Badass in Disguise Chapter 229

"I don't have family," Silas said coldly, his face a perfect mask of indifference as he stood across from me in my living room. The overhead lights cast harsh shadows across his features, highlighting the emptiness in his eyes. "To me, they're just strangers who happen to share my DNA."

"You feel nothing for Silas, fine. What about your mother?" I asked, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "The woman you cared for so long—was she just a stranger with a blood connection too?"

Something flickered in his eyes—a micro-expression so brief I might have missed it if I hadn't been trained to notice such things. For a moment, I saw a crack in his perfect facade, like lightning illuminating the darkness for a split second before disappearing.

His jaw tightened, muscles tensing beneath the skin.

***

"I can see her face in your mind, can't I?" I said, watching his expression closely. "Mrs. Murphy's emaciated face—those sunken cheeks, protruding cheekbones, skin pulled taut over bone, barely recognizable as human. Yet her eyes, when they looked at you, were always gentle and loving, filled with guilt and hope that never died, no matter how dire your circumstances became.

"She must have been beautiful when she was young, before life beat her down, before illness ravaged her body. She was weak, unable to protect herself or her children, powerless against your father's rages. But she wasn't selfish, was she?

"More than once, she begged you to leave this city, to escape your father. 'Please go,' she whispered to you that night, her thin fingers gripping your wrist with surprising strength. 'There's nothing for you here but pain.' She'd already lost two sons, yet she was willing to bear the pain of separation again, hoping you might find a better life elsewhere.

"When she spoke, it was with great effort, every word a battle against her failing body, yet her voice remained gentle for you. When your father screamed abuse at you, she transformed into a wildcat, protecting you despite her frailty, despite knowing the price she would pay later.

"There was never much food in your home, but she saved the best portions for you—meager offerings, given with love, hoping you wouldn't go hungry. She suffered her pain in silence, swallowing her cries, afraid to disturb your rest with her suffering.

"Even getting out of bed was a struggle for her, yet when you fought with your father, she dragged her disease-ravaged body from the mattress to save you.

"Day after day, she would lie in bed, staring at the water-stained ceiling, waiting for you to come home, her face lighting up when she heard your footsteps on the creaking floorboards. Was all that really nothing to you?"

***

Mrs. Murphy had made her son the sole reason to keep living, the only anchor in her storm-tossed life. She would have given up her life not to burden him—had tried to, in fact. She died never knowing that the son she'd loved for over a decade wasn't really hers. Never knowing it was her other son—the one she'd waited for all those years—who had destroyed her.

Or had she known?

"*My boy,*" she'd whispered on her deathbed, her voice so faint he'd had to lean close to hear it, "*you've grown so tall.*"

Had she somehow recognized that he wasn't Silas? Had she known all along?

***

"You think I'd believe that sentimental bullshit?" Silas scoffed, covering the momentary lapse in his cold demeanor with forced derision. His fingers twitched slightly at his sides.

I took a step closer, my footsteps deliberate on the hardwood floor. "Are you scared, Silas? Is that what this is about?"

His eyes narrowed dangerously, pupils contracting. "Of what? Your amateur psychological games?"

"The truth," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper. "The story you told Chris Jensen in his office—that wasn't your story."

I watched his face carefully as I continued, noting every twitch, every subtle change in his breathing pattern.

"The real Silas Murphy—a boy life never favored. He struggled through his teenage years, just finished his exams at eighteen. A boy crushed by the weight of his circumstances, walking home after a long day of work, stomach empty, pockets emptier."

"Can you imagine it? Skinny Silas in the cold winter night, wearing thin clothes, facing the bitter wind, numbly walking home. The city's bright lights passed him by, indifferent to his existence. He struggled at the bottom of this city for over a decade without a shred of warmth, and he never would find it."

My voice hardened, edged with razor-sharp contempt. "He fought to stay alive, only to die in a cold street corner. Nobody knew. Nobody saved him. The real Silas died without knowing why he was killed or who killed him. His last moments were filled with confusion and terror."

Silas's face remained impassive, carved from stone, but I saw his pulse quicken at his throat, a small betrayal of the storm within.

"You're feeling guilty, aren't you? Remorseful?" I took another step forward, close enough now to see the faint beads of sweat forming at his hairline. "Your mother's death—that was your doing too."

His expression changed slightly, a tremor passing through his mask of indifference.

"She was getting better," I said, my words measured and precise. "I was paying for her treatment. Walter Morrison and Philip Thornton were helping. Things were looking up. She hadn't even reunited with her other two sons yet. Why would she suddenly want to die?"

I watched his eyes carefully, searching for the truth buried beneath layers of deception.

"You deliberately hid my financial support from her. You found her hidden pills and pretended not to notice."

He remained silent, his breathing shallow, almost imperceptible.

"You showed her your bruises on purpose, adding to her psychological burden. The real Silas would have hidden his injuries, spared her that pain. You drove her to suicide to gain my sympathy, to get closer to me. That poor woman was indirectly killed by you—the son she'd waited for all these years."

"I don't believe you," he said coldly, but his voice wavered slightly, like a guitar string plucked too hard.

Suddenly, his face contorted in pain. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, knees nearly buckling beneath him. Black blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, stark against his pale skin.

His eyes widened in shock as he looked at me, standing unaffected. "When did you...?"

Understanding dawned on his face, horror mingling with grudging respect. "You switched the poisoned utensils when I was getting the wine."

I didn't bother answering. I'd originally believed the Shadow Organization wouldn't kill Silas—an ordinary person like him would just be imprisoned as leverage. But I'd forgotten: this guy was also Dusk's brother. That made him valuable enough as a bargaining chip.

I'd seen it before—Shadow operatives who killed their own family members during missions. Some couldn't handle the truth and left the organization, only to be hunted down like animals. Others went back for revenge, with predictable outcomes. Most, though, received the news with disturbing indifference. Those were Shadow's favorite killing machines—the ones they'd broken completely.

More black blood oozed from Silas's mouth, dripping onto my clean floor. He pressed his hand against his abdomen, backing away step by step, his eyes never leaving mine, then turned and fled from my apartment, the door slamming behind him.

I stood there, my face ashen, the weight of what had happened pressing down on my shoulders.

Now both Silas and his mother had died at the hands of their closest blood relation. The irony was bitter, like ash on my tongue.

My emotions surged, threatening to overwhelm me.

Suddenly, I turned, racing upstairs to grab my medical kit, then charged out of the apartment, my footsteps thundering down the corridor.

Outside, the night air was cold against my flushed skin. "Silas!" I shouted, following the direction he'd fled, eyes scanning the shadows between buildings. Only the wind and distant traffic answered my call.

"Silas!" I screamed louder, rage and desperation in my voice echoing off the surrounding buildings. "Come out! Get the fuck out here!"

A car slid to a stop in front of me, its engine purring.