Chapter Nineteen #2
Then Ronan asks what all of us have been circling since the call. “So,” he says quietly, eyes flicking between us. “We’re done lying to ourselves, right?”
I feel the weight of it settle into my chest—not sharp grief, not shock. Something colder. Older. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re done.”
Emerson lifts his head. “Bryce didn’t just kill my mom,” he says, voice flat but dangerous. “He executed her. Deliberately. And he wanted us to see it.”
Berk’s fingers curl into my sleeve. A way of support in silence.
“And now,” Emerson continues, “we know that wasn’t the first time.”
Ronan’s hand stills. “The car accident,” he says. Not a question.
I nod once. “It wasn’t an accident. Bryce and Dean planned it.” My jaw tightens. “They murdered our moms. Berk’s and ours. On purpose.”
The words hang there—ugly, undeniable.
Berk swallows hard, breath catching before she forces the words out. “I knew they killed my dad,” she says quietly. “I’ve always known that.” Her gaze lifts, steady but burning. “But our moms—Evelyn and Daphne—I thought that was an accident. They let us believe it was fate, not a choice they made.”
Fury burns low and steady in my gut. Not grief—we already survived that. We buried our mother’s years ago. We learned how to live with the empty chairs and unanswered questions.
“We already mourned them,” I say. “We did that when we were kids. When we were told it was an accident and forced to accept it.” I look at Emerson. “This doesn’t reopen the wound. It tells us who put the knife there.”
Ronan exhales slowly, the sound measured, contained. “They didn’t lose control,” he says. “They decided.”
Berk nods, her voice quiet but razor-sharp. “They chose it,” she says. “Every step. And then they chose not to stop.”
Emerson nods. “They killed your entire family,” he says to Berk. “They took our mothers. And now they’re coming for us.”
The room feels tighter, charged.
I lean forward, arms tightening around Berk. “Then we finish what we started,” I say. “Not just for revenge—for truth. For every life they treated like collateral.”
Berk lifts her chin. “They’ve added it to their sins,” she says. “And they’re already going to burn.”
Emerson’s mouth curves into a sharp smile. “Good. Because we’re not scrambling anymore. We’re dismantling.”
I look at all of them—Berk steady and blazing, Ronan coiled with lethal focus, Emerson carved hollow by loss but standing anyway—and I know this isn’t grief talking.
This is resolve.
“They planned our mothers’ deaths,” I say. “Lied for years. They built empires on blood and silence. Now, we make them answer for every single one.”
Emerson leans forward and meets my eyes, and whatever steadiness he’s found hardens into a sharp blade. “So… what now?” he asks, and the question hangs between us like a demand rather than a plea.
Berk practically springs to life, a burst of energy flashing through her as she claps her hands and pops up from our laps in one fluid motion.
The shift is instant—like a flipped switch.
“I’m really glad you asked,” she says, grinning, excitement lighting her eyes as she rocks on her toes.
“I was in the war room earlier, and I think you’re all going to want to see what kind of progress we’ve made. ”
Before any of us can respond, she’s already in motion, a whirlwind of color and confidence.
As she passes, her fingers graze across each of us in some small, careless way—her hand brushing my shoulder, trailing over Ronan’s arm, gliding down the back of Emerson’s neck.
It’s enough to make the air in the room shift, the tension from earlier replaced with something brighter, almost electric.
When she reaches the doorway, she glances back with a grin that dares us not to follow.
We do—of course we do. We always do. Three grown men falling into step behind her without a word, drawn by instinct more than choice, following her like gravity has shifted and she’s the only force left holding us upright.
The war room is dim, lit only by the glow of multiple monitors and the low hum of machines.
It’s her domain—part chaos, part brilliance.
Notes, maps, and blueprints are tacked to the walls in a web of organized madness.
She slides into her chair with practiced ease, her hands flying across the keyboard as lines of code blur past on the screens.
“Okay,” she murmurs, half to herself. “Watch this.”
We crowd around behind her, shoulder to shoulder, as she navigates through layers of encrypted files faster than I can track. Then she stops, pausing just long enough to open two documents side by side. At first, I don’t understand what I’m looking at, but her grin widens until it’s almost feral.
