At the O'Connor estate, the family gathered, faces drawn with grief. Ashley entered quietly, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Without a word, she folded into her mother's embrace, feeling the heavy tremors of her mother's sorrow as if they were her own.
They sat together, lost in the incomprehensible pain. The house, once filled with life, now felt hollow, weighed down by a silence that asked a question none of them could answer: Why would anyone want to harm him?
Elsewhere, Tyson sat in his office, his gaze dark as he listened to his men deliver the day's grim news. Samuel's death hadn't been random. It was a deliberate hit — a message — from the Volkovs, the notorious Russian mafia family known for their brutal efficiency and far-reaching power. Like the Hales, they were family-run, but the Volkovs' methods were far bloodier.
Tyson's jaw clenched, rage flaring in his chest. But experience kept him grounded. Reckless emotion would get him — and everyone he cared about — killed. This war would require patience. Strategy. Every move calculated.
While the O'Connors mourned, Tesmee kept her distance. She hadn't reached out to Ashley — not because she didn't care, but because she needed to see whether Ashley would seek her out on her own. Whether Ashley still considered her a part of her life.
But the days stretched on, and no word came. Ashley didn't tell her about the funeral. She didn't invite her. In the end, Tesmee stayed away, the silence between them growing heavier — an invisible rift neither had the strength or willingness to bridge.
Meanwhile, Tyson's men worked around the clock, pulling every string, following every whisper, trying to unravel the Volkovs' motivations. But the Volkovs were shadows, masters of secrecy. And Tyson knew: to bring them down, he needed to know them intimately — their ambitions, their weaknesses, their fears.
At the same time, Tesmee moved through one of her underground strongholds — a base hidden near a quiet river, fortified and invisible to the outside world. This was just one of many secret locations housing a fraction of her empire's firepower: over 10,000 firearms, explosives sealed away behind thick walls, even a small arsenal of heavy vehicles — tanks, gun trucks, machines prepped and gleaming.
She inspected everything with a critical eye, her trusted assassin shadowing her steps. In a war between mafias, the Michaelson empire would not be caught unprepared.
Tesmee left no trail: no phones, no traceable vehicles. Her movements were ghostlike, her presence a whispered rumor. She knew too well that the wrong eyes could bring ruin.
Two weeks passed.
Ashley, with the support of her family, was beginning — slowly — to mend. But beneath her grief, something darker stirred: a hunger for justice. For vengeance.
And yet… suspicion gnawed at her.
She hated the thought. She hated even entertaining it. But part of her couldn't help wondering: What if Tesmee was involved?
"Maybe she didn't do it," Ashley whispered to herself, curling deeper into the plush couch by the wide window that overlooked the rolling hills.
But another thought, sharper and colder, rose to the surface: What would stop her?
Ashley closed her eyes, trying to banish the doubt, but it clung to her like a second skin. Memories of Tesmee's ruthlessness, her calmness in the face of violence, floated through her mind.
She sighed heavily, rubbing her temples, as footsteps echoed behind her.
"Where to, love?" Tyson's voice was low, casual, but there was an alertness in his gaze.
Ashley slumped back into the couch. Tyson walked over, standing behind her, his hands gently massaging her shoulders, his lips pressing soft kisses to the top of her head.
For a moment, Ashley allowed herself to lean into his warmth, letting the tension in her body melt away. But the questions in her heart refused to stay quiet.
"Babe..." she whispered.
"Mhh?"
Ashley looked up at him, searching his face. "Do you know who killed my father?"
Tyson didn't answer right away. The silence stretched long and heavy between them.
Finally, he said, "Yes."
Ashley's stomach dropped. Her heart hammered against her ribs. "Tell me who," she demanded, her voice sharper now.
Tyson's gaze hardened. "What would you do with their names, Ashley?"
"I want to know," she said through gritted teeth. "I have the right to know."
"It's not safe for you," he said quietly. "Not when you're angry. Not when you're hurting. You'll get yourself killed."
"TYSON! Just tell me!" she snapped, her voice cracking with desperation.
But Tyson stayed calm, unshakable. "No, baby," he said. He kissed her forehead, turned, and walked away, leaving Ashley sitting alone with her fury.
Glass shattered against the floor as she hurled a cup in frustration, the tears blurring her vision. He doesn't trust me. They all think I'm fragile.
But she wasn't. Not anymore.
Ashley wiped her tears roughly. If Tyson wouldn't tell her, she'd find the answers herself.
And she knew exactly where to start.
She grabbed her car keys, stormed out of the house, and roared down the street, her car engine screaming as she pushed it to 170 km/h — heading straight for Tesmee.
The truth waited for her.
And this time, she wasn't backing down.