Goldsin (The Chrysophilist Trilogy Book 1)
Goldsin: Chapter 28

“I’ll be a little late. Make yourself at home. Xoxo.”

I lift my head, Victoria’s message fading as I switch my phone off.

The lobby of the Cascade Grand Hotel twinkles with the copious diamond chandeliers whose light reflects on the silver and red accents of the ceiling mural.

Plush velvet couches dot the outsides of the room, red cushions matching the heavy curtains, adding a bit of color to the monotonous cream.

It’s like walking into a show of wealth from someone with a lack of style. They’ve just filled up the space with anything that had five zeroes on the price tag.

At the far end of the room, where the elevators are located, stand two tall pillars. The same mural pattern as the one on the ceiling adorns them. To my right is the reception desk. Behind it, a man dressed in a red suit types on the computer, unbothered by the breathtaking view of Elliot Bay through the windows at his back, the night sky reflecting over the black water.

“Welcome to the Cascade Grand Hotel.” The receptionist’s hair is slicked back with precision, and when he glances up at me, I notice how his eyes gleam under the light of the chandelier. “How may I help you?”

I meet his practiced, beaming stare. “Hello. I’m a guest of Victoria Marlowe.”

“Ah, yes.” He presses his lips together as he types on the keyboard. The pair of silver cufflinks he’s wearing glint at his wrists. “Ms. Marlowe told me to let you know she’ll be running a bit late. You’re welcome to wait in her room.” He turns around, grabbing a silver key card, and the leather Tom Ford shoes on his feet catch the rich light of the room.

His outfit is new—he must have just started working here. His shoes still need breaking in.

I slide the card between my fingers and read the engraved word “PENTHOUSE.”

“Thank you.” I send him a curt smile and turn to leave, heading to the elevators.

He’ll be dead in the next hour. And he just bought himself a pair of new shoes that cost more than some people’s salary. The thought tightens my stomach.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow. Innocent lives shouldn’t come between us in this war. It’s sickening. But he’s a free-running witness who could identify me. It’s either him or me who dies, and the idea of those slimy bastards remaining untouched after what they did to my mother and others is too much to bear.

Valentine will kill him tonight so the guilty can pay for what they’ve done.

I step into the elevator. The metallic doors are on the verge of closing when a hand springs out and abruptly stops them. A guy with a little kid slips in. My gaze skims over him briefly. He’s dressed in black pants paired with a beige polo shirt. The small child is dressed similarly, in velvet brown pants and a slightly baggy white shirt.

Without exchanging pleasantries, the guy presses a number for his floor and turns forward, his back toward me. The kid, with his tiny hand wrapped around the guy’s pinkie finger, can’t be more than five years old. Those big chocolate-brown eyes keep peeking back at me, only to quickly look away whenever our gazes meet.

A smile threatens to curve my lips at how cute and innocent he looks. But as I watch the numbers on the panel rise, memories of the last time I used this elevator flood in. DeMarco splattered on the floor as the poison coursed through his veins, the Harrows’ fundraiser just floors below.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

My very first kill.

I’ve killed more since then, and yet I’m not even close to the end. There are so many lives I still need to take. Lives that need to pay for the damage they’ve caused.

Acknowledging this reality leaves a heavy weight on me, making each step towards enacting this plan heavier than the last. This isn’t my path of vengeance—I already knew that. But when the guilty have been punished, the consequences will fall on me. Not my mother.

A dull ache spreads through my chest at the thought. I feel guilt for the guilty. What a joke.

Or maybe you’re the guilty one, the voice in the back of my mind hisses. For lying to Julian. For throwing promises around like petals in a graveyard.

How will Julian react? Will he be mad? I don’t believe he cares about the Inferno Consortium enough to ask me not to do it. I thought he hated it. Hated Victoria and his father as much as me, if not more. He’ll thank me when he sees his father’s business tripping over itself. Seeing Lucian in disarray will be the highlight of the month, I’m sure.

I feel those cocoa eyes on me again. The little kid’s curiosity is too strong to control as he peeks up at me, his little body pressed over the leg of the stranger.

When he notices me staring back, I stick out my tongue.

His eyes round in surprise, lips parting slightly before he says, “That’s not very ladylike.” His voice is a bundle of animated, high-pitched certainty. Those little eyebrows crumple as he scowls at me.

“Neither is staring.” I arch a brow at him, causing a small smile to tug at the corner of his lips.

I pause at the sight, basking in the way he radiates simplicity. The life of a child, full of love, joy, and memories.

When does it stop? When does it disappear, stolen like dreams in the dead of night?

Maybe we all grow up to lose it. Or was I one of the lucky ones life decided to throw its worst challenges at?

“Well, I am a man.” He sticks his button nose up in the air.

“Oh, sorry. I thought you were a gentleman.” I rest a hand on my chest. “My mistake. I was certain you were one.”

He stomps his little foot on the floor, and I try my best not to smirk at his little scrunched-up face. “I am!”

Just then, the guy moves, and I remember we aren’t alone. He turns his head slightly to the side, enough for me to catch the smirk appearing on his lips at our conversation. I trail my gaze at what little I can see of him.