Ronan is the first to catch on—of course he is. “Holy shit,” he mutters, leaning closer. “These are our fathers’ statements. From their silent partners.” He lets out a sharp laugh; pure disbelief laced with satisfaction. “And they’re losing a ton of money.”
Berk’s smirk deepens, a satisfaction that says she’s been waiting for this moment. “Pix,” Ronan says, using the nickname only he can make sound both affectionate and reverent, “this is incredible.”
She tilts her head, eyes glinting with mischief. “As soon as we sent the virus,” she says, her tone proud but measured, “they started pulling out left and right. Every one of their backers is running scared.”
I glance between the screens, the reality sinking in like a slow burn. For months, we’ve been living off fury and ghosts, all rage and no direction. But this—this is progress. It’s control. It’s the first sign that the empire that destroyed our families is crumbling internally.
Berk leans back in her chair, spinning it lazily to face us, her smile softening just enough to make my chest ache. “Told you,” she says, her voice low and certain. “They can’t hide from us forever.”
Ronan’s grin mirrors hers, sharp and dangerous. Emerson’s lips twitch in something close to approval. And me? I just stand there, watching her glow in the flicker of the monitors, thinking that maybe vengeance has never looked so beautiful.
“What’s on the agenda for the last warehouse?” I ask, breaking the quiet hum of the monitors.
Berk doesn’t answer right away. She’s sitting cross-legged in her chair, a loose strand of her wild, colorful hair falling onto her face as she stares at the screens. There’s a faint crease between her brows—the look she gets when her brain’s moving faster than the rest of us can keep up.
I already know that expression. She has something up her sleeve. She always does. The corner of my mouth tilts into a smirk, pride sneaking its way into my chest because, honestly, watching her work never gets old. She’s brilliant, dangerous, and completely unpredictable.
She finally leans back in her chair, turning to glance at me with that spark in her eyes.
“The last warehouse is still running shipments out of the docks,” she says.
“Mostly cash drops disguised as exports. I’ve got one of my contacts looking into the manifests, but Bryce is getting sloppy.
He’s moving fast and covering badly, trying to keep things afloat. ”
Ronan tilts his head; arms crossed over his chest. “Sloppy’s good for us. Means they’re running scared.”
“Fear makes people sloppy,” Emerson says, his tone calm and assured. “We just have to be there when he slips.”
Berk nods, her fingers tapping against the armrest of her chair. “Exactly. We hit the warehouse tonight. Then they will have nowhere left to run their product.”
Her confidence hums through the room, but there’s still a shadow behind her words. I catch it when she glances back at one of the blank screens, the one she’s been avoiding for hours. “What about Dean?” I ask quietly, even though I already know it’s a sore spot.
Her shoulders stiffen, the shift so small most people would miss it. “He’s gone completely dark,” she says finally. “No digital trail, no paper, nothing. It’s like he just disappeared.”
“Since when?” Emerson asks.
“Since the last time you heard from him. Before he realized you all were involved,” she answers, frustration edging her tone. She drags a hand through her hair and mutters, “Now that he knows we’re behind this, he’s being smart. Too smart.”
Ronan leans forward on the table, his jaw flexing. “Dean’s a ghost, but ghosts slip up eventually. He’s paranoid, not invincible.”
“Still,” Berk says, sighing. “It’s unsettling. He’s unpredictable. And if he’s keeping tabs on Bryce, that means he’s watching everything else too.”
I rest a hand on the back of her neck, just enough to make her look up at me. “He knows about us,” I say carefully, “but he doesn’t know about you.”
Her eyes flick toward mine, a mix of relief and lingering worry. “Let’s keep it that way,” she whispers.
“Agreed,” I tell her. “Bryce and Dean will both get what’s coming, but only on our terms. You stay out of sight, and we’ll handle the front line.”
She looks at me with that familiar mix of challenge and warmth, and it hooks deep under my ribs. “You don’t handle this without me,” she says softly—no room for argument, no doubt in her eyes.
Ronan chuckles under his breath. “Sounds like she just gave the orders.”
Berk’s smirk returns, sharper this time. “Damn right I did.”
The room hums again, charged with purpose. Plans, pain, and promises all tangled together. It isn’t peace—far from it—but it’s ours. And as I watch her bathed in the blue light of the monitors, the fire in her eyes steady and fierce, I can’t help but think that Bryce and Dean don’t stand a chance.