Chapter 25 Enzo
I move through the hospital with purpose.
Trying to stay calm, no need to draw attention.
I make it to the nurses’ station without a single glance that lingers too long.
Most of them are too busy, too exhausted to care who’s asking questions—until they look up and see me.
Then suddenly, they all find something else to do.
So I approach.
“Good morning,” I say smoothly, letting my voice drop into a measured tone that gets results without threats. “I’m hoping you can help me.”
Her eyes flick up from the chart in her hand, narrowing with the kind of wariness I’ve grown used to over the years. “I’ll try my best.”
“There was a woman here,” I begin. “She came to visit the man in seven eighteen two mornings ago. Dark hair. About five-six. Wore a baggie hoodie, big sunglasses. Used the name Dani Rivera.”
Her shoulders shift—almost imperceptibly.
“I don’t usually give out visitor information,” she says, voice flat. “Especially not to men who look like you and ask vague questions.”
Fair enough.
I pull the photo from my coat pocket. Bianca. Or Lilly. Or Dani. Or whatever the hell her name is.
“I know she was here,” I say. “I just need the name of the man that was in that room. That’s all.”
“I’m not allowed to give that information.”
I sigh, hating what I’m about to say, but I need that name.
“Do you know who I am?”
Her eyes flash to mine. “I do.”
I lean forward. “I need that information. If you don’t give it to me, there are other ways.”
Her eyes narrow on mine. “Are you threatening me?”
I shake my head. “No, ma’am, but I like to do things the easy way and if my people have to hack into the hospital records, they could also gain access to payroll. And I know there are a lot of people here who rely on their paychecks.”
The nurse hesitates. Then, after a beat too long, she exhales through her nose and glances down the hallway to make sure no one else is in earshot.
“Declan Kavanagh,” she says quietly.
The name hits me like an explosion— deafening.
Kavanagh.
My jaw tightens. Heat rises beneath my skin, crawling up the back of my neck like a fuse has been lit.
Declan Kavanagh is the youngest son of Laclan Kavanagh—my father’s oldest rival. Our families have bled over turf, shipping routes, and broken favors going back at least forty years. And now, the woman I haven’t stopped thinking about for two goddamn years was at his bedside.
“What was his condition?” I ask, sharper now.
“Critical. Passed a day later.” She doesn’t blink. “His wife was here around the clock. The other woman you asked about only visited twice.”
I nod, backing away from the desk with my phone still clutched in my hand.
My thoughts spin in volatile circles, each one darker than the last. If she sat beside a dying Kavanagh, then she isn’t just hiding—she’s entrenched.
Embedded. Part of something deeper. Maybe she was using me all along, slipping into my club, into my bed, into my veins, just to carve out space in my world and pull information from the inside.
But the pieces don’t fit. She never asked the wrong questions, never pushed too hard. When she was inside my penthouse—my most private space—she didn’t snoop, didn’t even glance where she shouldn’t have.
And no infiltrator walks away once they’ve breached the walls. They stay. They take. They rot you from the inside out. She…she vanished. Which means there’s more.
I step into the elevator, pulse hammering like a gun trigger against my ribs.
Lilly. Bianca. Dani. Whoever the fuck you are…you’ve got secrets.
And I’m going to drag every last one of them into the light.
My office at Monarch stirs with voices when I step inside.
Lars is already here, two of my men flanking the desk, a laptop glowing between them.
The scent of expensive whiskey clings to the air, but no one’s touched their glasses.
They’re waiting for me. They’ve been digging, and from the look on their faces, they’ve found something.
Lars slides a piece of paper toward me. “She checked in at that hotel under Bianca Simpson. No other information was given.”
My eyes skim the page, catching on the name like a thorn. Cheap. Forgettable. She thinks aliases will keep her hidden.
“What room?”
“Seventeen. Second floor,” Lars replies.
I push off the table, already heading for the door. Obsession drags me forward like a leash, every step heavier, sharper. I won’t delegate this. I need to see the space myself, feel it, pull her ghost out of the walls until it tells me where she went.
The lock on the door of her room is pathetic. One flick of my pick and the door gives, swinging open. I slip inside, closing it behind me with a soft click. The deadbolt slides into place beneath my hand.
The air still holds her. Clean soap layered with something floral, the scent that clings to a room long after she leaves. It hits me like a drug. My chest tightens. My cock stirs. She was here.
The blinds are drawn tight, the room dim.
A half-empty water bottle sits on the nightstand, long gone warm.
A coffee cup slouches in the trash, the faint ring of lipstick on the rim like she left it there for me to find.
A chair is crooked at the desk, pushed back in haste, like she stood up fast and never sat again.