Waves of dark golden hair combed backward and tanned skin. He’s too young to be the father, but from the way he holds himself he appears older than me. But not in age. He appears mature, like someone who’s been holding a heavy weight on their shoulders for most of their life.

Old in spirit.

“What’s your name?” I ask the little gentleman.

“You can call me⁠—”

The doors to the elevator open, and I gasp as I watch him get pulled out of it by the hand, leaving him scurrying behind the guy as he leads him away. They’re about to turn the corner, the elevator doors closing, when he shouts back at me with the brightest of smiles, “Ciao, ciumachella!”

I watch, stunned. Then a sudden chuckle bursts out of me before I can suppress it, warmth spreading through me despite what I’m heading up to do. I wave at the little disappearing figure as the doors close and silence fills the space once again. His upbeat presence is still palpable as my lips twitch with the residue of a laugh.

That was the strangest encounter, yet it was exactly what I needed to lift the weight from my shoulders before going to murder someone.

What did he call me? Chiumakel? No. Chiukella, maybe?

All I got was the typical Italian word used for greetings and goodbyes. He must be here on vacation. Seattle is usually packed with tourists for the summer, but since we’re a week away from September, this is the perfect time to visit. Less crowds, and the hotel prices are significantly lower.

At Victoria’s floor the elevator doors slide open.

I’m greeted by a vast living room with an elegant stone design on the walls framing the French doors to a balcony. Cream-colored sofas and vases with blooming plants stand in the middle of the room.

The layout is somewhat similar to the room I was in with DeMarco, only this one has enough space for a cocktail party, and the other for a dead body only.

Walking around the space, I let my fingers brush the softness of the deep red curtains, the unexpected roughness of the rose jute material of the cushions, and the plushness of the couch situated in the middle of the room. The same vase that was in DeMarco’s room is perched on a vanity, a bouquet of sunflowers arranged inside of it, and my lips curve at the memory. A melodic lullaby threatens to push past my lips in the form of a whistle, but that would be too creepy even for me.

Instead I strip bare.

With each step I take I undress, leaving each piece of clothing scattered on the floor.

Breadcrumbs for Victoria to follow.

I arrive at the primary bedroom completely naked. Pulling my hair up in a ponytail, I stand in front of the full-length mirror admiring the woman I’ve carved myself into. They may have chosen my life path for me, but everything else I am is thanks to me. My resolve, my strength, and my anger—I built it.

The tips of my fingers skim the pink scar on my neck. I angle my head, carefully roaming my eyes over it.

“You’re next,” I say under my breath. “I’m coming for you.”

I slip into the adjoining bathroom, grabbing a white robe, which I drape over my shoulders. I leave the belt around my waist loose to reveal some skin as the robe hangs slightly open in the middle.

Walking back to the bedroom, I sit on a plush chair just as the sound of the elevator doors opening breaks the silence, followed by the click-clack of high heels.

“I hope you didn’t wait too long.” Her voice booms, echoing through the penthouse.

I don’t answer.

“Aurelia? Where are⁠—?”

She just found my light blue blouse.

And my white skirt.

Now we wait as the clothes lead her to me.

I watch the bedroom door, ajar, with bated breath. The spot I’m sitting in will give me the perfect view of her when she walks in, and it’ll let her spot me immediately.

“Well, well,” I hear her drawl right behind the door before she pushes it open. “You really took ‘make yourself comfortable’ to heart, didn’t you?” My underwear gets wrapped around her fingers as she waves it like a trophy. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” I say before curling my lips, letting her bask for a few more seconds in the delusion she’s created for tonight. Then, when I think enough time has passed, my smile falls. Arms spread on the armrests, I order, “Put my underwear in your mouth.”

Victoria’s expression falters. She wasn’t expecting the sudden shift in my tone. “Excuse me?” Her eyes narrow as she tries to process my change in attitude.

“Put. It. In. Your. Mouth.”

This is how it should start, with degradation. Just like how her mother treated mine.

One breath.

Another.

“Fine,” she huffs, rolling her eyes as she stuffs her mouth with my La Perla lace.

Just having her wrapped around my fingertips, following my orders, sends an electric current of power through my body. I can’t wait to do to her what her mother did to mine.

“Strip,” I order next, “and crawl to me.”

What little playfulness remained within her vanishes at my command. Her eyes narrow with rage, body tensing for a split second. A spark of worry ignites in my stomach, but I try to maintain my self-control and not let her notice it.

“Suit yourself.” My voice is cold and unbothered.

Deciding to push my luck, I fix my gaze on hers and slowly part my legs, enough to reveal just a hint of my nakedness. A tease. Bait.

Her tight expression loosens. She trails her gaze down to my parted legs. I can see her resolve vanishing as the seconds tick by. I know I have her wrapped around my little finger. She just needs a push.

“Strip.”

She raises her eyes back to mine. I let a challenging smirk stretch my lips, and her eyes glow with the invitation to be dominated. She’s loving this.

Unbuttoning her white shirt, she lets it fall. Then she takes the underwear out of her mouth, letting her next words reach my ears.

