Da’s glare snaps to me instantly. Shock fights with that permanent scowl—disbelief stamped across his face that I would dare open my mouth against him.
Please.
The days of swallowing his word like gospel, of hero-worshipping him just because he’s my father are dead. There isn’t enough loyalty left in me to play his obedient son on command while also going through with this marriage.
“Don’t you have an engagement party to get ready for?” he scoffs, voice dripping with contempt. The mere mention of what’s waiting for me tomorrow tightens like a leash around my neck. My mind races, picturing the glittering hall, the cameras, the whispers of everyone watching, judging, expecting. I feel a familiar, suffocating weight—the performance, the smiles, the pretending. Every instinct screams to run, yet every eye will be trained on me, waiting for me to fail.
“Some of us can multitask.” My words come out harder than I mean. “Now, how about we get back on topic?”
I throw a look at Owen, desperate to yank this conversation away from the topic of Lily, to pull it back from the fresh wound of hearing her name tossed around like some goddamn complication instead of a person. Like she wasn’t the only good thing I ever had.
“Right.” Owen clears his throat, trying to reset the room. “We called this meeting not to rehash the Lily issue or start a riot, but because we’re at a dead end with this fucking tattoo.Ciaran and Declan have had no luck working out what’s meant to be buried in the ink and Brennan has had no luck finding ties between Jimmy and Conor. Unless we can find someone else to interrogate, someone easier to break, we’re running out of options. And unless we strip-search every Points member, I don’t know how the hell we’re gonna find someone else.”
“Do it.” Declan’s voice is quiet but firm. He’s already pacing, in that calculated way of his, brain ticking through every possible move while stealing glances at Bren, who looks just as lost in thought.
“We call them down to the Pit in groups, frame it as training.” Bren suggests slowly.
“And weed out anyone with even a whisper of sketchy ink,” Cora adds, glancing at Jonathan. She’s stepping up—taking the lead more every day. And Jonathan? He’s letting her. Slowly retreating since Helen came back. Handing over the reins, meeting by meeting, shrug by shrug. He’s choosing peace over war, and I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t envy him for it.
“In other news,” I clear my throat, voice catching just a little, “I don’t think Salvatore is as clean as he wants us to think he is.”
That gets their attention.
I walk them through what I’ve seen, the little inconsistencies, the cracks in his mask, the gut instinct that’s been clawing at me ever since I set foot on his estate. Something’s off. Wrong in a way I can’t quite explain, like standing in a beautiful house and smelling gas.
“It’s early days, and it could be nothing, but…”
“But it doesn’t sit right.” Owen’s voice is low as he runs a hand through his dark hair, messing it up even further.
“Keep your head down and your eyes open,” Jack advises, concern etched in the lines of his frown. “Dig as much as you can without drawing unwanted attention.”
“The last thing we need is you getting into hot water before the ink’s even dry on your marriage license,” Declan grunts, and everyone murmurs their agreements, the unspoken tensions hanging between us as the meeting draws to a close.
The second the feed ends, I go back to my desk, back to the only thing that makes sense anymore: control. I start poking through Salvatore’s security system again, fingers flying, trying to get deeper, peeling back another layer. Something about this whole place makes my skin crawl, like I’m breathing in lies with every inhale.
Control used to mean keeping enemies in check, holding the reins so tight no one could move without my say-so. Now it’s about her. About making sure I can see her, despite the distance between us. Because distance doesn’t make the habit fade, it just makes the itch worse.
And watching her is still my worst habit, one I can’t seem to break. One I’m not even sure Iwantto break. Especially not now, with everything getting more complicated by the day.
Because the emails paint one version of her. Cold and calculated. Tangled up in something dark enough to scorch anyone who gets too close.
But the girl I’ve been watching for months—reallywatching—has never once slipped. No secret meetings, no coded calls, no shadow figures at her door. Just late nights, early mornings, exhausted laughter, and a woman piecing together a life from whatever pieces she has left. If she’s involved in a trafficking ring, she’s the most convincing liar I’ve ever known.
And that’s what’s fucking me up.
Because if she’s innocent, then she’s vulnerable. Exiled and on her own, cut off from every safety net she ever had.
Switching from Salvatore’s firewalls to the camera feed from her flat isn’t even a decision. My fingers move before the thought fully forms, pulling up yesterday’s footage when the current feed shows nothing but an empty flat, the timestamp blinking in the corner like a quiet accusation.
Even grainy camera footage can’t hide the way she glows. She’s mid-laugh, leaning closer to the camera, talking to her new friends on some FaceTime call, and the sound of it hits me like a punch straight through the chest. For a second, it almost seems like she’s moved on. Like what we had—and what we lost—never meant anything. Like I never mattered.
She looks happy. Like she’s building something for herself. Like she’s finally free.
And I hate that I still care.
I hate that it still fucking burns. Quiet and constant, like heartburn that never goes away, no matter how many ways you try to soothe it.
Tonight’s meeting just made it worse, a hundred times over. Sitting there, listening to everyone dance around her name like it’s some kind of explosive, makes it painfully clear just how fucked we all are. Even if she’s innocent, it might already be too late to wipe away the hurt and the damage that the last year carved into all of us. And then there’s the simple, gut-wrenching fact that in six months, I’ll be tied to someone else in an irreversible way.
