my chest instinctively as I leaned against the stone pillar of the walkway, my gaze now fixed firmly on her.
"Dante called me for an important meeting," I said, my voice flat, not bothering to mask my irritation. The mention of my father's name almost made me sick. Dante. Always the perfect, flawless man in front of everyone. But there was a coldness behind the mask, and I felt it even now.
Veronica's smile faltered for just a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly, but only for a split second. She quickly recovered, her smile widening as if nothing had happened.
"Oh, of course," she said, waving a hand dismissively as she adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. "How silly of me. I'm sure it's something important."
She didn't even look at me anymore, her attention drifting as she tried to call for one of the staff to bring her a drink. I stood there, unmoving, watching her.
I couldn't help but look at her in disgust.
She was everything that had come to represent this house after my mother died—cold, superficial, and fake. My father had married her so quickly after Alessandra's death that it had always made me wonder if he ever really loved her at all. The speed with which he moved on… It was like a slap to my face, a constant reminder that he hadn't mourned her the way he should have. That he didn't feel the same emptiness that I did.
Veronica's voice broke through my thoughts.
"This isn't enough ice!" she yelled, glaring at the maid who had just delivered her drink, the glass barely touched by a few cubes. Her shrill command echoed in the air, the sharpness in her voice enough to make anyone flinch. The poor woman seemed to shrink under her gaze.
I shook my head in annoyance, the disgust swelling within me as I turned my back to her. I didn't need to witness this. I didn't need to be around her. She was a reminder of everything that had gone wrong in my life, everything that had changed when my mother died.
I didn't say a word. I just walked away, striding toward the entrance of the house. The grand doors opened before me with a soft click, and I made my way through the grand foyer, the sound of my footsteps echoing off the marble floors.
I had no desire to linger here. I wasn't here for her, for the hollow emptiness of this place. I was here for one reason only.
I made a beeline for Dante's home office. He was usually always there, hidden behind his desk, buried in paperwork or dealing with the affairs of his empire. A man who never stopped. A man who seemed unbothered by anything—his wife's antics, my bitterness, my silent resentment.
I didn't even knock. I just pushed open the door and stepped inside, ready to face whatever it was Dante had summoned me here for.