“Didn’t expect you to be this slutty . . .” She wets her lips. “But then again, you are the golden one of the Inferno Consortium. Guess people-pleasing is what you do best.”

She drops her beige pants, putting the underwear back in her mouth, eager for what’s to come.

The muscles in my jaw twitch at what she said. Even now, as I treat her with inferiority, she still thinks less of me. A burning desire to shatter her illusion and prove her wrong gnaws at me.

Just as she’s about to crawl up to me, I tsk loudly, letting the sound bounce off the walls.

“I said, strip naked and then crawl.”

Her nostrils flare, probably hating being told what to do.

Without me having to tell her twice, she unclips her bra and steps around her underwear. Then, on all fours, she makes her way toward me.

Vulnerable. Laid bare before me.

She looks good. I won’t lie. Her body is fit. Long, lean legs and a toned stomach, with boobs bigger than a handful. But as I look at her, I can’t stop myself from wondering if Julian has ever seen her like this. On her knees for him. Black eyes looking up from under her long lashes. Mouth parted, waiting⁠—

“Didn’t expect you to be into this kind of kink.” Her voice breaks the images forming in the back of my mind.

She’s between my parted legs, long fingernails digging slightly into my thighs as the underwear that was in her mouth now dangles from her pinkie.

She’s not good at following orders.

“Actually,” I reply, grabbing it before binding her hands behind her back with the damp lace, “I’m into a different kind of kink.” I whisper the words close to her ear before pushing her onto her back with my foot. Harshly—for fun.

Gasping, she struggles to sit back up.

I made sure to tighten the underwear around her hands well. It’s going to leave a scar, but I don’t think she’ll mind in the afterlife.

“What the fuck? What’s wrong with you? Help me up.” She wiggles her body, really trying to get back on her knees.

Ignoring her, I just stare, head tilting to the side in appreciation.

“You won’t get away with this, you little bitch,” she huffs, focused on the task at hand.

I burst into laughter at her empty threat.

She won’t be able to hurt me. There’ll be nothing she can do once those makeshift cuffs come off.

I rise from my seat and wander over to the other side of the bedroom. Victoria’s body twists at abnormal angles as she follows me with her eyes.

“I thought it would be more fulfilling to watch you slither at my feet.” I pull a box of matches from the pocket of the robe. “I honestly don’t understand why your mother found such fascination in it.”

“My mother?”

Ignoring her question, I light up the candles in the room. One side first before moving to the next.

“You see,”—heat spreads over my fingers as the match comes to life—“I would’ve kept to the script, burned your skin with a cigarette over and over again, until your body contorted from the pain.” I let the now spent match fall to the floor, turning to stare at her as I say, “But I’m not really a sadist, so I decided to go with an easier way.”

I grab the flask I hid beside the matches in the pocket of the robe and take a long sip of its contents, hissing as the burning liquid slides down my throat.

“What are you talking about?” Her voice trembles at the end of her question.

I hurl the remaining liquid at her, drenching her in vodka. Then, with a finger, I let the first candle fall to the floor.

“Fuck! What are you doing?” she panics. “Are you insane?”

“Maybe.” I walk to the next candles and make them fall one by one. “But now it’s time for you to feel the heat.” I lift a candle in my hand. “Your mother made the mistake of using mine as her personal ashtray. I’d like to repay the favor.”

Her eyes round. A mixture of confusion and fear clouds her vision. But she doesn’t plead for her life. Doesn’t bat an eye as I hurl the candle at her soaked body.

Flames erupt on her skin, igniting a show of defiance that’s almost admirable, if not stupid. And that’s when she screams, finally replaceing the strength to get up.

But it’s too late.

I lock the door to the bedroom behind me and quickly get to lighting the candles scattered around the rest of the penthouse before dropping them to the floor and letting them spread their deadly light.

She continues to scream, howling in pain. The notes are soothing, satisfying a part of me that longs to make her pay for her mother’s sins. Yet the other part is simply satisfied at the prospect of being one step closer to finishing this massacre.

I don’t have much time left before someone hears her or the fire alarm goes off.

Hurrying to the elevator, I press the button for the floor just below this one before adjusting the rope, tightening it around my body. I left my clothes on the floor of the penthouse, giving them the same fate as Victoria. The CCTV footage of me will be erased, but if anyone other than the hotel receptionist saw me, they won’t be able to replace the clothes and match them to me.

My heart gallops as the elevator descends. The moment I set foot out of it the alarm finally blares. It doesn’t take long for the guests to spring out of their rooms, panicking, rushing toward the fire escape.

I join the crowd, concern etched on my features as I seamlessly blend in with them.

“Fire!” someone screams, causing more chaos to erupt. People start pushing past, desperate to escape and get to safety.

I’m running alongside them, but my mind is elsewhere.

Somehow the more I kill, the less satisfied I feel. The adrenaline I felt with my first kill was intoxicating, but I just feel empty right now. The image of Victoria being burned alive scratches behind my eyes.

The people surrounding me don’t suspect me of anything. They think I’m one of them.

But I’m not. I just killed a woman. Set her on fire.

I know it was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

So why do I feel like I’m losing a part of myself in the process?