“Well,” he drawls, “I’d like to propose that every debrief going forward comes with fresh flowers and emotionally symbolic jewelry.”
“It’samethyst,” Zara corrects without looking at him, still tracing the chain against her collarbone.
“It’s perfect, Enzo, well done,” Violette grins. “We love a witchy birthstone.”
Idrag a chair closer to Zara’s bed and sink into it, one arm draped along the backrest. “Are you ready for an update?”
She nods. “Let’s hear it.”
I keep it surface-level. Just the broad strokes.
“Lachlan’s still locked down. Not talking. But his men are cracking. We’ve got feelers out in Philly. Quiet infiltration, using names connected to the Falco family. If Falco’s building something, we’ll know soon.”
“And my sister?” she asks.
I meet her eyes. “Rowan dug and found some information based on the name you gave us. But it all comes to a dead end around the time she turned eighteen. But we’re already running background sweeps—bank records, travel logs, education data, private networks.”
“Did my father say anything about her?”
“He’s not speaking,” I say, “but once he’s ready to talk, it will certainly be a topic that will be discussed.”
Zara’s jaw tightens. She looks away for a second, then turns back. “Her mom’s name was Erin Vale. She was nice, even if I didn’t like her for having a child with my father.”
Lars types something quietly on his phone while she speaks.
“We were close. When we were little, she called me Zari. We had matching bracelets. Plastic things, but she never took hers off.” Her voice goes quiet. “Until they left.”
“Do you know what school she went to?” I ask. I already know Rowan’s crew will comb every school record within two hundred miles, but I ask anyway.
“She was pulled before middle school. Her mom just…vanished with her. I can’t blame her. It’s possible my father paid her off.”
Violette speaks up gently. “And you think she stayed hidden?”
Zara hesitates. “Maybe. But if she knew who she was…she might’ve tried to blend in. She could’ve changed her name. Gone underground.”
“She could’ve also made enemies,” I say. “Even withoutknowing it.” I reach for her hand. “No matter what the outcome, I’ll find her,” I promise.
And if someone got to her first—if Lachlan had contingency plans we haven’t seen yet—I’ll conquer whatever corner of the world they’re hiding in.
Because if that girl matters to Zara, it’s my duty to protect her.
The hospital braceletstill clings to my wrist. I turn it absent-mindedly with my thumb as I sit in the corner chair of the discharge suite, dressed in soft black leggings and one of Enzo’s sweaters. The scent of him is baked into the cotton—cologne, gunpowder, something darker I can’t name but have always known. The weight of it settles on me like a shield.
Violette is smoothing my paperwork at the counter, a force of grace and intimidation in a tailored coat and heels. Enzo stands with one hand in his pocket, barking instructions into his phone, uninterested in niceties. Lars leans against the far wall with a cup of hospital coffee and the glazed-over look of a man who has not slept properly in four days.
I’m cleared to leave. Healed enough to walk, stitched up, carrying more than just scars now.
“Where are we going?” I ask, glancing at Enzo. “The estate or the penthouse?”
His eyes flick to me, dark and direct. “Penthouse. I need to stay close to the city.”
I nod. The estate was quiet. Private. But the penthouse means movement. Activity. Syndicate presence.Power.
“Do I need to clear out drawers for weapon storage?” I ask. “Or will they all be hidden in your suits?”
“You can have your own drawer,” he deadpans. “Think of it as domestic armament.”
“Romantic.”
