Chapter Twenty-Four
Callum
The room above the factory looked smaller somehow, and shabbier. Callum’s eyes were drawn to the peeling paint along the doorframe, and the dirt ground into the carpet. It wasn’t just the room that was different, though—Callum’s father himself seemed to have been transformed in Callum’s brief absence. Callum remembered him as a looming figure, impossibly tall and broad. But the man in front of him now was barely taller than he was, with a bit of a paunch and a crumb caught in his beard.
But as unimpressive as his father looked, he could still have Callum killed for what he had just confessed to. Callum needed to remember that. He lowered his gaze, trying to look suitably contrite.
“You want me to believe you killed them,” his father said, breaking the silence. “You.” His disbelief was plain in his voice.
“I’m not the same person I was when I left,” said Callum. It was the first bit of truth he had told since he had walked into this room.
“No. You’re not. When you left, you were my son. Now you’re nothing.” His father made a dismissive noise deep in his throat. “But you’re still the same pathetic boy you’ve always been.”
His father’s words cut into him, tearing open the old scabs on his soul—but even as he felt the familiar sting, he could also see himself from the outside. And from there, his reaction looked like nothing more than habit. What was this pain but the memory of older pain, back when his father’s opinion had mattered to him? Back when he hadn’t known what he was capable of?
He raised his head and met his father’s eyes. “I have proof.”
His father started to speak—then, perhaps realizing Callum hadn’t said what he had expected him to say, closed his mouth before any words could escape. Watching Callum with an appraising gaze, he waited.
Callum pulled out his phone, trying not to let his hand shake. He held it out to his father, pausing for a second on each of the pictures he and Tom had staged together before moving on to the next. He tried not to remember how skeptical Tom had been that the pictures would be enough. Tom had wanted to cut off his own finger for Callum to present to his father; Callum, head between his knees to keep himself from passing out at the images Tom’s suggestion evoked, had refused. Now, faced with his father’s silence, he wondered if he should have let Tom do it after all.
His father took the phone from him. He scrolled through the pictures himself, silently, with no visible reaction but a slight crease between his brows. Callum didn’t let himself breathe.
Finally, his father looked up at him. “And why should I believe you did this, when you were never capable of anything useful before?”
Callum had already practiced what to say here. He had whispered different explanations to himself on the long drive back until he had found the one that sounded right. “When I was out there with them, I realized how alone I was. I had given up my home, my family, everything I used to have, because I was afraid. Because I was too weak. I didn’t want to be alone for the rest of my life. I wanted to come home—and I knew that meant I would have to get over my fear and start doing what was necessary.”
The words made him feel hollow. One part, at least, was painfully true—he didn’t want to be alone forever. But coming back here made him feel more alone than he had ever been. He already missed Tom’s steady presence beside him, Tom’s strong arms wrapped around him. He missed the feeling of knowing someone was standing beside him, ready to take on the world with him. There was a very real chance, he knew, that he would never see Tom again.
But he had also meant the last part of what he had said, even if not in the way he wanted his father to believe. He had to do what was necessary—no matter what he might want for himself, no matter how afraid he was. Even if he would never look into Tom’s eyes again, or feel the comfort and heat of Tom’s arms encircling him. Even if his father sent him away. He would trade all his hopes of a future with Tom—all his hopes of any future at all—for the slightest chance that Tom and his daughter would live.
His father’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Then you want to be a part of this family now.”
Hoping his feelings weren’t visible on his face, Callum nodded.
His father threw the phone onto the desk behind him. Callum struggled not to flinch at the violence in the sharp gesture. “Do you understand what you did when you walked away from everything I’ve offered you, all the chances I’ve given you? You made me look like a fool. I had to tell the world that you were no longer my son—that I chose for you to leave because you were more trouble than you were worth. I’ll look like twice the fool if I take you back.”
Unexpectedly, Callum’s heart lifted. This was a chance he hadn’t anticipated. If his father believed him about the pictures, but didn’t want him back, maybe he wouldn’t have to sacrifice as much as he had imagined. Maybe he could walk out of here and out of the Syndicate forever, this time with no fears of pursuit. He wouldn’t be able to risk seeking Tom out, not at first. Maybe not ever. But he would have his freedom.
He tried to keep the hope from his voice as he answered. “If you don’t want me back, I understand.”
His father studied him for a long moment. This wasn’t the usual look of contempt he wore when he looked Callum over; he looked more as if he were evaluating a new strategy, trying to decide whether it would make him money or not.
