I nod once. “You need to hear this.” She comes to stand beside me, shoulder to shoulder, an equal. Her presence presses against me, the pressure steady and necessary. Her fingers brush mine beneath the table, and I realize I’ve been shaking this whole time. The warmth of her touch is small. But it’s the first thing that’s felt real in hours.
“What does this mean?” she asks, voice quiet but sharp. There’s a catch in it. A thread of fear buried under all that fire.
I stare at the documents. My chest tightens. “It means your father wasn’t the only one with dirt under his nails,” I say. “It goes deeper. Higher. Older.” Suddenly the weight she’s been carrying makes sense. She’s not just his daughter. She’s a piece of the story none of us saw coming.
Frankie steps forward, drawn to the files. Her fingers hover, twitch, then still. She doesn’t touch them. “This isn’t just politics,” she whispers. “It’s legacy. Bloodlines. Power passed hand to hand in secret. Hidden in plain sight.” Her voice feels like a spell. A truth spoken too close to the fire.
East exhales through his nose, cutting through the moment, a knife cleaving through tension. “That name, Graves, it’s been in rooms it never earned. On documents it shouldn’t be near. Nowwe know why.” His words are measured. But his pulse is war-drummed beneath the surface.
Frankie tilts her head, sensing it. “You’ve known something.” East doesn’t answer. But the silence screams.
Candace’s grip tightens on my hand. She’s holding it together, but I feel the tremor in her bones. That small shake undoes me. I squeeze back, steadying her. Or maybe letting her steady me. Either way, I’m not letting go.
Knox speaks, breaking the tension. “We take a vote. This isn’t a small response. It’s war. And war needs to be sanctioned.”
I nod, meeting each of their eyes. “We’ll talk through it here. Open forum. Everyone speaks. But once we’ve laid it out, we take it to council for the final call.”
James nods in agreement, doesn’t interrupt. Just watches. Listens. Waiting.
“We hit them from every side: legal, street, leverage, pressure. Donovan Castiel goes down. So does anyone helping him,” I say. If we have to burn Willowridge to the ground to do it, so be it.
My eyes land on East. He hasn’t looked away from the Graves note. His expression is unreadable. Controlled. But I know that look. I’ve worn it. It’s the look of a man holding back a war.
“Let me handle Winston,” he says, voice low.
I study him. There’s steel there. Fire too. “Careful.”
“Always.” But we both know that’s a lie. Because this isn’t strategy. This is vengeance dressed in patience.
But I see it. In his clenched jaw. In the tension bleeding from his posture. There’s history there. More than I know. This isn’t just duty. It’s personal. And that means we’re not just going to war. We’re going for blood.
Chapter 48
Candace
Thedoorclicksshutbehind us, and for the first time all day, the silence isn’t heavy. It’s… still. An exhale after a storm. The kind that leaves the air thick with ozone and the faint scent of rain on hot pavement.
Malachi doesn’t say anything as he shrugs off his cut and sets it gently on the chair by the window. He’s always careful with it; it’s more than just leather and thread. It carries every piece of what he’s lost and every promise he’s ever made. His knuckles brush over the stitched patch as he lets go, lingering for half a second too long.
I stay near the door, watching him. The way his broad shoulders tense. The way he runs a hand through his hair, scrubbing at memories that won’t wash away. He hasn’t looked at me since we came upstairs.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
His hands drop to his sides. “No.”
The word lands heavy in the quiet, and I feel it echo in my chest. I cross the room and press my palm to his chest. His heart is racing. Unsteady. A wild rhythm pounding behind flesh and bone.
“Me neither.”
He finally looks down at me, eyes stormy and sharp. “I should’ve known,” he says quietly. “I should’ve asked more questions. Pushed harder. Cornelius died trying to protect my family and I—”
“You were a kid,” I whisper. “You survived. That’s not weakness, Malachi. That’s strength.”
His eyes close, jaw clenches with the burden of everything he’s trying to hold in his teeth. His breath shudders once, shallow.
“You’re not alone anymore,” I add, my voice barely audible. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”
His hand comes up, curling around the back of my neck. His touch is warm, grounding. My heart aches at the way he holds me, the way his grip steadies against mine in a world that keeps spinning too fast. The scent of him—leather, cedar, a hint of clean soap—wraps around me.
