I don’t breathe. I stare.
A photo of her and Anthony Falco spans the page. If I didn’t have a trained eye, I wouldn’t know it’s been photoshopped. Her expression carefully chosen—likely from some unrelated gala photo or private picture—pasted next to a man whose name alone makes my jaw clench.
Zara. Marrying into the Falco family.
A headline meant to solidify power, confirming what we speculated. An image meant to cement the lie.
The room is quiet. Lars and my men stand waiting. Watching.
I stand, the paper crinkling under my hand as I crush it in my fist. My heart is a hammer behind my ribs, but my voice is steady.
“When did this hit?”
“This morning,” Lars says. “Citywide. Philly too. They’re making a show of it.”
“She didn’t agree to this,” I mutter, more to myself than to them.
“She wouldn’t,” Lars agrees.
The others exchange glances, then it’s Rossi who speaks first. “We knew Lachlan was reaching. But this? This is desperation.”
“Or arrogance,” Cormac adds. “A final attempt to prove he still has control.”
Stefano leans forward, fingers tented. “Either way, it’s a mistake. One we can use.”
“Planning a wedding of this scale means movement. Staff. Transport. Logistics. Even the Falcos can’t keep all that under wraps. We start pressing on their people, someone’s going to squeal,” Lars says.
My hand is still clenched around the paper. “We’re not just crashing a wedding. We’re ending a bloodline.”
“Careful,” Stefano warns. “We go in too loud, too fast, we risk Zara. If they get spooked?—”
“They won’t touch her, they need her too badly,” I growl. “Besides, by the time they know we’re coming, it’ll be too late.”
The room hums with a current of dark energy now. Plans are forming behind every stare.
“Location?” I ask.
“Not announced,” Lars says. “But I’ve got eyes scanning venues tied to the Falcos. We’re cross-referencing guest movements, florist bookings, vendor contracts. Something will break.”
“What if they keep her hidden until the ceremony?” Cormac asks.
“Then we take the ceremony,” I say. “I prefer we have her before she walks down that fucking aisle. But we move when we know we can safely extract her. No sooner.”
Rossi leans forward, the strategist in him already working. “We could hit one of the smaller safehouses. Rattle them. Make them reassign personnel. Force a shift.”
“Too risky without better intel,” Lars counters. “But if we can intercept the dress fittings or hair and makeup staff, we might tag where she’s being prepped.”
My head is already pounding. The thought of her being paraded like some showpiece, wrapped in white and forced to smile beside that bastard Falco, makes my blood boil.
Lars looks at me. “We’re with you. But we need to be smart. Rage doesn’t win wars. Precision does.”
“I’m calm,” I lie.
“You’re not,” Lars says. “But we’ll channel it.”
The tension in the room is broken by a knock. Heavy. Measured.
I glance at Lars. He doesn’t need to say anything. He already knows who it is.
