Chapter 3 One Down
POV: Elena Caruso
Sebastian Blackwell was inside my father’s house the night he died.
For six years, I had replayed that night so many times that some memories had become sharper than reality.
The crack of gunfire.
My bare feet slipping on marble.
My father’s blood between my fingers.
His mouth moving when he tried to say something I couldn’t understand.
And now Sebastian was standing in front of me telling me—without actually saying the words—that he had been there.
I stared at him.
“You were in my house.”
His silence was answer enough.
A pulse began beating violently beneath my jaw.
“The night my father was murdered.”
“Yes.”
The word was quiet.
Controlled.
I hated him for how calmly he said it.
I slapped him.
The sound cracked across his office.
Sebastian’s head turned with the impact.
For half a second, neither of us moved.
My palm burned.
He slowly faced me again.
No anger.
No threat.
That somehow made me more furious.
“You knew.”
“Elena—”
“You knew what happened.”
“I know parts of what happened.”
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t.”
I laughed.
It came out broken.
“You can’t?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
I shoved the photograph into his chest.
“You brought me into this office. You showed me my funeral. You told me someone has been inside my apartment while I slept. You recited my childhood like you’ve had a file on me since I was born, and now you’re telling me you were inside my house the night my father was murdered.”
My voice rose.
“And you think you get to decide when I’m ready for the truth?”
His jaw tightened.
“It isn’t about whether you’re ready.”
“Then what is it about?”
“Keeping you alive.”
“There it is again.”
I stepped closer.
“You keep saying that like it excuses everything.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Then stop hiding behind it.”
His eyes changed.
Something dark shifted inside them.
“You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t.”
My nails dug into my palms.
“Try me.”
Sebastian stared at me for several seconds.
Then he walked to the office door and locked it.
The click made my stomach twist.
He returned to the desk.
“I was twenty-eight,” he said.
I said nothing.
“My father sent me to speak to Antonio.”
Hearing my father’s name from his mouth felt wrong.
Too familiar.
“About what?”
“A shipment.”
“Drugs?”
“No.”
“Weapons?”
His hesitation told me enough.
“What kind?”
“I didn’t know then.”
“And now?”
“I know it wasn’t weapons.”
“Sebastian.”
His gaze hardened.
“People.”
Cold moved through me.
“What?”
“My father believed someone was using Caruso shipping routes to move people across borders.”
I stared at him.
Human trafficking.
My stomach turned.
“My father would never—”
“I didn’t say Antonio was responsible.”
“Your father accused him.”
“My father accused everyone of everything.”
I folded my arms across myself.
“What happened?”
“I arrived shortly after eleven.”
My breathing changed.
That was around the time I had come home.
I remembered slipping off my heels in the foyer.
Music playing somewhere upstairs.
The house strangely quiet.
“I met your father in his study.”
“You spoke to him?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes.”
“And?”
“He denied knowing anything about the shipments.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Yes.”
That surprised me.
“Why?”
“Because Antonio was furious.”
“My father was always furious.”
“Not like that.”
Sebastian looked away briefly.
“He said someone had been using his company, his routes and his name without permission.”
“Who?”
“He didn’t know.”
“That’s convenient.”
“He told me he was going to find out.”
“And then he died.”
“Yes.”
The word cut through me.
I swallowed.
“What happened after you left the study?”
“I didn’t leave.”
My blood cooled.
“What?”
“I was still in the house when the first shot was fired.”
The world seemed to narrow around him.
“You heard it?”
“Yes.”
“Where were you?”
“East corridor.”
I frowned.
That wasn’t near the main exit.
“You said you came to see my father.”
“I did.”
“So why were you on the other side of the house?”
Sebastian’s expression closed.
There.
Another secret.
“Why?”
“I heard voices.”
“Whose?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Male? Female?”
“One male.”
“And?”
He stared at me.
“A woman.”
My skin prickled.
“Who?”
“I never saw her face.”
“What did she say?”
“Elena—”
“What did she say?”
His mouth flattened.
“She said, ‘You promised she wouldn’t be here.’”
