Amara moves to my side, her eyes scanning the coordinates. “That’s a dead-drop location. And that transfer size, that deletion flag—he’s not just moving money. He’s clearing out. He’s getting ready to disappear again.”
I look at her, the feral need for vengeance surging through me, hot and black. This is it. The opening.
“He’s not disappearing,” I say, my voice dropping into a register that would terrify my brothers. “Not if we cut the switch before he runs.”
“We can’t just go in there,” Amara says, though her eyes are sparking with the same fire as mine. “He’ll have security. And if we kill him before we dismantle the dead-man’s-switch, everything he has on your family goes straight to the feds.”
“I know,” I say. I reach out and grab my jacket from the back of the chair. “That’s why we’re going tonight. Not to kill him. Not yet. We’re going to tag the network. We’re going to find out exactly where the switch is anchored.”
I turn to her, my hand out. It’s an invitation. A command. A promise.
“You said you wanted to hunt, Amara. Grab your shoes, your kit, and anything you need to work a server under pressure. We leave in ten.”
She looks at my hand, then up at my face. The runner in her is screaming, I can see it in the way her shoulders tense. But the woman who loved Curtis Osei is stronger.
She reaches out and takes my hand. Her fingers are cold, but her grip is iron.
“Ten minutes,” she says.
I pull her toward me, one last time, my chest tight. “Stay close. If things go loud, you move to the car and call the number I give you. We do not improvise unless we have to.”
She gives me a sharp, sassy little smirk that makes my heart skip a beat. “You clearly haven’t been paying attention, Alessio. I don’t follow directions well. But I’m not leaving you behind.”
I lead her out of the basement, my mind already mapping the route to the South Loop. For the first time in eleven years, the war has shifted. Not ended. Shifted. The secrets are coming out, the lines are being drawn, and I’m not fighting alone.
As we head toward the garage, we pass the kitchen. Turi is there, sitting at the small table with a cup of tea, the soft glow of the stove light illuminating his silver hair. He looks up as we pass, his eyes kind, watchful.
“Going out, Alessio?” he asks, his voice a warm rumble.
“Just a drive, Turi,” I say, my heart giving a strange, painful tug. I hate lying to him. I hate more that some part of me is listening to how he answers. He’s the one who held me after my mother was killed, when grief had nowhere clean to go. He’s the one who taught me how to keep my head down and my eyes open. Which is exactly why I can’t bear to turn that lesson on him.
“Be careful,” Turi says, his gaze shifting to Amara. He offers her a small, encouraging smile. “The city is cold tonight. Make sure she’s wrapped up warm.”
“I will,” I promise.
We keep moving, but the weight of Turi’s gaze follows me. He looks so frail in the dim light, so peaceful. I think about the traitor I’m hunting, the person who sold our parents out for adebt. I look at Turi and feel the old, desperate need to believe at least one thing in this house is still pure.
We reach the garage, the smell of gasoline and expensive leather replacing the scent of old paper. I head for the black SUV, the one with the reinforced plating and the untraceable tags.
Amara stops by the passenger door, looking at the vehicle, then back at the house.
“He really loves you,” she says softly. “Turi. He looks at you like you’re the sun.”
“He raised us,” I say, opening the driver’s side door. “After the massacre, most people would have run. The Costas were a sinking ship. But Turi stayed. He kept eleven grieving Costas alive and turned the younger ones into men while the older ones learned how to become weapons. I’d die for him.”
“I know the feeling,” she says, her voice low. “I would have died for Curtis. I almost did, a few times.”
I walk around the car, stopping in front of her. I don’t touch her, but I’m close enough to feel the heat of her body. “You don’t have to die for this. Neither do I, if we do it right.”
She scoffs, but there’s no bite in it. “You’re very bossy, you know that? It’s a miracle your family haven’t revolted.”
“They try,” I say, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. “They usually fail. Now, get in the car.”
She slides into the seat, and I close the door, the thud echoing in the quiet garage. I get behind the wheel, my hands gripping the leather of the steering wheel. My hands ache around the wheel, old scar tissue pulling tight over the knuckles.
I look at the house one last time before I hit the remote for the gate. Somewhere in there, a traitor is sleeping. Somewhere in there, my brothers are dreaming of a peace they’ve never known.
I look at Amara. She’s staring straight ahead, her jaw set, her hands folded in her lap. She looks like a woman going into battle with numbers instead of armor.
