Chapter 8 - The Safehouse of Memories
Two hours later, the truck pulled up to a secluded cabin deep in the pine woods.
The rain had slowed to a steady, rhythmic drip off the pine needles.
Gregory helped Lyra out of the truck, his limp more pronounced now, his breathing heavy.
Inside, the cabin was dusty and smelled of old paper and woodsmoke.
Gregory lit a kerosene lamp, casting a warm, flickering glow over the room.
He sank into a wooden chair, groaning as he nursed his bruised ribs.
Lyra walked over to the fireplace, looking at an old, framed photograph on the mantelpiece.
It showed a younger Roman, smiling, with his arm around a beautiful woman who held a tiny baby.
“That was the day you were born,” Gregory said softly, his rough voice gentling. “Your father was the toughest man I ever knew, but he cried like a baby when he held you.”
Lyra traced the glass over her mother's face.
“Why did Silas do it?” she asked.
“Greed,” Gregory sighed. “Roman wanted to pull the club out of the drug trade. He wanted to make things clean, to build a real future for you and your mother. Silas wanted the money. He made a deal with a rival syndicate, the Red Cobras. They promised him the throne if he cleared Roman out of the way.”
“And my mother?” Lyra’s voice was barely a whisper.
Gregory’s eyes filled with a deep, sorrowful regret.
“We couldn't save her, Lyra. I’m so sorry. I only had time to get you out before the roof came down.”
Lyra nodded slowly.
She had known this, but hearing it made the cold ember in her chest burn hotter.
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“Where is the ledger, Gregory?” she asked.
Gregory pointed to the floorboards beneath her feet.
