Page 95 of Rage
The man’s expression softens for the first time. “My name is Matteo. I’ve served your family for thirty-seven years.”
My family.
The only family I have are the sons of Kenyan and my late mother.
“The family you serve is not the same as mine.”
“I’m afraid your assumption that you don’t have a family outside of these walls is inaccurate.”
He glances toward the dorm behind me, then back at me. “You simply haven’t met them yet.”
The rear door of the Phantom remains open. Warm light spills onto the pavement.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I suggest you hop back into your car and get the fuck out of here,” I say.
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Saint. I bet your inheritance you’ve spent your entire life wondering why your mother died.” The world stops, and sweat pools above my brow as he continues, “Why the Order wanted you hidden.”
My breathing slows. Every instinct I possess tells me to walk away. Every answer I’ve ever searched for sits inside that car.
Matteo steps aside, leaving the path open. “The man waiting for you can answer every question you’ve carried since you were a child.”
I look once toward Amy’s dorm. The light in her room has gone dark. She’s asleep.
Safe.
Then I look at the open door of the car, wondering at the life I never knew existed.
I step forward and slide inside. The door closes behind me with the quiet certainty of a vault sealing shut. Outside, the three Phantoms pull away from Kenyan University without a singlecar following them. I should call my brothers, but for the first time in my life...
I’m leaving a world that thought it owned me.
The cabin falls silent, only the faint scent of cedar, leather, and expensive cologne lingering in the air.
For a long time, neither of us speaks.
I count turns. Vehicles. Shadows moving beyond the tinted glass. The city thins, then disappears completely, replaced by dark forest and a private road smooth enough to feel unreal.
When the gates finally appear, they rise out of the mountain itself. Black steel. Wolves twisted through crowns. No guards. No intercom. Just cameras turning silently toward us as the convoy passes through without slowing.
Beyond them, the world changes.
A lake stretches beneath the moonlight. Vineyards climb the surrounding hills. Farther out, a private runway glows under rows of white lights, and three jets wait beneath illuminated hangars, each marked with the same wolf-and-crown crest embossed on the envelope in my lap.
Then the estate appears.
Black stone. Glass. Firelight. Ancient towers connected by modern steel. The whole structure was built into the mountain like it was never meant to be found by anyone who wasn’t already owned by it.
Matteo watches my reaction.
“The House of Devereaux,” he says quietly. “It has stood for four hundred and twelve years.”
The convoy rolls beneath a covered portico supported by enormous stone columns.
Only then does Matteo look at me. “For eighteen years,” he says, his expression unreadable, “this house has waited for its heir.”
Outside, more than fifty people stand in perfect silence beneath the lights, waiting for the heir who never knew he belonged here.
Matteo opens his own door first.
