We’d taken a huge chunk out of the trafficking side of their operations. We hadn’t eliminated it. That would be pure arrogance to think we had, but we’d definitelyhurtthem.
Goblin lay stretched out at my feet, chin on his paws, tail thumping once every so often like he knew I needed reminding I wasn’t alone. He did that. Chose his moments.
I leaned back in the chair, left ankle propped over the right prosthetic on the desk. An open notebook sat on my lap where I’d been writing out the contingencies for Grace’s potential return to modeling.
Potential.
I hated that word more today than I had last week.
“I told Voodoo something today.”
“I’m thinking about going back to work.”
I replayed it more often than I wanted to admit. Not because I was angry. I wasn’t. Worried? Absolutely.
No, it was on a constant loop in my head because the quiet, certainty in her voice had beenhersagain. The Grace from before everything fell apart. Before monsters peeled back the world and showed her its teeth.
That part mattered more to me than all the risks I could list.
But holy shit, I could list a lot. I dragged a hand down my face and forced myself to keep looking at the screens.
On the left: The remains of Eleanor’s agency—Drake Talent & Management. I’d traced the transition of power after her death, which was listed as a “freak accident,” something vague and insulting. Two junior partners picked up the reins. Neitherhad her instincts. Neither had her spine. Both had taken on new investors.
Investors whose names were… interesting.
On the right: A scroll of every photographer, designer, stylist, and brand Grace had worked with over the last five years. Fifty-seven names total. Thirty-four still active. Twenty reachable. Ten with questionable ties. Three with direct connections to Rachel Manning—the photographer who’d lent us her Paris apartment.
I flagged every connection, every oddity, every overlap.
Rachel herself? Clean. Too clean. We owed her, but she wasn’t stupid. She’d noticed the inconsistencies in the story Grace had told her, and she’d asked questions. Not many questions and even though she accepted it when Grace said she couldn’t answer her, I didn’t like it.
I didn’t like it enough to put her back on the board as someone to just keep an eye on. If I was suspicious of everyone then there was a strong chance no one would surprise me.
Hopefully.
On the screen: A projected security plan. Preliminary. Brutal. Necessary.
Because no matter how I organized it, no matter how much I prepared—every scenario where Gracie stepped back into the public eye put her at risk.
And the worst part? I couldn’t escape the idea that this was the absolutewrongcall.
Not because she couldn’t handle it—she could.
Not because she wasn’t strong enough—she was stronger than even she knew.
But because the second Grace Black walked back into the world and her face resurfaced, someone—Korkov’s people, La Madrina’s people, one of the syndicates, hell, even someone we didn’t know about yet—would see it.
And then they’d start looking for her again.
A ping hit one of the screens. Goblin’s ears perked.
I rolled closer, scanning the notification:
A contact in Barcelona. One I rarely tapped. A quiet favor. Just a breadcrumb.
They’d traced a rumor—just a rumor—of a woman matching Amorette’s description in Rio de Janeiro three months earlier. A photograph accompanied it, pixelated to hell and back. Dark hair, right build but so fucking blurry it could have been a mannequin for all the detail visible.
Old. Unverified. Maybe bullshit.
