Malachi’s eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”
“Donovan,” I say, the name tasting like ash. “His being there. On the gangplank. I made the call to hold fire because he was insulated, using the girls as bait. I thought he was just there to oversee the shipment.”
Knox nods, then speaks in a gravelly voice. “It was the right tactical call. We couldn’t risk the crossfire.”
“But that’s not what it was,” I continue, leaning forward, my gaze locking on Malachi. “He wasn’t just there for the transport. He was here in town to deal with Graves. This leverage you found... it proves it. It’s all connected. Your past, and our present.”
“So he’s here,” Nash says, his voice flat. “Active. And he’s working with Graves.”
Malachi nods, his expression grim. “This isn’t about retaliation anymore. This is about justice. About roots.”
“Then we cut them out,” Knox says, his voice ice.
“How?” Kyle asks. “Graves is the mayor. He’s untouchable.”
“Not to me,” I say, leaning forward. “We don’t go after him with guns. That’s his game. We go after him with this.” I tap the financial documents. “We bleed him dry. Find every dirty dollar, every shell corp, every backroom deal. The Vassallo Foundation was just the start. I’ll find them.”
Knox nods, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips. “Financial warfare. I can help. Dig into his digital footprint, find offshore accounts, encrypted files.”
“And when you’ve got him cornered,” Nash adds, his voice a low promise, “I’ll be there to finish it.”
Malachi looks at me, a silent question in his eyes. “I want Graves.” My voice is calm, but lethal. “Don’t care how it happens. Don’t care if it’s clean.”
He holds my gaze, then gives a single, sharp nod. “You’ll have him.”
A cold, brutal sense of satisfaction cuts through me. Winston Graves is a dead man walking. He just doesn’t know it yet.
Chapter 28
Darla
Thewarroomdoorswings open, and the men emerge like shadows. They’re a silent, grim procession that speaks of unyielding resolve. The warmth of camaraderie that had filled the air before the meeting has evaporated, replaced by an icy, lethal purpose that radiates from them in palpable waves, making the back of my neck prickle. A low murmur of conversation in the common room dies abruptly as they pass, leaving behind an oppressive silence thick with unasked questions and buried fears.
East’s gaze finds mine immediately, cutting through the tension like a knife. My stomach clenches into a familiar, sick knot of anticipation and dread. He strides across the room,his expression a tightly wound coil of controlled tension, every muscle in his body radiating focus. He doesn’t utter a word in front of the others, but the slight tilt of his head toward the back patio door is a clear, silent summons. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat urging me to follow him. A garment bag rests against a chair, hotel-tagged, Property Dept. printed on the label.
I blink at it. East doesn’t even look. The men’s version of subtlety… terrifying.
As we step outside into the cool evening air, the sounds of the clubhouse fade away, creating a private, insulated bubble where only we exist. I draw in a breath, the sharp scent of pine and distant woodsmoke filling my lungs, but it does little to calm the storm brewing inside me. East doesn’t sit; he paces like a caged animal, his boots scraping a restless, angry rhythm on the concrete patio, running a hand through his tousled hair, each movement a stark contrast to the calm facade he maintained inside.
“Malachi just laid it all out,” he begins, his voice low and taut, as if each word is a fragile thread holding back a torrent. “The history with Cornelius, his siblings… and your father being leveraged. He was being blackmailed by Donovan Castiel. But I can’t for the life of me figure out what Donovan could possibly have on a man like Winston Graves. What could be so big that he’d risk everything, even help cover up a murder?”
The question hangs between us, heavy and suffocating, like a physical blow that knocks the wind from my lungs. My mind screams,Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t look at me.But he is. A violent shiver wracks my body, so intense it makes my teeth click together in response. I try to hide it, wrapping my arms around myself as if I can shield my racing heart, but it’s too late. East halts his pacing, his body going utterly still, his focus sharpeningon me, piercing me, stripping away the strategic mask he wears, leaving only raw intensity in its place.
“You know,” he says, his tone dangerously quiet, almost a whisper that vibrates with urgency. “Don’t… don’t lie to me, Darla. I just saw it on your face. You know what the leverage is.”
His words strike me like a key turning in a lock I’ve kept rusted shut for seven long years. The floodgates threaten to burst in a torrent of bitter truth and festering poison that’s clawing its way to the surface. My hands tremble so badly I clench them into fists at my sides, digging my nails into my palms. I want to resist, to deny, but the weight of his gaze anchors me, forcing the truth into the light. The conflict rages within me—fear of what might spill out, fear of the consequences, and the desperate, selfish need to finally unburden myself. It all comes rushing forth, a cascade of memories and secrets I can no longer contain.
“That night… the warehouse party…” I begin, my voice trembling like a fragile leaf caught in a storm. “You and Declan, you didn’t even think to invite me. I was hurt, feeling so small and foolish, so I followed you.” The memory surges back, vivid and raw. “You were both acting like complete idiots, laughing and throwing gravel at each other, your carefree joy slicing through the night. I started recording you on my phone, not for any grand reason, just to hold on to that moment, to remember.”
My breath catches, the next words lodged like shards of glass in my throat. The phantom smell of iron and dust, of blood on gravel, floods my senses, choking me. “After it happened, I couldn’t bear to watch it. But the day before the funeral, the ache of missing him became unbearable. I just wanted to hear his voice again, to see his smile one last time. So, I watched the video. That’s when everything shattered.”
I finally meet his gaze, the truth burning like acid on my tongue. “I saw my father. He was in the car, his hands gripping the gun. But he wasn’t aiming at Declan. He was aiming for you,East. Declan… he stumbled, tripped over his own feet, and fell right into the path of the bullet.”
He freezes, staring at me. The color drains from his face, leaving his skin taut, waxy white. Emotion evaporates, replaced by a chilling emptiness that suffocates the air around us. The world seems to hold its breath, waiting for the storm to break. Then, slowly, shock morphs into something darker. Cold, terrifying fury. I see the muscles in his jaw clench with a single, violent twitch.
Without a word, he turns away, his movements stiff and mechanical, as if each step is a weight dragging him down. He strides toward the clubhouse, pushing the patio door open with such force that it slams against the wall, rattling the very foundation of our reality.
“East, wait!” I cry out, scrambling after him, panic clawing at my insides. I can’t let him leave like this, can’t let this be the end of our story. I need him to understand.