My heart slammed once.
Hard.
“She?”
“Yes.”
“Who was she talking about?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“And then?”
“A gunshot.”
I could hear it.
Even now.
The explosion.
The way it had echoed through the house.
My father’s security system was designed to contain threats.
That night, every security door had inexplicably unlocked.
Every camera had gone offline.
“And you ran toward him?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“So did I.”
“I know.”
My eyes snapped up.
Something about the way he said it made my chest seize.
“You saw me.”
“Yes.”
“In the hallway?”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“I saw you with him.”
My lungs stopped working.
No.
I shook my head.
“You weren’t there.”
“I was.”
“I would remember.”
“You never looked behind you.”
I stared at him.
The room disappeared.
My father on the floor.
My hands pressing against his chest.
Blood everywhere.
Me begging him to breathe.
There had been footsteps behind me.
I had always assumed they belonged to security.
“You were behind me?”
“Across the foyer.”
“Why didn’t you help?”
Pain crossed his expression.
For the first time since I had known Sebastian, he looked almost human.
“I tried.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Elena.”
“I was alone.”
“You weren’t.”
“I held him while he died.”
“I know.”
“STOP SAYING THAT!”
My voice shattered.
Tears burned my eyes.
I hated them.
Hated him for pulling them out of me.
“I screamed for someone!”
“I heard you.”
“Then where were you?”
“Chasing the man who shot him.”
Silence.
I stopped.
“What?”
“I saw someone leave through the south entrance.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Male?”
“Yes.”
“Describe him.”
“Tall. Dark clothing. Face covered.”
“That’s nothing.”
“I know.”
“Did you catch him?”
“No.”
“So you abandoned my father and chased someone you couldn’t identify?”
“I thought your father’s security was coming.”
“They never came.”
“I realised that too late.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“What?”
“You’re leaving something out.”
His gaze narrowed.
“You remember too much. The east corridor. The south entrance. A woman’s voice. You knew where I was.”
I stepped closer.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Sebastian didn’t answer.
I grabbed his shirt.
“Tell me.”
His hand closed around mine.
Not forcefully.
Warm fingers wrapped around my wrist.
My breath caught.
I hated that my body responded to him.
Hated the sudden awareness of how close we were.
His chest beneath my palm.
The heat of him.
His eyes dropping to my mouth.
Fear and anger were supposed to make desire impossible.
Apparently my body hadn’t received the message.
“Let go,” I whispered.
“You’re holding me.”
I looked down.
My fingers were still twisted into the front of his white shirt.
I released him.
He didn’t immediately release me.
My gaze lifted.
Something passed between us.
Not trust.
Never trust.
But something dangerous enough to make me forget, for one stupid second, that this man might know who murdered my father.
His thumb moved once over the inside of my wrist.
Barely a touch.
My pulse jumped beneath it.
He felt it.
I knew because his eyes darkened.
“Sebastian.”
His name came out softer than I intended.
He leaned closer.
Not enough to kiss me.
Enough that I could feel his breath.
“You should hate me,” he murmured.
“I do.”
“Good.”
My lips were inches from his.
“Why?”
“Because wanting me would be much worse.”
The words moved through me like heat.
I should have stepped away.
Instead, I stayed exactly where I was.
His eyes searched mine.
There was something almost savage in the restraint on his face.
As though touching me properly required effort not to.
My heart hammered.
Then his phone rang.
We jumped apart like guilty teenagers.
I hated the disappointment that followed.
Sebastian looked at the screen.
Daniel.
He answered.
“What is it?”
I watched his expression change.
The attraction vanished instantly.
“What?”
Pause.
“Where?”
Another pause.
“When?”
He looked at me.
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“I’m coming.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t.”
“Elena.”
“You don’t get to hide things from me anymore.”
He grabbed his jacket.
“We need to leave.”
“Where?”
“My house.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You really haven’t learned anything about me.”
“Someone has been inside your apartment twice.”
“And?”
“And now someone is dead.”
The words stopped me.
“What?”
Sebastian was already moving toward the door.
