Chapter 32
I was sitting up in bed, propped by too many pillows, dressed in one of those soft designer robes Ephraim insisted the nurses bring from home. My IV line tugged at my wrist when I reached for the remote, but I didn’t mind. The pain had dulled to something manageable now, just a faint echo of what I’d clawed through to get back.
The flat–screen across the room flickered to life.
“Breaking news,” the anchor announced, her tone tight with excitement as footage rolled behind her. “In a shocking development this morning, federal authorities raided the Massaro Estate following a string of criminal allegations including conspiracy to commit murder, kidnapping, and corporate fraud-”
Ephraim stepped out of the bathroom just in time to hear it. His hair was still damp from his quick shower, shirt half–buttoned, but when he saw what I was watching, he stilled.
I didn’t look at him. I was too busy staring at the screen.
The video feed cut to Ruby, caught on a CCTV camera at the airport, dragging a blood–red suitcase while clutching a fake passport in one hand and Jude’s arm in the other. Her once–perfect hair was a mess, and she wore oversized sunglasses that couldn’t hide the panic in her face.
“She was intercepted by federal agents while attempting to board a private flight to Dubai,” the anchor went on. “Multiple falsified identities were found in her luggage, along with proof of several offshore accounts.”
Beside her, Jude didn’t even resist. He’s only crying shouting mommy.
Then came the next clip.
Aerial footage zoomed in on Mrs. Massaro’s hidden villa in Tagaytay. Surrounded by tall hedges and absurd statues of lions and Grecian gods, the mansion had always reeked of overcompensation. Now, it was crawling with agents.
Cameras captured her being dragged out in a velvet robe and Dior slippers, hair in curlers, screaming obscenities. She thrashed against the officer gripping her elbow.
“This is a political setup!” she shrieked. “You think I’m scared of a little jail cell? I’ll sue the whole government!”
Then one of the agents shoved a warrant in her face and she went limp.
Ephraim exhaled beside me. I glanced at him.
He was gripping the railing of the bed so tight, his knuckles had gone white. I reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his. He didn’t say anything, just pulled a chair closer and sat down, locking our hands like always.
“That’s not all,” the anchor added. “Moments after the arrest, the Masarro patriarch, Mr. Alessandro Massaro, was rushed to the emergency room following a cardiac event. His
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condition remains critical.”
“Good,” Ephraim muttered, voice cold.
I turned to him.
“What?”
“I said good,” he repeated, but his voice was calmer now. Too calm. “He raised that nest of vipers. Let him watch it rot from a hospital bed.”
The screen now showed Torren, calling Ephraim outside the hospital gates. Paparazzi swarmed around his car. His face was flushed, probably from the yelling. He held his phone to his ear, lips moving, pleading with someone who wasn’t picking up.
“Do you want to answer?” I asked softly.
Ephraim shook his head once, eyes never leaving the screen. “No. He can keep screaming.
I owe him silence.”
Another video played–Ruby being led to a black car, handcuffed. She was sobbing now, mascara running down her cheeks as reporters shoved mics at her face. One screamed, “What do you say to the accusations? What about Therese Calderon?”
Ruby didn’t respond. She just sank into the seat, trembling.
I could feel the pressure of Ephraim’s fingers tightening around mine. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me that I wasn’t alone this time.
My heart should’ve been racing. But it wasn’t.
I felt still. Cold, but still.
“She’ll rot,” I whispered. “They both will.”
Ephraim looked at me then, and there was something unreadable in his eyes. Pride. Anger. Love. Maybe all of it tangled together.
“They tried to erase you,” he said. “Now the world gets to erase them.”
I leaned back against the pillows, the corner of my lips curling up.
“And this is just the beginning.”
**
That night…
I was resting when Ephraim came in, coat dusted with cold wind and eyes sharper than usual. He didn’t say anything at first–just walked to my bedside and placed a folder down on the table beside my untouched meal tray.
“What’s this?” I asked, my voice hoarse from the hours I’d spent ignoring the world.
He didn’t answer immediately. He just sat beside me, slow and calm, and unbuttoned his cuffs like he was settling in for something final.
“Masarro Steel” he said “Gone”
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“Masarro Steel,” he said. “Gone.”
I blinked. “What do you mean, gone?”
“I mean I bought it. All of it. Through five separate shell companies. We own the patents, the factories, the ships docked in Spain. Even the rusting warehouse in Baltimore where Torren first ‘borrowed‘ union funds.”
I sat up, heart thudding softly–not with shock. With satisfaction.
“What else?”
“The Masarro vineyards. The textile arm. The offshore holdings. Their real estate assets in Milan, Singapore, and the Dubai property they never declared in the taxes.”
I stared at him.
“And Torren?”
Ephraim’s eyes turned a shade darker. “Drowning.”
Later that night, I received the first of his messages. Then another. Then five more. They came at strange hours. Desperate apologies, voice recordings that cut off mid–sob, screenshots of wire transfers, even a half–baked confession he claimed would ‘clear the air
between us.‘
I never opened any of them. I didn’t need to. Ephraim made sure they disappeared before I could, his thumb a quiet blade deleting every pathetic plea. But I saw the look in his eyes each time–like a man standing guard outside a door he’d never let rot touch again.
Still, the rot found a way in.
—
The reporter called the next morning. I was drinking tea by the window, dressed in white silk, a blanket across my legs.
“Miss Calderon” the voice on the line asked. “How does it feel knowing Massaro Industries has officially filed for bankruptcy this morning?”
I didn’t respond.
I didn’t have to.
Because seconds later, my phone buzzed with a video link.
