Chapter 89: The black book
After Ashley fell asleep, Lorenzo stepped out onto his private balcony with a bottle of whiskey, not bothering with a glass. He drank half of it straight from the bottle, but still felt no relief.
Quietly, he slipped back inside, careful not to wake the woman sleeping in his bed. She looked breathtaking. And yet, she couldn’t be his. Nothing was ever truly his in this damn world. Even the boy he loved—would officially belong to someone else tomorrow.
He dug through his secret drawer until he found it. The black book. Flipping it open, he ticked off a name he planned to deal with tonight. Just then, Ashley stirred in her sleep. His heart skipped a beat, and guilt flooded his chest.
His jaw clenched. These people didn’t deserve to live. He was doing the world a favor, purging it of one more piece of filth.
He drove out of the estate wearing a black hoodie and a matching cap underneath, shutting off the part of him that still felt. How else could you face the man who shattered your innocence? The one who set the foundation for all your suffering?
Boyd Mercer. Chief of the Bronze City Metropolitan Police when those girls were paid to accuse him of one of the worst crimes. Mercer knew the truth. He knew Lorenzo was innocent. But he was the kind of rot that poisoned the world—those meant to uphold the law, yet took pleasure in breaking it. Men who sent powerless innocents behind bars with full pockets and smug smiles. Mercer was one of the many dogs who sat at Charlotte’s feet. The reason he could not have the woman of his dreams.
Slowing down in front of the poorly guarded building, it did not take Lorenzo much effort to deal with the clumsy guards. A quick dose of chloroform, and they were out cold for a few minutes. Just as much time needed for what he was there for. He could’ve killed them—but he didn’t kill innocents.
His gaze lingered on the softly lit den, beside the main building, the only place with a different-colored bulb. That was where Mercer studied case files every night, picking out which victims were the easiest prey. Lorenzo knew this house like the back of his hand. Years of watching, waiting, planning when best to strike. He’d traded countless sleepless nights for this moment.
And yet now, all he could see was her—Ashley—peacefully asleep in that bed. Her image clawed at his conscience, whispering that this was not who he was anymore. That this was not who she wanted him to be.
He could walk away. No one would know.
Even if she never found out, he would carry this darkness into the same room where she lay, waiting for him like he was worth saving.