WebNovels

Chapter 13 - "Cigarettes and Confessions"

August 6th, 2026

2nd District, Cremont City

9:35 AM

The 2nd District wore its poverty like a uniform, patched jackets, bowed storefronts, and an air that tasted faintly of rust and old cigarette smoke. Bloodfang graffiti curled up the side of a shuttered noodle stall two doors down, the crooked fang mark a silent promise: pay up or bleed.

Men in stained jackets leaned in doorways and watched the street with eyes that never slept; women with hands thick from work moved fast and looked away when they saw trouble. It was the district that fed the city's darker appetites, the place where money went to be wrung out and where threats dressed themselves as offers of protection.

2nd District was always like this. The rot and corruption of Bloodfang Triad lingered like air.

A laundry shop squatted on the corner like something stubborn that refused to be erased. Its sign was hand-painted and peeling; the neon under it buzzed like an insect determined to stay alive. Washers thumped in dim rhythm inside, drums of hot water and detergent, and a clothesline of limp shirts and dresses swung in the draft of the open door.

The smell of soap and damp cotton mixed with grease, rain, and the faint metallic tang of the district's life. A bell jingled when the door opened and closed, small, ordinary sounds that wanted to be noticed for what they were: ordinary.

The faded sign above the door of the laundry shop read in dull red letters: Laundry Master. The windows were fogged, the glass cracked on one side. It looked the same as it did six years ago.

Rio kept his hood pulled low as he crossed the street, hands shoved deep into the pockets of the thrifted hoodie he'd bought because it could hide the hard clamp of steel at his wrists. The cuffs were pressed against the fabric, an uncomfortable, constant reminder of the night that had just leaked out from beneath his skin.

He had not taken them off; he could not remove them in the open. They were a second skin, cold and inexorable, and hiding them required a posture he had not needed to practice before, shoulders hunched, hands quiet, breath shallow and even.

He spotted Bernard Godolkin, Janus's closest friend, through the glass: a stout man with a face carved by years of toil, hair gone more salt than black, sleeves turned up at the forearms like wrists that did a steady, honest work. Bernard's shop was busy in a low, ordinary way, a man folding shirts, an old woman arguing with the coin machine about a stuck token, a small boy asleep on a battered couch while his grandmother sorted shirts impatiently.

Bernard himself was at the counter when his eyes caught him. There was a slackening at the corner of Bernard's mouth that was no simple surprise; it was recognition that had the weight of years attached.

Bernard stepped outside, wiped his hands on his apron like a man trying to wipe dust off the truth, and beckoned. The gesture was almost fatherly, small and urgent. Rio moved, the nervousness in his limbs tightening and then loosening with each step that brought him closer to a place where Janus had once been real to him, where grief had once felt like something that might be understood.

Inside, the luminance was cheap and steady. Fluorescent lights hummed down onto piles of clothes, and a ceiling fan rattled in a cadence that could lull the tired into sleep or keep small conversations from growing too sharp.

The smell of detergent, cigarette smoke, and old coffee mixed into something oddly nostalgic.

"You look like hell, kid."Bernard muttered under his breath, lowering his cigarette.

Rio said nothing at first. His stormy-gray eyes were tired, bruised with sleeplessness.

Bernard exhaled slowly through his nose. "How're you holding up? Since your old man passed?"

Rio's voice came quiet, almost lifeless. "Same."

Bernard studied him, the blank expression, the exhaustion, the subtle twitch in his jaw. He'd seen that look before. Janus used to wear it when things got bad at home.

After a few seconds, Rio's voice broke the silence. "I don't think my father died from a terminal illness." Rio said softly.

That made the old man's brow furrow. He leaned back, his cigarette hanging from his lips. "What are you saying?"

Rio's eyes flicked to the room, two women folding laundry, a man waiting by the dryer, humming quietly. He leaned closer. "You got somewhere private?"

Bernard nodded once. "Yeah. Come with me."

He led Rio through a narrow hallway behind the counter, past old shelves filled with detergent bottles and rags, to a small office in the back. A desk, a fan that didn't work, and a flickering bulb overhead.

