Part 28
"Dad's old office in the city," Derek said suddenly, his eyes widening.
"No, Derek, that place was searched top to bottom by the feds and the syndicate," I countered.
"Not the office building itself, Mom. The old warehouse by the docks where he used to store the antique furniture."
A memory flashed through my mind—a dusty, forgotten place filled with the relics of my husband's early career.
He had bought that warehouse under a shell company decades ago, long before the syndicate ever took notice of him.
"If there's anything left of the true legacy, it’s there," Derek said, his voice gaining a sudden streak of determination.
He looked down at his hands, no longer shaking, but clenched into tight fists.
"We can't just sit here and wait for them to come back through that window."
I looked around our beautiful, unfinished kitchen, feeling a deep pang of sorrow for the life we were trying to build.
We had spent weeks painting these walls, buying these tools, trying to pretend we were normal people.
But the roots of our past were too deep, and they were choking out our present.
"We leave tonight," I decided, standing up and pulling the kitchen blinds completely shut.
"Pack only what we can carry in two backpacks. Weapons, cash, and the documents."
Derek nodded, a grim expression on his young face.
The boy who wanted a beautiful garden without doing the digging was gone.
May you like
In his place stood a man ready to protect his mother, no matter the cost.
As we hurried around the house packing our lives into nylon bags, the silence outside felt heavier than ever.