“Who?”
He unlocked it.
“Sebastian!”
He turned.
His face was grim.
“A man named Victor Hale.”
My stomach dropped.
I knew that name.
Not well.
But I knew it.
Victor had worked security for my father.
One of dozens of men who rotated through our estate.
He had been older.
Quiet.
Always wore leather gloves, even during summer.
“Victor?”
“You knew him?”
“He worked for my father.”
Sebastian stared at me.
“That would explain the photograph.”
“What photograph?”
He hesitated.
Then said, “Get your coat.”
Victor Hale died in an abandoned warehouse near the docks.
I learned that while sitting in the back of Sebastian’s black SUV with two armed men in the front.
“This is kidnapping.”
Sebastian glanced at me.
“You got into the car voluntarily.”
“You told me someone was dead.”
“You insisted on coming.”
“Because you refused to tell me anything.”
“Correct.”
“That doesn’t make this better.”
“No.”
His mouth twitched.
“Are you enjoying this?”
“Being accused of kidnapping an employee?”
“Yes.”
“A little.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
I stared out the tinted window.
I should have been terrified.
I was.
But beneath the fear was something else.
Adrenaline.
For six years, I had hidden from my past.
Now it was hunting me.
And I was tired of running.
“You never answered my question.”
Sebastian looked at me.
“Which one?”
“The part you left out.”
His expression went still.
“I told you what happened.”
“No. You told me most of it.”
“Elena.”
“I’m not dropping it.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
A few seconds passed.
Then he said, “I saw something beside your father.”
“What?”
His attention remained on the road ahead.
“A second gun.”
I stared at him.
“My father had a gun?”
“Not his.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I knew what Antonio carried.”
I didn’t ask how.
Not yet.
“Did the police find it?”
“No.”
“Then where did it go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could my father have shot someone?”
Sebastian turned toward me.
“One of the bullets from that gun was fired.”
My skin chilled.
“At who?”
“We never found out.”
The SUV stopped.
Before I could ask more, Daniel opened the rear door.
“Sir.”
His eyes flicked to me.
“Ms. Lane.”
“Elena,” I said automatically.
Both men looked at me.
I almost laughed.
Six years hiding my name.
And now I had just handed it to a stranger.
Sebastian’s expression changed slightly.
Pride?
No.
Surely not.
“Stay close to me,” he said.
“I can walk by myself.”
“I’m sure you can.”
The warehouse smelled like rust, seawater and decay.
Sebastian’s security team had arrived before police.
That made me uneasy.
“How did Daniel find him?”
“We traced the courier who delivered the photographs.”
“To Victor?”
“To a prepaid phone.”
“Which led here?”
“Yes.”
We entered a vast room filled with abandoned machinery.
Then I saw the body.
Victor Hale sat strapped to a chair beneath a hanging work light.
My stomach lurched.
His head hung forward.
Blood covered the front of his shirt.
I stopped.
Sebastian immediately stepped in front of me.
“Don’t look.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I said I’m fine.”
I pushed past him.
Victor’s face had aged dramatically from the man I remembered.
Grey hair.
Deep lines.
But it was him.
There was something pinned to his chest.
A piece of paper.
I took one step closer.
Sebastian caught my waist.
“No.”
I froze.
His arm was firm around me.
Protective.
His chest against my back.
For one second, despite everything around us, I felt safe.
That frightened me more than the corpse.
“What is that?”
Daniel answered.
“Newspaper clipping.”
Sebastian’s arm tightened slightly.
I knew before Daniel removed it.
My obituary.
The photograph my family had released after my death.
Twenty-two-year-old Elena Caruso smiling at some charity event.
Someone had circled my face in red marker.
Beneath the photograph, written in thick black ink, were five words.
ONE DOWN. FOUR TO GO.
My mouth went dry.
“Four?”
Sebastian released me.
“There are five targets.”
“Victor was one.”
“Apparently.”
“Who are the other four?”
Nobody answered.
Daniel held out a plastic evidence bag.
“There was something else.”
Inside was a photograph.
