The Son-In-Law’s 99 Days Of Deception

Chapter 5

Killian entered the room and his heart pounded steadily.

He closed the door and for the first time in a while, he broke down.

His eyes travelled across the room, stopping at Sarah's and his kid's belongings. Everything was still where she'd left it. Her clothes remained neatly arranged, and the faint scent that reminded him of her seemed to linger in the air.

It felt hauntingly surreal.

He stood in the center of the quiet space, a raw wave of grief crashing over him.

It had been over a decade, but their presence still filled the air. For a fleeting, agonizing second, his mind tricked him into thinking Sarah would walk out of the bathroom any moment, holding out her lotion and asking him to help rub her back.

But the bathroom remained empty.

Killian stood there for a long moment, trying to make sense of the ache in his chest. Being back in this room made it feel as though he'd lost them yesterday.

He unpacked his things slowly, each item reminding him that he was home again, but she wasn't.

After a long shower, he collapsed onto the bed. He pressed his face into the pillow, breathing in the faint scent that remained, and closed his eyes. His mind spun with memories of his wife until he fell asleep.

The next morning, Killian woke to sunlight filtering through the curtains.

For a few seconds, he forgot where he was. Then he turned towards the empty side of the bed.

Reality returned.

He got up and began cleaning the room, sorting through their photographs and arranging Sarah's belongings. He handled everything carefully, as though the smallest careless movement might destroy something he couldn't replace.

It felt like an ordinary Tuesday morning. One of those mornings when Sarah would leave the room, get caught up in her day, and return to him later.

When he finished, he stood before the mirror and studied his reflection.

Rowoon Machado is bald, with a full beard and a thick moustache. Killian DiCaprio was different. His beard was cleanly shaved and his neatly trimmed natural-looking wig completed his disguise.

He looked like the man he'd been before prison.

The man Sarah had known. The daddy Mike had loved.

His stomach growled, interrupting his thoughts.

He stepped out of the room and headed for the kitchen.

The house carried that specific, heavy morning silence—the kind that meant people were awake and moving behind closed doors, though none were in sight.

He could feel the hostile presence of the Lancasters lingering in the hallways.

He opened the refrigerator and found the groceries he'd asked the head guard to arrange the night before. Then he cooked a simple meal. When it was ready, he leaned against the kitchen counter and ate right there.

He didn't owe anyone a formal sit-down, nor did he answer to a single soul under this roof anymore.

When he finished, he washed his plate and the pot.

“I thought I smelled breakfast.”

Killian was about to leave when Edward’s voice cut through the air. He looked up to find Edward standing at the door frame and his four cousins sat at the dining table. Judging by their expressions, they'd been waiting for something.

Or someone.

"Yeah. I was hungry, so I cooked for myself." Killian glanced at the clean dishes. "I've washed everything. You don't have to worry about the mess."

"Cooked for yourself?" Edward repeated, frowning. "What about the rest of us? You shouldn't have to be asked, dude. Or have you forgotten your place in this house?"

Killian stared at him.

Edward didn't care whose name appeared on the villa's ownership documents. As far as he was concerned, Killian was still the same pathetic man they'd pushed around for years.

The Lancasters had connections, influence, and people willing to do their bidding. They'd managed to keep Killian's imprisonment out of the public eye, and they believed they could make him disappear again if they wanted.

And Killian? In Edward’s eyes, a piece of paper couldn't change reality. To them, he was still the broke, pathetic outsider they could easily crush or make disappear if he became too inconvenient.

“We’ve been sitting here for hours, and you couldn't cook enough for everyone? What kind of useless brother-in-law are you?” He spat.

"Exactly!" one of his cousins chimed in, laughing. "Just like the good old days. That's what you're good for."

Killian's expression remained unchanged.

The good old days.

They spoke as though he'd once been a beloved member of the family who'd simply fallen out of favour.

Back then, he'd cooked, cleaned, mopped floors, washed their clothes, run their endless errands, driven them around, and fixed whatever they broke. If a pipe burst in the middle of the night, they called him. If they needed something done, they summoned him.

He was summoned at all hours of the night to perform the most degrading chores, forbidden to refuse even past midnight.

Even the maids had been treated better than he was.

Sometimes, they'd throw away his food or give it to the dogs just because they could. He'd gone hungry more than once while the people he served laughed at his expense.

And he'd endured it all.

He'd swallowed their insults and buried his pride because he wanted to keep his family together. He'd convinced himself that tolerating their cruelty was a small price to pay for the life he'd wanted with Sarah.

He'd been wrong.

They had adapted him to swallow their cruelty. Now, they were about to find out what he had spent years learning how to feed back to them.

Killian kept his expression completely pleasant. “First of all," Killian began, his voice almost pleasant, "I'm not your cook."

Their smiles faltered.

"Secondly, you all have perfectly functional hands."

He turned and walked away.

Edward and his cousins erupted behind him, throwing insults after him, but Killian didn't bother turning around.

By the time he changed and stepped back out into the grand foyer, the dining room was empty.

He walked out the front gates, fully dressed for the day. Within fifteen seconds, a sleek black sedan pulled up in front of him. Linc pushed open the passenger door from the inside.

“Good morning, boss,” Linc greeted respectfully, bowing his head slightly as he handed Killian a secure burner phone.

(They were here.) — Ben's uncle.

Killian handed the burner phone back to him as he looked up at the rearview mirror to adjust his beard.

The message was short, but it confirmed—the Gospel had run a background check on him last night. The only living family Benjamin had left was an uncle. Linc had handled the old man weeks ago, ensuring the narrative was locked down tight.

Preparation could only take you so far, but Gold placed in the right hands worked wonders.

The old man had already lost his nephew; the cheques had stopped coming in, and Vesper’s compensation sank in comparison to Linc's deep pockets.

Meanwhile, a few miles away, Vesper stood on his balcony, staring out at the city skyline as he dragged on his cigarette, trying to quench the burning irritation in his chest.

Last night at Mr. Fred’s house—Benjamin's uncle—things hadn't gone smoothly.

Perhaps the old man was still grieving, or perhaps he genuinely despised them now.

Vesper recalled Zane’s questions to Fred, "Why did Benjamin hide his half-brother from us for years?" He had asked, skimming through the family photo album.

"There's not a single picture of them together."

Mr. Fred had answered by pouring himself another glass of liquor. "Rowoon and Benjamin's mother didn't get along. They felt betrayed by my brother's infidelity. Rowoon's mother took him far away when he was just three. We never heard from them again. But they stayed close as boys..."

The old man had wiped a genuine tear.

"My sweet nephews. Now, imagine how horrifying it is for Rowoon to find out his only blood-related family was murdered under your watch."

He had grabbed the bottle of liquor and drank straight from it, his eyes burning with pain.

Vesper and Zane had exchanged glances. Unlike Zane, Vesper hadn't known how to feel. Sympathy? Anger? Guilt?

Then, Mr. Fred had shoved Vesper's envelope of money across the table and pointed to the door. "Pains like this can't be healed with cash. Take it and never come back. Seeing you only reopens old wounds."

The old man's grief had been genuine. So had his anger.

But Vesper couldn't decide whether that made Rowoon's story more convincing or more suspicious.

“Rowoon is here, sir.”

Vesper snapped back to reality at the guard's voice.