Byron's hand landed on my shoulder—heavy, warm, real. "Because I couldn't watch anymore. And The Vanguard's tactics only get stronger as they get closer to what they want."
"What do they want?" That was Atlas—biggest of the Charleston Danes, built like a tank, voice like gravel. He stood at the far end of the table, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Byron pointed to himself. "Me. Everything I know. The program. The beliefs. The leverage."
Silence fell again, heavier this time.
Marcus—another Charleston Dane, younger, angrier—slammed his fist on the table hard enough to make the wood jump. "Then it's time to fight. Find the sons of bitches and kill them. That'll make them see."
"It's not that easy." Byron's voice was gentle but firm. "There's no headquarters to storm. No figurehead to kill. The Vanguard is as much an idea as it is an organization. Cutting off one head doesn't stop it. It just grows back stronger."
"So, what do we do?" Lucas asked. "Just wait for them to come after us?"
"No." Byron straightened, and for a moment he looked like the man I remembered from childhood—the one who could walk into a room and command it without saying a word. "I need to figure out a way to turn their attention. Like turning a freighter on open ocean. Redirect their focus so you can all be safe. Once and for all."
"How?" I asked.
"I'm working on it." He looked around the table again, meeting each gaze. "But I'm not going anywhere. Not this time. I'm here. And I'm staying."
The words seemed to settle the room. Not ease it, exactly. But anchor it. Give everyone something solid to hold onto in the chaos.
Everyone except me.
I sat there with my father's hand still on my shoulder and felt like I was being torn in two. The boy who'd spent fifteen years missing him wanted to grab hold and never let go. Wanted to believe every word, trust every promise, fall back into the safety of having a father who fixed things.
But the man I'd become—the operator, the killer, the one who'd learned the hard way that people left and promises broke and safety was an illusion—wanted to shake off his hand and walk away. Wanted to punch him in the face and demand to know how he could justify any of this. How he could create two families and abandon both. How he could watch from the shadows while we bled and fought and nearly died.
I didn't know which impulse was stronger.
Didn't know which one I should listen to.
So, I sat there, frozen between them, and felt like I was drowning all over again.
My father was back.
And I had no idea what the hell to do about it.
28
HAZEL
Ididn’t realize a house could hold this many women and this much silence at the same time.
Dominion Hall’s main living room looked like it had been built for some glossy magazine spread—vaulted ceilings, walls of glass, huge leather sofas that could swallow you whole, soft lamps flicked low so the harbor outside glowed like spilled ink dotted with boat lights. Somewhere out there, water lapped against pilings. In here, the only sound was the occasional clink of a mug against a saucer.
And breathing. A lot of breathing.
I sat on the end of one of the sofas, tucked into a corner with my feet pulled up under me, wearing a borrowed pair of black leggings and an oversized T-shirt that said PROMENADE in delicate script across the front. It smelled faintly of butter and rosemary and some perfume I couldn’t name. My hair was damp from the shower they’d practically shoved me into. My skin felt scrubbed raw.
My brain felt worse.
There were eleven other women in the room, scattered across sofas and armchairs and the thick rug like a constellation somebody had shaken loose.
Closest to me, Isabel sat cross-legged on the floor, dark hair twisted up in a messy knot, hands wrapped around a mug of something that smelled like mint. She was tiny compared to the sofas, but she took up space, anyway—chatty, grounded, eyes that missed nothing. Somewhere back in the chaos, I’d heard someone say she ran a hotel—the Palmetto Rose. It made sense. She had that particular competence that said if the world fell apart, she could rebuild it.
On the other side of the coffee table, a blonde lounged sideways in an armchair, bare feet tucked under her, a knit blanket thrown over her legs. Claire, I remembered. Marcus’s wife. She had a podcast, apparently. Big, national, popular. Right now, her hair was thrown into a lopsided bun, and she watched me with a therapist’s patience and a New Yorker’s bluntness.
Next to Claire, perched more upright, was Anna—dark hair, sharp cheekbones, green eyes that looked like they’d seen more than one lifetime already. She had the posture of someone who’d spent years with a harp balanced against her shoulder. Atlas’s wife. Russian, if I remembered correctly. Her hands rested in her lap, long fingers twined together like she was holding a piece of music only she could hear.