The door shut with a soft click.

Bernard sat, reached for his lighter, and lit another cigarette. He offered one to Rio.

Rio took it without a word. When he raised it to his lips, Bernard caught sight of the steel glint. His cigarette nearly fell from his mouth.

"What the... Jesus, Rio," Bernard hissed. "What the hell happened to you? What's with those handcuffs?"

Rio ignored him, lighting his own cigarette. The flame reflected briefly in his stormy gray eyes.

Bernard leaned back and rubbed his forehead. "You know what? Never mind. I don't wanna know." He took a drag. "So you came all the way here just to question me about Janus's death?"

Rio exhaled smoke, his tone flat. "You were close to him. You'd know if something was off."

Bernard squinted through the haze. "Off? Kid, I saw him die."

"I was there in the hospital. The doctors said it was heart failure, terminal. "

"His time was almost up."

"What, you want me to break into the hospital records and steal his files just to prove he had cancer instead?" Bernard rose his voice.

Rio stayed silent. The faint hum of the fan was the only sound between them.

Bernard sighed and ran a hand over his beard. "Christ, listen to me yelling at you. I'm sorry."

He waited for Rio to say something. He didn't.

Instead, Rio took another drag and said quietly, "I remembered he was healthy. He didn't smoke. He ate the right and healthy food. He exercised every day. He got regular check-ups."

Bernard listened intently.

"He never touched a drink. He never took drugs. My family isn't prone to heart problems. My grandparents lived past a hundred, both of them. They died of old age, not disease."

His voice cracked slightly, the first sign of emotion breaking through. "So you tell me how the hell a man like that just dies of heart failure in his early fifties."

Bernard's cigarette burned to the filter. He didn't have an answer.

He had seen Janus on that bed, pale and weak, tubes in his arm, the beeping of the monitor like a countdown. He remembered the doctor's calm tone, the quiet acceptance in Janus's eyes. But still… Rio's words clawed at something in him.

He leaned back, staring at the smoke curling up toward the ceiling. "You're right," he said finally. "It doesn't make sense. None of it does. But what can I say? I only listened to what the doctors said, Rio. I saw what I saw."

Rio's jaw tightened. He sat down, his shoulders slumped, his hands still buried in the hoodie's pockets, hiding the cold iron cuffs.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence felt thick, heavy, filled with what neither dared to say.

Bernard broke it with a weary sigh. "You've got your father's eyes, you know that?"

"I know that look too," Bernard muttered. "It's the look of blame."

Rio finally looked up. "What?"

"You're blaming them, aren't you?" Bernard said quietly. "Your family. Isabela, Alessandra, Marcella, And Selene. You think they had something to do with his death."

Rio's lips parted, but no words came out.

Bernard put out his cigarette and leaned forward. "Let me tell you something, kid. I'm gonna be blunt with you.

"Maybe they're to blame. Maybe they're not. But you..." He paused, inhaling deeply. "You're not innocent either."

Rio's stare hardened.

"You left," Bernard said simply. "You went abroad to help, to support them, right? I get that. It's noble. But you didn't think what that would do to your father."

Rio said nothing, but the silence screamed.

Bernard's tone softened, almost mournful. "He missed you, Rio. Every damn day. I saw him drown himself in work, trying to fill the hole you left. You said you'd send money, and you did, but you can't send presence. You can't send love."

Rio's chest tightened. His father's last smile, weary, forced, and hollow flashed across his mind like a wound reopening.

Bernard took a long drag, the ember glowing red in the dim room. "You wanted to help him. But maybe... maybe what he really needed was for you to stay."

Rio looked down, the cigarette trembling slightly between his fingers.

"You think he died because of them?" Bernard asked quietly. "Maybe. But I think he died because he gave up. Because he had nothing left to hold on to. Especially...."

Bernard paused. Trying not tear up.

"Especially when your mother and your sisters betrayed him."

The words hung heavy, echoing inside Rio's head long after they were spoken.

