Gio leans forward. “Which pieces do you want removed first?”
“Start with their arms dealers. I want the import lines severed. Lars, you’ll take their East Side crews—anyone laundering out of Englewood. Marco, sweep the port contacts. Cut every name onthis list.” I tap the folder in front of me. “But leave enough to keep them scrambling.”
“And Lachlan?” someone asks from the far end.
I meet their eyes one by one.
“No one touches Lachlan.”
The room shifts.
They don’t understand at first. Some might think I’m holding back out of sentiment. But they’re wrong.
Lars already knows. He gives a quiet nod and doesn’t question me.
“I will deal with Lachlan myself,” I say. “He’s the root of the evil. He’ll bleed for it.”
Marco shakes his head. “I hope this is all worth it, Enzo.”
“I expect your full loyalty and resources, Marco. Now if we’re done with questions, I want eyes all over this city. And when we find her…”
I pause, voice dropping into something darker.
“She comes home. Under my protection. Under my name.”
“Understood,” Lars says. And just like that, the others fall in line.
Silence hangs thick for a beat longer before the men start to move. Chairs scrape against the floor as they’re pushed back. Folders are opened, pages flipped, assignments scribbled down in shorthand only the Syndicate understands. The shift is immediate—steel-edged focus cutting through the haze of disbelief. Orders are absorbed. Strategy clicks into place.
And still, beneath all the movement, I feel it. The ripple of something unspoken. Shock, maybe. Disbelief, definitely. It clings to the walls, unsettled and dense.
Because Enzo Marchetti doesn’t fall for women. He doesn’t name Madrinas. He doesn’t summon the full force of the Marchetti Syndicate over a woman who once disappeared without a trace—someone no one else would have dared claim.
Until now.
As the last of the men file out, Lars steps up beside me, his expression sharp, but his stride sure. Together, we watch the room empty. Watch plans unfurl into motion. Watch the machine we built begin to turn with new direction.
The empire’s moving. And this time, it’s moving for her.
The city blinksagainst the glass like a thousand dying stars. From up here, the world feels quiet. Distant. Like all the noise I wade through every day can't reach me on the top floor of Marchetti Tower.
Lars moves through the kitchen with ease. He knows exactly where everything is, stocks the spice rack and makes sure the knives in the block stay sharp. His sleeves are rolled up, tattoos on full display, a gold ring glinting as he flips steaks in a cast iron skillet. The man boxes in the morning, stands beside me in dangerous spaces, and cooks like he could run a Michelin-starred restaurant. He's the closest thing I have to a brother, and he feeds me because he knows I won't remember to feed myself.
The scent of garlic and lemon wafts through the kitchen. Jazz music drifts from the speakers overhead, and for a rare moment, the city outside doesn’t feel like it’s pressing in on all sides.
“You eat like shit when I’m not around,” Lars says, plating food without looking at me.
“And yet, I’m still alive.”
“Barely.”
He sets a dish in front of me. Perfectly cooked steak, charred broccolini, and rice with some kind of glaze. I don’t ask what it is; if he made it, it’ll be delicious.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. It’s not uncomfortable. We’ve lived in each other’s shadows too long for that. I’m just waiting for the questions.
He finally leans back, wipes his hands on a towel, and narrows his eyes at me. “Tell me about her.”
I glance up from my plate.
