The silencein my office at the Monarch stretches like wire pulled too tight.
It’s late. The club below hums with life, but up here, the world is still. No distractions. No noise to drown out the shit clawing at the inside of my skull.
Lars leans against the edge of the wet bar, holding a glass of gin he hasn’t touched. He’s waiting for me to speak. I haven’t. I’ve been standing in front of the massive screen on the far wall for ten minutes, watching that grainy photo of Serafina Kavanagh loop like a cursed reel.
Same cap. Same braid. Same defiant posture.
She has Zara’s eyes. But none of Zara’s softness.
“Are you going to tell her?” Lars finally asks.
I don’t answer right away. I drag a hand through my hair, jaw tight.
“I want to.” The words cut out of me, rough and honest. “She asked me to find her sister, Lars. She handed me something sacred—her trust. And what do I have to give her in return? A completely different image of a girl she once knew.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I finally turn to face him. Lars studies me the way only he can—as the man who’s watched my walls rise and fall since we were kids.
“She deserves the truth,” I say. “But not before we know what kind of truth we’re holding.”
Lars nods. “So you wait.”
I grit my teeth. “I hate it.”
“I know.”
I cross to the bar, pour two fingers of something aged and sharp into a glass, and let it burn its way down.
“She’s happy right now,” I say, quieter. “Recovering. Dreaming about decorating the penthouse and planning a future. And I’m supposed to walk in and drop a bomb that her sister may be leading a rogue Marchetti cell that might not give a fuck about bloodlines?”
“She asked you to find her. That doesn’t mean she’s ready for what we’ve found.”
That lands.
Because I know Zara. And I know the look she gave me when she mentioned Serafina—hopeful, cautious, like this was the one part of her past that didn’t leave a scar. And if I take that from her too soon…I could lose more than trust. I could lose peace.
Lars moves toward the screen and taps a knuckle against the image. “What if she’s not a threat? What if she’s taking out targets that we’re not aware of?”
“She could be,” I say. “But the fact that she’s commanding men who were trained, that once answered to our family, and now operate off the grid? I wonder what side she’s on. What her motive is.”
He exhales and finally takes a sip of his drink. “Then we find out what kind of game she’s playing.”
I stare at the screen for another beat, then kill the monitor with a tap of the remote. The room drops into shadow.
“We need boots on the ground,” I say.
Lars nods once. “Someone we trust. Someone who knows how to blend in. Texas is tricky—Falco’s men have been sighted in Dallas and now Sera. Could be dangerous.”
“I want both targets tracked,” I mutter. “If Anthony Falco’s alive, we will flush him and send him running back to Chicago. And if Sera is a threat, we neutralize it.”
Lars meets my eyes. “You want me to go?”
My first instinct is to keep him close, where I know he’s safe. But I trust him more than anyone. And this isn’t a task I can delegate to soldiers or associates.
“Yeah,” I answer. “I need you there. But not alone. Take two from Dante’s crew. I’ll get his recommendation. No Marchetti ink, no known players.”
He gives a short nod, all business now. “I’ll handle it.”
“And Lars?” I pause, setting the glass down. “If you find her…and she’s not what Zara remembers…”
