There’s a beat of silence.
“Jesus,” Lars mutters, blinking. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
“You wouldn’t last the week,” Violette quips, patting him on the cheek with that wicked little smirk she’s perfected over decades.
Laughter breaks through the room—dry, sharp, but genuine. Familiar. The kind of sound I used to believe had no place in my life. I shift toward Zara, sliding my arm around her shoulders. She leans in without hesitation, like her body knows mine is the safest place to land. The tightness I hadn’t even noticed in her spine begins to melt.
And for a moment, I forget what this war is costing us. Forget that this operation is a takedown designed to bury the last of the Kavanagh name.
Because here, at this table, in this stolen pocket of morning, I don’t feel like a king with enemies at every gate. I feel like a man with everything to lose. And I’ve never been more certain of what I’m willing to do to protect it.
Lars standsin the war room, at the head of the long table, a digital blueprint of the gala venue glowing behind him. My top men are gathered around—Dom, Cormac, Stefano—all trusted, all deadly. No one else is allowed in this room right now.
I settleinto my chair, forearms braced on the edge of the table, eyes locked on the screen. “Start from the top,” I say.
Lars nods and taps the remote, zooming in on the event floor. “We’ll run two outer rings of security. First line is front-of-house—formal presence. Suits, earpieces, visible. We let the guests know they’re safe but not watched. Second line, internal surveillance—cameras, motion sensors, biometric scanners on restricted access points.”
“Entrance and exit strategy?” I ask.
“All four main doors will be manned. Two secure exits mapped out behind the stage in case we need to pull you or Zara. SUVs staged one block over, idle with full crews. Chopper ready if it turns south.”
I nod once. “And her detail?”
“She’ll have her own team,” Lars says, already anticipating the question. “Dom will lead it. She won’t be more than five feet from one of our men at any point, even if she’s in the bathroom.”
Dom nods, his expression like granite. “She’s covered, boss. I’ll put my life on it.”
“You just did,” I say quietly, then lean back, letting the silence stretch. I glance at the blueprint again, tapping the edge of the table.
“And Kavanagh?” My voice drops, lower and darker now.
“We expect him there,” Lars replies. “We’ve tracked chatter. His people are nervous but not pulling out. He’s too proud, too arrogant to pass up the spotlight. You throw a gala in his city and invite the world? He’ll show. He’ll want to play nice, smile for the cameras.”
I lean forward, eyes sharp. “Let him. Let him believe he’s still untouchable. Let him dress up and rub shoulders with the elite. And then we end it. We destroy him—publicly.”
The men shift, energy bristling around the room. This is what we’ve been waiting for.
“If anyone gets too close to Zara, you end it before they get the chance to breathe her name,” I say, voice calm but absolute. “This is her plan. Her spotlight. We don’t let anything interrupt it.”
There’s a collective nod, an unspoken oath. Loyalty forged in blood.
Lars cuts a glance my way. “Are you sure she’s ready for this?”
I look him dead in the eye. “She’s been preparing for this for a lifetime.”
I stareat my reflection and try to breathe.
The dress is stunning—deep maroon with a plunging neckline and a slit that climbs nearly to my hip. Violette had it custom tailored. “Marchetti curves need fabric that knows how to behave,” she said. I have to admit, it fits like a glove, every inch of it whispering elegance and menace.
But my hands won’t stop trembling.
I smooth them down my thighs, trying to ground myself. Tonight is it. The gala. The moment we set fire to the world my father built. The moment I get to look him in the eyes while his empire collapses.
And yet—under all the fire and adrenaline and fury, I just want this over. I want to dance with Enzo in a room full of people who can’t touch us. I want to use his credit card at ridiculous boutiques and tease Lars about his budgeting spreadsheet. I want late-night takeout and messy kisses and a day where I’m not checking over my shoulder for blood.
My eyes flick to the suite behind me, where Enzo is adjusting his bowtie in the mirror across the room. It’s the same maroon shade as my dress, picked without discussion—like he always knows what will match me. He meets my gaze and gives me a once-over that makes my skin heat despite the nerves.
“Angel,” he says, voice reverent. “That dress is going to be the reason at least three men die tonight.”