He didn't argue. He didn't shout. He simply sat there, staring at the smoke curling from his cigarette like a ghost refusing to fade.

Outside, the city carried on, cars passing, voices murmuring, the faint clatter of life continuing in a world that didn't care who lived or died.

The hum of the dryer was the only sound in the room now. The faint scent of detergent mixed with smoke hung in the air, soft and strangely suffocating.

Rio sat in silence, elbows resting on his knees, cigarette long dead between his fingers. His gaze was distant, lost in the cracks of the old office floor. Bernard's words still echoed in his head like the aftershock of an explosion.

"Maybe they're to blame. But you're not innocent either."

At first, he wanted to argue. To push the blame back on his mother. On Alessandra. On Marcella. On Selene. On the entire cursed Castellan bloodline that turned his family into strangers.

But now, sitting there, the weight of Bernard's voice pressing against the silence, he couldn't ignore the truth anymore.

Maybe he was part of it too.

Maybe he was the spark that started it all.

He thought back, six years ago, standing by the apartment door, his bag beside him, determination burning in his chest. He remembered the way Janus smiled, weary but proud.

He thought he was doing the right thing. Leaving to support them. To bring back something better. But now…

"What if I never left?"

The thought dug deep, painful and relentless.

"What if I stayed?"

"Would Father still be alive?"

"Would Mother never have looked for another man?"

"Would Alessandra, Marcella, and Selene still talk to Father instead of cutting him off?"

"Would our family still be....normal and peaceful?"

"Would they never be the same like what they're today? Ruthless, corrupt, and merciless rulers of Cremont?"

The questions came one after another, each one heavier than the last. He felt the guilt creep in, a cold, slow poison wrapping around his chest.

He could still see his father's smile the day he left, not proud, not joyful, just tired. That broken, weary smile that said I understand why you're leaving... but it still hurts.

Rio closed his eyes and exhaled shakily. The sound almost broke.

Bernard had gone quiet too, watching the boy's face crumble in slow motion. He recognized that look, the one that came when realization hit harder than bullets. He sighed heavily, flicking the ash from his cigarette into the tray.

"Listen," Bernard said at last, his voice gruff but steady. "If you're hell-bent on finding out the truth, your father's death, your mother's betrayal, you might as well have something to start with."

He stood up from his chair, the old wood creaking beneath his weight. He rummaged through a pile of papers, receipts, and yellowing envelopes on his desk until his fingers found something small wedged beneath a folder.

It was a card. A little worn, edges slightly curled. He stared at it for a moment, a ghost of surprise flickering across his face.

"I never thought I still had this," he muttered.

He handed it to Rio.

Rio looked down. It was an old calling card, white, embossed letters faded but legible:

"Maria Brandt"

"Private Investigator"

Below the name was a phone number, and beneath that, an address scribbled in neat handwriting.

Bernard crossed his arms, leaning back against the desk. "Your father hired her. Years back. When he started suspecting your mother was seeing someone else."

Rio's fingers tightened around the card.

"She's discreet," Bernard continued. "Knows how to dig into the filth without making noise. If anyone knows who your mother was seeing, it's her. And if you want to know more about your father's death, hire her. She's worth it."

Rio stared at the card for a long moment. The ink seemed to burn into his mind.

Maria Brandt.

A stranger's name, but maybe the key to everything.

Bernard sighed again, looking at him with something between pity and concern. "You can hate them all you want, kid. But chasing ghosts doesn't always give you peace. Sometimes it just opens old wounds."

Rio said nothing. He didn't need to. His silence was its own kind of promise.

He slipped the card into his pocket, the paper rustling against the hidden steel of his handcuffs.

Bernard studied him a moment longer. "You're gonna go see her, aren't you?"

Rio finally looked up, eyes cold and focused. "Yeah."

Bernard nodded slowly. "Then be careful. Cremont isn't kind to those who dig too deep. Especially when they're digging through Castellan dirt."

Rio didn't respond. He stood, his shadow stretching across the small office.

He turned for the door, the light from the hallway cutting through the smoke.

