Page 207 of I Will Break You
I should have confronted Amethyst about the merchandise and the book deal, explaining that I didn’t want her monetizing our relationship. We could have dealt with the threat of X-Cite Media without adding extra trauma.
My psyche is so accustomed to slow revenge that I targeted her biggest weakness: her fragile mental state. The moment I realized she thought I was a hallucination, I doubled down and retrieved the corpse of her attacker.
I exploited her vulnerability, wove a twisted reality to alter her perceptions, making me no different from Father. As I gaze into her tear-filled eyes, I’m reminded of my own struggles with a shattered mind—the pain, bitterness, and helplessness of being deceived.
My actions have brought back her tenuous grasp on sanity, all because of my dented ego. Is it any wonder she doesn’t fully cooperate with her training? She’s a civilian, not a seasoned operative.
“Amethyst, I’m sorry,” I rasp, my throat raw at having to say such hollow words. “This is my fault.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks. “You’re protecting me.”
I’ve gaslighted her into believing I’m a hero, when she deserves so much better.
“Come on. Let’s return to your home.”
“What are we going to do after it’s auctioned? Live in one of your other places?”
“The safe houses, you mean?” I ask and walk her out into the hallway.
“Yeah.”
“These days, we only use them for storage and deliveries,” I mutter. “Most of us live underground.”
“In the catacombs?”
“And basement apartments spread out across the city,” I reply with a smile.
We continue down the stairs into her mother’s study, where we scoop up a family photo and a pile of letters from the desk. After checking the entire downstairs for clues about Amethyst’s past and finding nothing, we leave the house and walk through the grounds toward the car.
I drive back to Parisii Cemetery in silence, casting Amethyst furtive glances as she pours over the photo album. Every so often, I catch glimpses of a happy, dark-haired couple in the photos, performing family activities with their young daughter.
“Do you remember any of this?” I ask.
“It’s still blank,” she mutters.
At a stop light, she shows me the last picture, where Melonie Crowley stands outside a casino with a handsome, dark-haired man. “This is the latest photo I have of them. My dad looks exactly the same.”
“It’s at least five years old,” I reply.
“How can you tell?” Amethyst looks down and holds the page closer to her face, as if looking for a timestamp or signs of aging she’d missed.
“The building behind them says Casino Montesano.”
“So?”
“It’s been the Capello Casino for four years.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Roman Montesano was in the cell opposite mine on Death Row. I researched the hell out of that guy.”
“Oh.” She gulps. “Why?”
“I told him I headed an organization of my own and asked if he wanted his casino back. Helping a man like that would have been a lucrative job.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he had it covered.”