Brandon slammed on the gas and turned one hundred and eighty degrees to catch up with Tengu One.
Lillian folded her legs up to her chest and laced her fingers around her shins. She sat in the farthest corner of Stanford’s limo, trying her best to avoid any body contact with him. Stanford made her want to vomit. If he tried anything with her, she swore she’d claw his face and gouge out his eyes. Brandon was dying in that mangled car and no one would help him. If anything happened to Brandon, she promised herself Stanford would pay for it dearly. By any means necessary.
Kei Yamazaki, Mr. Gray’s second-in-command, was also sitting next to Stanford with a gun pointing at her. He looked unhappy. Perhaps because Brandon had tasered him in the elevator. His chubby face was beaded with sweat, like always, even in the cold weather.
“Where are you taking me?” Lillian asked.
“Home, my dear. Where else would you be going? You’re my fiancée. Our wedding is in order and long overdue.” Stanford took out a cigarette from a slim, metal case in his pocket. Yamazaki lit a match for him with his free hand.
Her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. “N-no.”
“No?” Stanford puffed a ring of smoke. “You do realise, you don’t have a say in this matter, don’t you?”
“I’ll kill you if you dare to touch me.”
Stanford laughed. “Be a good girl. We have plenty of unfinished business. My dungeon is waiting for you, my dear.”
Lillian fought the gag reflex in her throat. Bile had risen when Stanford mentioned his dungeon. The hot poker bearing his initials vividly flashed before her eyes. The whip with a steel-tipped edge that was guaranteed to shred her skin. The razor-sharp nail called a flechette that he promised to use on her kneecap if she displeased him.
She couldn’t let him touch her. Ever. “N-no. I swear I’ll kill you.”
“How? You don’t have your protector anymore.”
“I’ll tell my father what you’re trying to do to me.”
Her empty threat earned her a big, hearty laugh from Stanford. “Your father?” His fat fingers pounded the luxurious leather seat from the hilarity of her remarks. “My dear. He never told you, did he? Sad, indeed…”
“What are you talking about?”
Stanford tipped the cigarette ash onto the floor and drew a long puff. His beady eyes glinted. “William Blackwell isn’t your real father. Your whore of a mother cheated on him behind his back. When he looked at you for the very first time, he just knew you weren’t his. He consulted me and we agreed to take some action.”
The revelation hit her unexpectedly. Lillian blinked. Her mind went hazy trying to discern what he’d just said. “He’s i-isn’t m-my father?”
“Not by a long shot. Don’t you ever wonder why you’re nothing like him? You didn’t look like your mother either. So whose kid are you?”
“William Blackwell isn’t my father?” she echoed like a loon.
That would explain everything. His coldness. His aversion. His punishments. The way he said ‘I can’t believe you’re as stupid as your mother.’ His hatred for her wasn’t because she reminded him too much of her mother. He hated her because she was a cuckolded daughter from her mother’s illicit affair. “Who’s my real father?”
“Thurman.”
“Keith Thurman?”
“Do you know who he is? I’m sure you’ve heard about the Three Musketeers? William, me and Keith? William had heard rumours that his lovely bride was having an affair with Keith, but he didn’t want to believe it. We’d sworn loyalty to one another, we wouldn’t be
tray each other’s trust.” Stanford paused, grinning. “The day you were born, William’s suspicions were confirmed. When the DNA test revealed you weren’t his, he simply strangled your mother to death. As I recall, with you in her arms.” Stanford gave out a loud chortle.
She flinched. William Blackwell, the man who she thought was her father, had strangled her mother to her death. Cold chill seeped through her bones. How could he do that? Murder her mother?
And the three musketeers. She remembered the story. William Blackwell, Maxwell Stanford and Keith Thurman were best friends. But Keith Thurman died in a boating accident. She never saw his pictures before, just read the stories from the newspaper articles. One of the articles nicknamed Keith the “Viking God” because of his blond hair and his beauty.
Now, everything just clicked.
Her throat felt parched. Her voice was raw. “He killed my mother. Did you two have anything to do with Keith Thurman’s death, too?”
“Clever girl. I’m the one who took him out to go fishing. When Keith got drunk, I simply pushed him off the boat. That bastard couldn’t even swim. He sure couldn’t do anything when the boat’s turbine chopped him into fish food.”
“You killed him? My real father?”