"Hey, Rio," Bernard called after him.

He paused.

"For what it's worth," Bernard said quietly, "your father never stopped believing in you. Even when things got bad. Don't let that die too."

Rio didn't turn around. He just gave a small nod and stepped out of the office.

The chime above the door jingled softly as he left the laundry shop.

Outside, the streets were still wet from the morning rain. The air smelled faintly of rust and soap. Rio walked without looking back, his hands buried deep in his hoodie, the metal cuffs pressing against the calling card in his pocket, a strange, cold reminder of both captivity and direction.

He didn't know what he would find.

He didn't know if he was ready to face it.

But for the first time since the night of chaos, there was a purpose behind his steps.

And in Cremont, that was enough to keep walking.

Meanwhile...

The penthouse sits like a dark crown at Cremont's heart, an impossible slab of glass and black stone planted dead-center between the Mayor's offices and the river. From above it looks ceremonial, deliberate: a private island in a city that prides itself on chaos. Floor-to-ceiling windows curve around two sides, giving a panoramic view where the city's scarred rooftops and transport arteries fold into one grey horizon; sunlight slices through the glass in thin, cold beams that the room drinks like liquor.

Inside, the décor is Castellan perfected, gothic modern. Polished onyx floors, low tables of matte iron, and high-backed chairs stitched in crimson velvet. Arches and vertical lines echo a ruined cathedral but the finishes are clinical, expensive: no dust, no clutter, everything placed with the care of a ritual.

A long dining table of dark wood dominates the center, set as though for a court: silverware lined like small tools of judgment, porcelain plates edged in black, crystal glasses catching the light and throwing tiny bruises of color across the tablecloth.

She sits at the head with the composure of someone who was born to rule that small, terrible world. Isabela Castellan, long dark-silver hair falling like a curtain of steel, pale ivory skin warmed by a quiet Mediterranean glow, storm-gray eyes that take and keep measure, eats with slow, deliberate grace.

Her breakfast is extravagant but precise: a crystal bowl of blood-orange segments, a small dish of smoked salmon and quail eggs, a single mound of caviar on mother-of-pearl, dark toast steaming beside it. A silver pot of coffee steams at hand and a goblet of red fruit wine catches the morning light; she sips as if tasting each moment. Her gown is black with blood-red accents, the Castellan crest, a tower entwined with thorns in silver, pinned near her throat like an invocation.

Around her stand a ring of attendants and guards, not soldiers in the blunt sense but an array of curated menace: women in tailored black, ebony pistols holstered beneath long coats, faces shadowed by narrow, ornamental masks; a bigger, more permanent presence, heavyset men in matte armor, keep the threshold. Their posture is quiet vigilance; one foot always angled toward the door, one hand never far from a weapon.

Yet there is an intimacy to the tableau: a server moves with practiced discretion, replacing a plate before crumbs gather, while a bank of screens inset into a side wall shows slices of the city, quiet CCTV feeds, slow-moving maps, a line of coded messages scrolling like a heartbeat. Isabela's expression is unreadable and, at the same time, luminous with pleasure, a small, slow smile curving her lips as if the morning were a proof of something finally coming to order.

Then, the tranquil rhythm of the morning broke.

The penthouse doors slid open with a quiet hiss. A female guard entered, head bowed respectfully.

"Queenpin, your daughter, Mistress Marcella, has come to visit you."

Isabela didn't turn. She continued sipping her black coffee, her expression serene.

"Let her in," she said softly.

Moments later, the echo of sharp heels clicked along the marble floor, confident, stylish, unmistakable. Marcella Castellan entered the dining room like a gust of perfumed wind. Her dark gray hair framed her face perfectly, and her tailored coat hugged her slender figure. The daughter of the Queenpin looked less like a gangster and more like a performer ready to steal the stage.

"Good morning, Mama," she greeted, smiling faintly before leaning in to kiss her mother's cheek.

Isabela turned slightly, returning a soft and warm smile. "Good morning, my dear."

Marcella took in the room's golden glow, the elegant plates, the calmness of her mother's demeanor. "You look rather… content today. Something good happen?"