Or as if he were evaluating a failed subordinate, deciding whether they would live or die.
Abruptly, his father strode to the desk and picked up the phone. He scrolled through the pictures again, expressionless. When he finally spoke, it was only to ask a question. “You said he was her father?”
Callum nodded.
“And the girl is dead too?” He held up the phone to the one picture they had taken of Leila. “I told you I didn’t want her dead.”
Callum had practiced this response too. “I wanted to bring her back. But she saw what I had done, and tried to run. She would have gotten away. I knew you didn’t want that.”
“And you weren’t capable of subduing one little girl?” His father made a noise that was half grunt, half laugh. “What am I saying? Of course you weren’t.” He tossed the phone to Callum, who fumbled to catch it. “Why do you have only one picture of the girl?”
They had only taken one picture of Leila because neither of them had wanted to put her through that experience any longer than necessary. When they had explained what they were trying to do—Callum making a case for his plan, Tom barely suppressing his anger at Callum for insisting on leaving—she had understood easily enough, and had even offered her own suggestions on how to make the photos seem more real. But she was still only twelve, and all this had to be hard enough without her needing to act out the worst-case scenario, no matter how good the plan was. Besides, although Callum hadn’t said this part out loud, he had wanted to wrap things up as quickly as possible after seeing the pale mask Tom’s face had become at the sight of Leila lying limp and bloody on the floor. He couldn’t stand to put Tom through that any longer than necessary.
But of course, he couldn’t say any of that to his father. “She was a kid,” he said instead, letting his voice shake just a little. “A little girl. I couldn’t stand to look.”
This time, his father set the phone down carefully. He gave Callum a single nod. There was something new in his eyes—admiration? Approval? Whatever it was, his father had never looked at him that way before.
Just a week ago, that look would have been all he wanted. Now he felt his heart sink at the thought of what it could mean.
His father’s words confirmed his fears. “I won’t risk losing you now that you’re actually showing promise. You’ve earned another chance. Let’s see if you really have changed.”
Callum tried to mold his expression into something resembling gratitude as he watched all his half-formed dreams for the future evaporate before his eyes.
This was good, he reminded himself. This was what he wanted. His father wouldn’t be taking him back if he suspected the pictures had been faked. Callum had sold his story successfully—which meant Tom and his daughter would be safe. What it meant for his own future didn’t matter; he had already decided that when he had made the choice to come back.
And it sounded like his father wasn’t planning to send him to London anymore. That was something, at least.
His father placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. Callum had to fight not to flinch away. “But understand this,” his father said. “I will make sure you don’t have another chance to make a fool of me. Until you’ve proven your loyalty—and it will take far more than this—” he tapped a finger against the phone “—you will have no opportunity to slip away again.”
Callum wasn’t sure whether the breath leaving his lungs was a sigh of relief or the sensation of steel bars squeezing the air from his chest as they tightened around him.
Tom was safe. Leila was safe.
And Callum was bound to this life, and to his father, forever.
“I understand,” he said, keeping his voice level.
His father’s brow creased in surprise at Callum’s response. Maybe he had expected Callum to grovel at his feet, begging forgiveness. Or maybe he had expected Callum to lose his nerve and ask to be set free again, and confess that he had made up the whole story. “You may have some real potential after all,” his father said, his voice tinged with something that sounded unnervingly like respect. “We’ll see.”
Callum thought maybe he was supposed to thank him, but the words stuck in his throat. He stood silently, waiting to be dismissed.
His father gave his shoulder a final, painful squeeze before letting go. “Wipe your phone,” he said as he began to turn away. “I don’t need someone finding those pictures because of your carelessness.”
“Of course,” said Callum. “I will.” He hesitated, unsure whether he was free to go. He took a step toward the door.
“One more thing before you go,” his father said without turning around. “You may have solved this problem for me, and taken your first step toward becoming something more than a useless lump, but you also betrayed your family. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the first part of your story. Before you killed them, you chose to help them, knowing what it would mean if they escaped my reach.” His tone was casual, almost careless, but Callum knew better than to trust it.
Callum swallowed. “It won’t happen again.”
“Kurt!” his father called, loud enough to be heard outside the room. The door opened, and one of his father’s men came inside, one of the interchangeable enforcers with thick muscles and blank eyes.
Now his father turned around, but it was to face the man named Kurt, not Callum. He spoke as if Callum couldn’t hear him. “Remind my son of the consequences of betrayal.”
His father strode out of the room, closing the door behind him, as the first blows fell.