Sebastian took it.
I watched his face harden.
“What?”
He didn’t respond.
I snatched the bag from him.
It was another photograph from the night my father died.
Taken inside our house.
The image was grainy.
My father lay on the marble floor.
I was kneeling beside him.
Covered in blood.
My breath disappeared.
Someone had photographed me holding my dying father.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
In the background—
barely visible—
Sebastian stood in the doorway.
Exactly where he claimed he had been.
I looked at him.
“You told the truth.”
His eyes stayed on the photograph.
“Yes.”
Then Daniel spoke.
“There’s writing on the back.”
I turned it over.
My stomach dropped.
HE WASN’T THE ONLY BLACKWELL THERE.
I stared at the sentence.
“What does that mean?”
Sebastian didn’t answer.
“Sebastian?”
His face had gone rigid.
“Who else was there?”
He took the photograph from me.
“Elena, we’re leaving.”
“No.”
“Now.”
“Who else was there?”
“We need to go.”
I grabbed his arm.
“Your father?”
He stopped.
That was answer enough.
My blood froze.
“Your father was there.”
Sebastian looked at me.
But before he could answer, a gunshot tore through the warehouse.
Daniel shouted.
Sebastian slammed into me.
We hit the concrete floor.
A second shot shattered the hanging light above Victor’s body.
Darkness swallowed the warehouse.
Sebastian covered me with his body.
I could feel his heart pounding against mine.
His mouth was beside my ear.
“Don’t move.”
Another shot.
Someone screamed.
Then footsteps.
Running.
Sebastian reached beneath his jacket and pulled a gun.
My eyes widened.
“Stay here.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Elena—”
A shadow moved behind him.
I saw the weapon before he did.
“SEBASTIAN!”
I grabbed his jacket and pulled.
The bullet struck the wall inches from his head.
He turned and fired.
The shadow vanished.
Then silence.
My ears rang.
Sebastian grabbed my face between his hands.
His eyes searched mine frantically.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
His hands moved down my neck, shoulders, arms.
Checking.
My body trembled beneath his touch.
“I’m okay.”
He exhaled.
His forehead dropped against mine.
For one breath, the warehouse disappeared.
The dead man.
The bullets.
The secrets.
There was only Sebastian.
His hands around my face.
His mouth impossibly close.
His fear for me written across every line of his expression.
“You nearly got shot,” I whispered.
“So did you.”
“You jumped on top of me.”
“Yes.”
“You could have died.”
His eyes locked onto mine.
“So could you.”
Something inside me cracked.
I didn’t know whether I moved first.
Maybe he did.
Our mouths almost touched—
“Sir!”
Daniel’s voice tore us apart.
Sebastian stood and pulled me up.
“We found something.”
Daniel approached holding a phone.
“The shooter dropped this.”
Sebastian took it.
The screen was still unlocked.
One photograph was open.
I moved beside him.
And everything inside me stopped.
It was a photograph of me.
Taken tonight.
Inside Sebastian’s office.
Standing inches from him.
My hand twisted in his shirt.
His hand around my wrist.
The moment before our almost kiss.
Someone had photographed us through the office window.
“There’s a message,” Daniel said.
Sebastian scrolled.
I read it with him.
She always did have terrible taste in Blackwell men.
My stomach turned.
Then another message appeared.
Incoming.
Unknown sender.
Sebastian opened it.
A photograph loaded.
A man stood outside Sebastian’s mansion.
Holding a gun.
Underneath were six words.
BRING ELENA HOME. I’M WAITING.
My blood went cold.
Then I looked closer at the man’s face.
And stopped breathing.
Because I knew him.
I had watched his coffin lowered into the ground twelve years ago.
“Sebastian…”
My voice barely worked.
He looked at me.
I pointed at the screen.
“That’s my brother.”
Sebastian went completely still.
I shook my head.
“No. No, it can’t be.”
But the face staring back at me was unmistakable.
Older.
Harder.
Alive.
My brother, Luca Caruso, had died when I was sixteen.
At least—
that was what my family had told me.