Isabela set down her fork gracefully. "Breakfast always helps one appreciate life's little victories. Would you like to join me?"

Marcella chuckled and shook her head. "I'm not hungry. You know I can never eat in the mornings."

"A bad habit," Isabela said mildly, slicing into her poached egg.

Marcella leaned on the table with a smirk. "And yet, you seem to be in an awfully good mood. Mind sharing why? One of your enemies surrendered?"

Isabela's lips curved. She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she dabbed her mouth with a cloth napkin, then looked up with eyes like polished glass.

"Let's just say," she began, her tone low and smooth, "soon… I will be complete."

Marcella tilted her head. "Complete?" she echoed, brow arched. "Mama, you always talk like some ancient oracle. Can you just....say what you mean for once?"

A soft laugh slipped from Isabela's lips. "If I told you everything, there would be no mystery left between us, my love. And mystery keeps the blood alive, doesn't it?"

Marcella exhaled, amused but wary. "Either someone died or someone returned. Which is it?"

Isabela only smiled and took another sip of her coffee.

Marcella sighed and decided to change the subject. "I heard from our men that Selene backed out of the mayoral run. That's true? She gave up the position?"

"Yes," Isabela said smoothly, eyes unfocused as she gazed out the tall windows. "Your sister has always preferred control without attention. She's not meant for cameras or microphones, only shadows."

Marcella smirked. "That's disappointing. I thought she'd changed. For once, I thought we aren't moving in different paths anymore."

Isabela turned her head slightly, her gaze sharp and knowing. "We are moving forward, Marcella. You just don't see the direction yet. But you will.... soon."

There was a pause, one filled with the faint hum of the penthouse's air system. Then Marcella walked to the counter, poured herself a glass of her mother's wine, and took a slow sip.

"Mama," she began carefully, "I think Alessandra's hiding something."

That made Isabela stop mid-bite. Her fork hovered above her plate. Slowly, she turned her gaze to her daughter.

"What kind of something?"

Marcella shrugged, pretending nonchalance. "I don't know exactly. Last night, she was restless and secretive. Even her men avoiding questions. I can feel it, she's keeping something big from us."

Isabela placed her utensils down, folding her hands neatly in front of her. Her expression didn't change much, but her eyes sharpened like razors. "And you came here… to tell me that?"

"I came here because it's driving me insane." Marcella took another sip, her tone frustrated. "You know I can't stand being left out, Mama. Alessandra's hiding something valuable, something she doesn't want either of us to know."

Isabela hummed softly, her mind working behind the still mask of her face. "You're right to be suspicious," she murmured. "But perhaps… not for the reasons you think."

Marcella frowned. "What do you mean?"

Isabela leaned back in her chair, her voice lowering. "There are things that must be done quietly. Things that must be unseen,

Even by family.

"Are you saying you know something about Alessandra's secret?" Marcella pressed.

Isabela smiled faintly, almost fondly. "Oh, my dear… Alessandra's not the one with secrets. We all have."

Marcella froze, lowering her glass slightly. "What do you mean by that?"

"Marcella, in this family, there are always secrets. That's how we survive."

"And that's how we stay on top of the food chain. We reap secrets from them, but we don't give them ours."

"They don't know our secrets, they don't know our weaknesses." Isabela said.

Marcella frowned. "Then tell me, Mama. Are you keeping one too?"

For a long moment, the Queenpin was silent. Then she smiled, the kind of slow, graceful smile that made Marcella's stomach tighten.

"If I were, would I tell you?"

Silence quickly filled the room, the kind that wrapped around the walls and made even the guards uneasy. Marcella's breath caught in her throat, she didn't know if she was horrified or impressed.

Isabela smiled again, elegant, composed, and cryptic. "Don't worry about Alessandra. I'll pay her a visit later today. We'll talk… family to family."

Marcella didn't respond. She only looked at her mother, the woman who ruled Cremont from the shadows, and for the first time in a long while, she wasn't sure whether she felt pride… or fear.

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