Chapter 3 - The Prodigal's Shadow
The Upper East Side townhouse owned by Arthur and Eleanor Montgomery was an architectural masterpiece of limestone, wrought iron, and aristocratic pretense. It was a home designed to impress high society, a fortress of wealth where appearances outweighed human life.
When the Maybach pulled up to the wrought-iron gates, the security guard on duty squinted through the intercom camera, his face slackening in genuine shock as he recognized me. Within seconds, the heavy gates swung inward with a mechanical hiss.
I stepped out of the car alone, leaving Garrison and Audrey in the vehicle parked down the block. I wore a custom-tailored charcoal suit provided by Sterling tailors—sharp, aggressive, and perfectly fitted—which transformed my lean frame into an imposing silhouette. The cheap prison denim was gone, but the jagged scar across my back and the hardened edge in my eyes remained.
I walked up the marble steps and pressed the brass doorbell. A chime echoed through the grand foyer, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps.
The door swung open, revealing Mrs. Vance, the elderly housekeeper who had worked for the Montgomerys for thirty years. Her breath caught in her throat, her hands flying to her mouth as she stared at me as if I were a ghost risen from the grave.
"D-Declan?" she stammered, her eyes wide with terror and disbelief. "You... you're supposed to be in Blackwater..."
"Sentences end, Mrs. Vance," I said smoothly, brushing past her into the opulent foyer before she could recover her wits. "Is the family home?"
Before she could answer, the sound of crystal clinking against fine china drifted from the formal dining room. I followed the sound, my leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the polished hardwood floor, and stepped into the room without knocking.
Arthur Montgomery sat at the head of the long mahogany table, nursing a glass of twenty-year-old scotch. Eleanor Montgomery sat to his right, doting on a young man seated beside her—Mason.
Mason looked immaculate in a bespoke Italian suit, his hair styled to perfection, laughing softly at something his mother had said. The superficial scratch he had inflicted on his own forehead two years ago had healed long ago, leaving not a single trace of the night he had left a young delivery driver dying on a dark asphalt road.
Then, Mason looked up.
The laughter died instantly in his throat. The glass of wine slipped from his fingers, shattering against the Persian rug in a splash of deep crimson that looked horrifyingly like fresh blood.
Arthur bolted upright, his face turning an unhealthy shade of purple as his eyes locked onto mine.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Arthur roared, slamming his glass down so hard the table shook. "How did you get out? You belong behind bars!"
Eleanor shrank back, clutching Mason’s arm as if I were a rabid animal that had broken loose from a cage. "Arthur, call the police! Call them right now! He's a convicted felon—he has no right to be in this house!"
May you like
I didn't flinch. I walked slowly toward the center of the dining room, my gaze fixed entirely on Mason, who was trembling so violently his silverware rattled against his plate.
"Hello, family," I said, my voice cutting through the panic like a razor blade. "Did you really think a two-year prison sentence was enough to bury the truth?"
