The dirt hits the wood with a final, rhythmic thud. Each shovelful buries another piece of the last twenty years. The investigation is over, and the silence is a threat.
When the grave is filled, Dominic steps forward. He places a single black stone on the fresh earth. A marker. Not a name. Just a weight. One by one, my brothers do the same. When it’s my turn, I look down at the stone in my hand. It’s cold and smooth.
“Goodbye, Turi,” I whisper.
I don’t forgive him. I can't. But I can't stop loving him either. That’s the true trauma of the betrayal. It doesn't erase the years of care. It just makes them hurt.
I turn back to Amara. She’s staring at the horizon, eyes fixed on something far away. The wind whips her hair around her face, and she looks like she could just step into the gust and vanish. My chest tightens. My lungs refuse to expand. I reach for her hand before the wind can make her look farther away than she is.
“Let’s go,” I say. “We’re done here.”
The ride back to the compound is silent. Chicago rolls past the windows, a gray, concrete jungle that has been our hunting ground for twenty years. It looks like a place we don't belong anymore. Closed storefronts. Empty corners. The silence of a fallen empire.
When we reach the compound, the air is thick with the scent of change. Moving boxes have started to gather in the foyer. Some paintings are down. A few rugs are rolled up. We are stripping the house bare, leaving nothing of ourselves behind.
Dominic gathers us in the dining room. There is no food, only maps of the mountains and property deeds. “The first group leaves in forty-eight hours,” he says, his voice ringing through the empty room. “Vincenzo has the transport secured. Natalia has the legal trail covered. We go to Pine Valley. We look back only when we choose to.”
My brothers murmur their agreement, voices tired but resolute. They want the quiet. They want to be men who aren't always looking over their shoulders.
I look at Amara. She’s standing in the doorway, hands tucked into the sleeves of her dress. She looks like a guest who has overstayed her welcome. She doesn't look like a woman about to move to the mountains.
“Amara,” I say, walking over to her. “The library. I need to show you something.”
She follows me, footsteps silent on the hardwood floors. The library is half-packed, shelves of books replaced by cardboard boxes. I lead her to the desk—the place where she found the truth about Turi. I reach into the drawer and pull out a folder.
I don’t give it to her. Not yet. I just hold it, the weight of it a promise I’m not sure I can keep.
“I’m endowing the scholarship,” I tell her. “The Curtis Osei Memorial Scholarship. For forensic students. Natalia has the paperwork ready. The first funds go out next month.”
She blinks, her eyes softening. She reaches out, fingers brushing the top of the velvet box. “Alessio... you didn't have to do that.”
“I did,” I say, my voice thick. “He was your brother. He was the reason you fought. He deserves to be remembered for more than a line in a ledger. He’s part of our story now, Amara. Not as a line in Vane’s ledger. As a name we protect.”
She looks away, her jaw tightening. Tears threaten to spill. She’s a runner because weight has always meant trap to her. She’s spent ten years light on her feet, carrying nothing but a laptop and a grudge. Now, I’m trying to give her a home, a name, and a legacy. It’s too much. I can feel it in the way she’s vibrating—a bird trapped in a room with too many windows.
“I need to pack,” she whispers.
“Most of your things are upstairs,” I say carefully. “But I know that isn’t what you mean.” “Everything you have is already in my room. You unpacked. You put your clothes in my dresser.”
“I need to... I need to see the mountain,” she says, words coming out fast. “I need to know what it looks like. I’ve always been in cities. Always in the noise.”
“It’s quiet,” I say, stepping closer, crowding her space. I want her to feel that I’m here. That she isn’t alone. That the doorisn’t the only answer. “It’s so quiet you can hear your own heart. It’s going to be good for us. We’ll build something real. Not a fortress. Not a vault. A house with doors we choose to open.”
I reach out, cupping her face. Her skin is like silk, so fragile under my scarred palms. I lean down, pressing my lips to hers. It’s a slow, desperate kiss, a plea for her to stay, to choose me, to stop looking for the exit. She kisses me back, her mouth hungry and searching, but there’s a desperate edge to it. It feels like a goodbye.
“I love you,” I mutter against her lips.
She doesn't say it back. She just clings to me, fingers digging into my shoulders, breath hitched in her throat.
The evening is a blur of logistics and exhaustion. We eat a somber dinner of sandwiches on packing crates. We drink too much wine. We try to talk about the future, about the MC in Pine Valley, about Lucia in Pine Valley, about the life she built beyond Chicago. But the ghosts of Chicago are still in the room, hovering in the corners where the furniture used to be.
By midnight, the house is finally quiet. The brothers have gone to their rooms, the boxes are sealed, and the last of the wine has been drained. I lead Amara up the stairs, my hand at her waist, wound tighter than I know how to admit.
Wound up like a spring that’s about to snap. The war is over, and I don’t know who I am. I’m not a hunter. I’m not a keeper of secrets. I’m just a man with a woman who looks like she’s about to vanish into the night.
We get into bed, the sheets cold and crisp. I pull her against me, limbs tangling with hers. I want to sink into her, to lose myself in the heat of her body until the world outside disappears. I want to touch her until the fear leaves both of us, but grief has made my hands too desperate. But the grief is still too heavy. The trauma of the day is a wall between us.
I hold her until my arms ache. I listen to her heart until it slows into the steady rhythm of sleep. I watch the moon crawl across the floor, counting the seconds until the sun comes up and we leave this blood-soaked city behind.
