Yeah…and I blame Keira for that.
The anger inside me has grown teeth and learned how to breathe on its own.
All this emotion and nowhere to put it. No number to call. No door to kick in. I don't even get the satisfaction of yelling at her—of asking how she justified keeping my son from me, how she sleeps at night knowing what she stole.
Who the fuck does she think she is?
My knuckles split when I curl my hand into a fist. Blood beads bright and obscene across the scars already there. It's a reminderthat I'm still kicking, and as long as I'm here, I'll be looking for them.
Hunting her down.
I grab my coat and keys.
Not forgetting the gun locked in my desk drawer.
I'm not going after Keira because I miss her.
I'm going because I hate loose ends. And whatever life she chose, whoever she's turned into, I need to see it for myself.
I need to find my son and have the choice to bring him home.
Even if I have to burn every bridge down to get to them.
THREE
TRISTAN
Istare out the window of my private jet at nothing but a black sky and the occasional wink of city lights far below.
Europe's somewhere down there.
Elliot came through early.
Twenty hours instead of twenty-four. A name and an address that led to Naples.
Matteo Romano.
Former banker, current broker for something called the Black Door. Zara traced his encrypted accounts back to one of Keira's old operational zones, which is still apparently active.
It's likely another dead end, which means I should have sent someone else.
That's how I normally operate—delegating tasks and keeping my hands clean. Let other people do the work while I pull the strings from a distance. It's efficient and safer.
I run one of the largest hedge funds in New York. On paper, it's pristine—private equity, offshore accounts, portfolios designed to make powerful people richer. In reality, it's a laundering machine. Criminal money goes in dirty and comes out legitimate, invested, and untouchable. I don't move product. I move numbers. Andnumbers are harder to trace once they've been dressed up properly.
The biggest mafia houses have my back, which means I'm protected on all fronts.
That's why I came to New York—to stop doing the groundwork myself. And, well, I didn't want to run into Keira after what she did to me. She worked for the Irish mafia, and her base was in the UK.
So why the fuck am I here now doing groundwork?
Great question.
The thought of one of my men finding her first—seeing her face before I do, hearing whatever lie she's prepared, watching her disappear again—it makes me even more furious than if I were to stay home and hear about it.
So here I am, thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic, chasing a likely stale lead.
An incoming text from Nick steals my attention.
