Chapter 4
1014words
Power hit him like the strongest whiskey, intoxicating him instantly and stripping away his "greater good" facade. The calm, disciplined partner vanished, replaced by a full-blown tyrant.
He took over Victor's study but replaced the cherished books with gaudy modern art; he threw extravagant parties nightly, filling the villa with booze, cigars, and the cheap perfume of strange women.
One night during another of his parties, a nervous young subordinate's hand trembled while pouring wine, spilling a few drops on Cedric's expensive Italian loafers. Cedric's smile vanished instantly. He snatched the bottle and smashed it across the young man's face.
Blood and glass exploded everywhere. The music screeched to a halt. The room froze in horrified silence.
"Get this trash out of here," Cedric said with revulsion, kicking the unconscious body. Then he carefully wiped his shoes with a pristine handkerchief, as if they'd been contaminated by something vile.
Task complete, he strode toward me, that self-satisfied smile back in place. In front of everyone, he possessively wrapped his arm around my waist, his fingers digging into my flesh.
"Darling, shall we retire upstairs?" His tone was intimate, but his eyes blazed with possessive hunger—marking his territory.
Fighting the nausea rising in my throat, I slipped from his grasp. "I'm exhausted," I said coldly.
His expression darkened, but he didn't create a scene in front of his guests. I felt his gaze boring into my back like hot nails until I escaped into my room and shut the door.
I sagged against the door, chilled to the bone. This wasn't my first glimpse of his brutality. His control-freak tendencies were escalating—monitoring my calls, tracking my movements. This Cedric was unrecognizable compared to Victor, who would gently feed stray cats and reject drug deals out of genuine concern for communities.
Vieri's dying words haunted me like a ghost.
"Your birthday present... Victor arranged it months ago... at the central post office... collected by a 'good Samaritan'..."
The delirious babbling of a dying man? No—they felt like a deliberate warning from someone who saw everything clearly.
I couldn't just sit around waiting for my own execution.
I began a covert investigation using Victor's old contacts that Cedric hadn't yet brought to heel. I tracked down an elderly man named Mario, once Victor's most trusted driver. Now, with mobility issues, he worked as a doorman at a community center in the west side, funded by the family. Victor had frequently visited there to check on elderly residents.
On a drizzly afternoon, I slipped past Cedric's surveillance and found Mario.
The old man's rheumy eyes lit up at the sight of me, his weathered hands clasping mine firmly: "Mrs. Brown, I knew you'd come eventually."
When he called me "Mrs. Brown," goosebumps prickled across my skin. For years, everyone in the organization had called me "Mrs. McMillan." Brown was my maiden name—my real name.
I repeated Vieri's words and asked about the post office.
Mario was quiet for a long moment, then sighed heavily: "Mr. Vieri was right. Three days after the boss died, the post office called about a letter addressed specifically to you. The boss had left it there before his death with instructions that only you could collect it, and only after he was gone."
My heart plummeted: "Where is it now?"
"Cedric took it." Mario's voice trembled with anger and helplessness. "He had your ID and claimed he was collecting it for you. He'd just seized power then—nobody dared challenge him. But old John at the post office is my blood brother. He sensed something was off, so he secretly scanned the letter before handing it over."
With Mario's help, I met the elderly postman, John. From a hidden compartment in a worn Bible, he produced a folded printout of the scanned letter.
I took the pages with shaking hands. The handwriting was achingly familiar—Victor's elegant yet powerful script, so like the man himself.
Back in my car, doors locked, I devoured every word.
Ada, my beloved wife:
By the time you read this, I will be gone. Please don't mourn me too deeply—this end was always waiting for someone in my position.
I know who you really are, Ada. I'm sorry, but I've known from the very first day. Your eyes were too innocent, too untainted for our world. I kept your secret because I selfishly wanted you beside me.
I watched you fumble to fit in, watched you force yourself to please me for information, watched you cry silently at night from the weight of your conscience. I chose to believe in the compassionate, conflicted woman who bought ice cream for street kids, not the badge you carried.
I love you, Ada. I tried to show you a different kind of underworld—one that protects the vulnerable and maintains a certain order. I failed. My death is probably the best evidence of that failure.
Don't trust Cedric—his ambition will consume everything, including himself. I've arranged money and a new identity for you in a Swiss bank deposit box. Your birthday is the password. Leave this life behind. Go live in the light where you belong.
Forget me. Forget all of this.
Always yours,
Victor
Tears flooded my eyes, blurring the words. He'd known everything all along. Known my identity, my inner conflicts, yet had silently protected and loved me anyway. He hadn't died in some random gang hit—he'd died for his principles.
And I—the very person he'd sacrificed everything to protect—had helped his murderer seize his throne.
Crushing regret and anguish washed over me like a tidal wave. I collapsed against the steering wheel, releasing a raw, primal scream that had been building for weeks.
After the tears came a deadly calm.
I raised my head and wiped my face. The woman in the rearview mirror had tear-streaked cheeks but ice in her eyes.
Cedric.
You didn't just murder my husband—you killed my last illusion about justice.
From this moment on, Officer Ada Brown is dead.
I am only Victor McMillan's widow.
