Silence stretches for a beat.
“Falco’s name has come up,” says Niko, flipping open a smaller file. “There’s been chatter from Philly—quiet activity out west near our border. Some trucks were moving without registration, but we traced a few shell companies. Falco money. Nothing aggressive, but enough to notice.”
That draws every eye in the room.
“Philadelphia doesn’t move into Chicago without an invitation,” Tomaso says. “Not unless there’s a war brewing.”
“Or a marriage,” Lars mutters.
I turn toward him sharply. “What did you say?”
He meets my eyes. “We’ve seen it before. When two families can’t dominate another, they marry. Forge something new. A third stronger branch. Zara disappears. Falco starts creeping into our region. Kavanagh needs leverage to take us down.”
My fingers tap the table. Once. Twice. Thought spirals fast and tight.
“She’s the link,” I say. “The Kavanaghs don’t have the numbers to outgun us. But with Falco’s muscle? Their access? That could shift the balance. Especially if the union is public.”
“They’re building alliances,” Niko says. “And they’re going to use her to do it.”
“She’s Kavanagh blood,” Tomaso recalls. “Even if she doesn’t want to be.”
“She’s mine,” I say. “And they’ve made a mistake thinking she’s a pawn they can control.”
Lars nods once. “If thisisabout a wedding, the timeline is short. We’ll hear noise soon. Announcements. Celebration moves. They’ll go loud to show strength.”
“Then we don’t give them the chance,” I say. “We find out where she is and burn the plan down before it starts.”
“We’ll need more than brute force,” Tomaso adds. “This has layers. Public relations. Strategic partnerships. Money. Influence. The Falcos don’t move without cover.”
“Then we match them,” I say. “But quieter. Smarter. We tap into our allies on the east coast. Track every Falco movement.Intercept any alliance meetings. And leak information where it’ll hurt the most.”
Lars uncrosses his arms, leaning into the table. “We take away their confidence. Piece by piece.”
I nod. “Start with their transport lines. I want two convoys hit by the weekend. No blood if possible, but they’ll get the message. And I want somebody close enough to smell the cologne on Anthony Falco’s neck.”
I leave the room, satisfied, knowing my men are at work.
The tray landsoutside my door like it always does—two knocks, then silence. Not a voice, no interaction. Whoever’s assigned to feed the prisoner never lingers. I count the steps as they fade down the hallway. One, two, three...gone. My room is back to being a tomb.
For twenty-four mornings I’ve waited on the other side of this door, the quiet stretching out like a noose. But today, something new is on the tray.
There’s a newspaper folded beneath my untouched breakfast. Not hidden. Deliberately placed for me to see. The bold black-and-white print stares up at me like it’s gloating. I kneel down, cautious, as if it might burn my fingertips.
The inside of the front page is turned open. My breath catches in my throat.
A wedding announcement. Full-page. Anthony Falco and Zara Kavanagh, our names wound together in ornate script, tied with phrases likestrategic allianceandtwo legacies united in loyalty. But it’s the photo that makes me stagger back like I’ve been slapped. A doctored image—me, smiling beside Anthony’s smug face. My body, his arm. Our heads pasted together in a fantasy the world now believes is truth.
No. No, no, no.
A deep, guttural sound builds in my chest. The newspaper crumples in my hands, crushed beneath shaking fingers. I can’tbreathe. I can’t think. All I see istomorrowprinted beneath the photo, mocking me.
Without thinking, I hurl the tray across the room. The plate shatters on the far wall, scattering shards of ceramic and half-cooked eggs. The teacup hits the window with a crash, spilling dark liquid like blood across the carpet. But it’s not enough.
I want it all destroyed.
The chair next. Then the lamp. My fists slam into the closet door until the skin splits open, until the pain gives shape to the fury roaring through my body.
How dare they.
