CAL
The position Jace chose is perfect—tactically sound, as always. We’re near one of the marble columns at the top of the grand staircase, elevated enough to see everyone who arrives, positioned so we can observe the main gallery below without being obvious about it.
We look like what we are: three of Charles Carter’s men, dressed in tuxedos that cost more than most people’s monthly rent, attending a charity gala to maintain appearances and make connections. Professional. Polished. Completely unremarkable.
Except I haven’t been able to focus on a single conversation or observation for the past twenty minutes because I keep watching the entrance, waiting for her to arrive.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” Silas mutters from my left, his storm-grey eyes tracking a state senator’s wife as she descends the stairs with her considerably younger date.
“I’m observing,” I say.
“You’re obsessing,” Jace corrects from my right, his voice low enough that no one else could hear. “And you need to get it together before she gets here.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” Silas shifts his weight, the movement subtle but enough to draw my attention. “You’ve been a fucking wreck for two days. We both have.”
He’s not wrong. Ever since Parker took those DNA samples in the gym—just walked up to us, demanded we open our mouths, and claimed control of the one thing we’d been investigating behind her back—I haven’t been able to think straight.
The samples are being processed right now. Somewhere, a lab tech is running tests that will confirm what we already know: that Noah and Liam belong to two of us. That Parker’s children—ourchildren—have two different fathers.
And we won’t know the results until she decides to tell us.
If she decides to tell us.
“She might not tell us at all,” I say quietly, voicing the fear that’s been eating at me. “She might keep the results to herself. Punish us for not trusting her by withholding the one thing we want to know.”
“She won’t,” Jace says, but there’s uncertainty in his voice that wasn’t there before.
“How do you know?”
“Because she wouldn’t have taken the samples if she didn’t plan to use them.” Silas’s logic is sound, even if I don’t want to believeit. “She’s making a point. Taking control. But she’s not cruel. She’ll tell us.”
“When she’s ready,” Jace adds. “On her terms.”
Which could be tonight. Or next week. Or never.
I force myself to focus on the task at hand. Charles sent us here to observe, to make note of which families are talking to which, to watch for alliances being formed or tensions building. It’s the kind of work we’ve been doing for years—reading rooms, cataloging connections, building the intelligence network that keeps the Carter organization ahead of threats.
Usually, I’m good at this. Better than good. I can track six conversations simultaneously, remember names and faces, notice the small tells that indicate when someone’s lying or planning something.
Tonight, I can barely remember why we’re here.
“Senator Morrison is talking to the Castellano underboss,” Jace observes, his tactical mind still functioning even if mine isn’t. “Third time they’ve spoken tonight.”
“The Castellanos are trying to expand into our territory,” Silas adds. “Using political connections to smooth the way.”
“We should tell Charles,” I say automatically, pulling out my phone to make a note.
And that’s when I see her.
Parker, at the top of the entrance stairs, being helped out of a long black coat by Ryan Matthews.
For a second, I don’t process what I’m seeing. Just register her presence—Parker is here, she’s arrived, she’s?—
Then the coat comes off.
Storm grey.
