Our eyes meet. The air shifts. “You’re waiting on me.”
“I am.” His voice is steady, unreadable, but it cuts straight through me. A shiver threads its way down my spine—not fear, not exactly. Just the truth taking root in my bones.
“When?” My voice is quiet, but it doesn’t waver.
“Tomorrow.” His answer is final. “I’ll take you to him myself. You walk in, and you decide how it ends.”
Enzo leads me through the warehouse to a black door. I stand staring at it for a moment, the finality of this moment sinking in. The waves of nerves and the high of relief fill me. I look up at my husband and nod. Dante stands by in silence as Enzo unlocks the door.
Lachlan Kavanagh sits in the center of the room, shackled to a steel chair, the chains short enough that he can’t lean forward. His suit is wrinkled, his hair matted at the edges. Still, he wears that same smug look.
When the door shuts behind me, he lifts his head, smile curling. “Zara. My girl. I wondered how long it would take before you came to see me.”
I walk toward him with measured steps, the click of my heels echoing in the quiet.
“I didn’t come to see you,” I say. “I came to finish you.”
That gets a chuckle, mocking. “You think you’re capable of that? You were nothing but a mouthy little girl the last time I?—”
“Don’t.” My voice slices through the air. “Don’t talk to me as if you know me. The girl you knew is gone. You killed her gradually in the years after Mom died.”
His expression barely shifts, but I see the flicker—there and gone. “Your mother was the only goodness I had in my life. Not like you and your brother. One too weak and the other too entitled.”
I pull a small vial from my coat pocket, turning it between my fingers so the liquid inside catches the light. “My brother was strong, he would have led your organization well. And as for me, maybe I am a bit entitled. Because I believe that it’s time I see you suffer just a fraction of what you have put others through. Your family, your men, this city.”
The needle gleams as I slide the syringe from the case. Throwing the case to the floor, I fill the syringe and pocket the empty vial. I see the moment he realizes what it is. Not a bullet. Not a blade. Something slower. Something that won’t give him an easy out.
“What is that?”
“Quiet,” I say, stepping closer until I’m in front of him. “You don’t get to ask questions anymore.”
I slide the needle into the side of his neck with clinical precision, depressing the plunger just as the Marchetti family doctor instructed. He jerks against the cuffs, more from instinct than hope. The liquid disappears into him, and I toss the empty syringe aside.
“It’s going to burn,” I tell him. “And you’re going to stay awake. Long enough for me to say everything I’ve come here to say.”
His breathing quickens, but I keep talking.
“You took my childhood. You took my family. You made me afraid of my own shadow. You taught me loyalty was just anotherword for leash, and you wrapped it so tight around my throat I couldn’t breathe.”
I lean in, my voice steady. “And then you let your son die—your own blood—because you thought it would make you stronger. Because love, to you, was weakness.”
His jaw clenches, his skin paling as the drug begins to work.
“I should thank you,” I continue. “Because if you hadn’t been such a cold, selfish bastard, I might never have found Enzo. I might never have known what real power feels like. What real love feels like.”
His breaths are short now, labored.
“The Emerald Brotherhood is unraveling quite quickly. Funny how your men are so willing to leave, that they would rather be led by my husband. Your precious legacy will be erased, ended by your daughter, who you believed ‘was too soft.’”
I tilt my head, meeting his fading gaze. “And I might never have had the chance to tell you this—before you rot in hell.”
I rest my hand over my stomach. “I’m pregnant.”
For the first time, I watch him lose control completely. His pupils widen, his lips part. Maybe it’s shock. Maybe it’s rage. But I know—without doubt—he understands exactly what it means.
“That’s right,” I snarl, leaning so close my words are the last thing he’ll ever hear. “Your grandchild. And they’ll never know your name. The Lachlan line dies with you.”
His breath shudders, one last rattle before his body goes still.