I move through the space slowly, cataloguing every piece of her.
I start in the bathroom, where her body wash rests in the shower.
I pick it up, open the cap, and breathe in deeply.
The smell reminds me of her skin, her softness.
I set it on the counter where I find makeup scattered across the vanity, brushes dusted with powder that matches her skin.
My fingertips trail over the counter, almost reverent, before I step back into the bedroom.
The closet holds a few things—shirts, dresses, a robe. But it’s the duffel bag on the floor that pulls me to my knees. I crouch down, unzip it, and the breath leaves my chest.
Dancer gear. Sequins, straps, thin costumes meant to be torn off by greedy eyes. And then—A thong. Black. Barely a scrap of fabric.
I lift it between my fingers, the delicate stretch of lace obscene in my hands.
I bring it to my nose. Her. Every trace of her pressed into the fibers.
My cock aches against the press of my zipper.
I fold it into my palm and slip it into my pocket like contraband, like a prize no one else can touch.
Then I dig deeper. Beneath the costumes is cash. Stacks of it, bound with rubber bands, filling the bottom of the bag like a secret life she never wanted me to see. Beside it, a black clutch purse that rattles when I lift it.
Inside are two burner phones. Both powered down.
I roll them in my palms, turning them over, searching for scratches, numbers, anything that could betray her trail.
Nothing. Clean. Too clean. The kind of absence that screams effort.
She wasn’t drifting through shadows by accident.
She was off-grid with intent, cutting herself loose from every tether.
Cash. Burners. A visit to a dying man who carried one of the bloodiest surnames in Chicago. Piece by piece, the picture sharpens, and it makes my chest burn. This isn’t a girl with secrets. This is a woman trying to stay hidden.
The questions come like a warning, curling under my ribs. A predator’s instinct telling me I’m not circling prey—I’ve stepped into a minefield, every detail rigged to blow.
I drop the clutch onto the bed, the weight of it dull against the spread, and lower into the desk chair.
Elbows braced on the arms of the chair, I press my fingers hard into my temples until my pulse throbs there.
Pressure builds behind my eyes, the kind that comes from too many patterns trying to lock into place at once.
Kavanagh. The name beats through me. Declan, Lachlan’s son, the heir they once paraded as the future of their empire. Dead now, but not before she walked into his hospital room. The only ones close enough to him at the end—his wife and her.
I never heard her claim a surname, but the bloodline stares me down all the same.
The one time I met Declan at a gala, his smile was all charm hiding sharpness.
And in the quiet of this room, I can almost see it again—etched faintly across her face, as though every secret she thought she buried is already written in her bones.
I pull my phone from my coat and tap Rowan’s name. The line rings once before he answers.
“Boss.”
“I need you to find something,” I say. “I need information about Lachlan Kavanagh. I know about his son, Declan. I want to know about any other children.”
There’s a pause, a click of keys. Then silence.
“Give me five.”
Another click. An exhale.
“Got something,” he says. “A daughter. Name is Zara Kavanagh. Born thirty-two years ago. Mother’s name redacted, but the girl’s legit. No activity in the last few years. No digital trace at all.”
My spine straightens. Blood shifts in my veins.
Zara.
“She went dark?” I ask.
“Like ghost mode. No socials. No bank trails. No IDs updated since she was twenty-one. I’d bet money she left the city.”
“Can you find a photo?” My voice stays calm, but there's a thrum building beneath it, something cold and tight in the back of my throat.
“Hold on…” The pause drags too long. Not casual. Not careless. When he speaks again, there's a shift—something in his tone that puts me on edge. “Sending it now.”
The moment the photo hits my screen, I know. The rest of the room fades to static. No warning. No time to brace. Just a single frame that slams into me like a punch I didn’t see coming.
It’s her.
Even stripped down, no makeup, hair pulled away, a flat stare meant for bureaucracy—she’s unmistakable.
The same cheekbones I traced with my fingers.
The mouth I kissed until it bruised. And those eyes…
Fuck, those eyes. I’ve seen them in every memory I can’t shake.
In the red lights of the club. In the dark, when sleep won’t come. Staring up at me in Detroit.
And now I know her name.
Zara Kavanagh.
I stare at the ID photo on my screen, the details warping at the edges as my mind snaps backward through every missed sign.
Every carefully placed half-truth. Every choice she made to stay just out of reach.
The woman who left my bed before sunrise, who danced on my stage, who never gave me a straight answer…
she didn’t need to. Her name would’ve said everything.
Lachlan Kavanagh’s daughter. My enemy’s legacy. Right under my roof.
She let me touch her. She let me claim her, for a night. She shared a meal with me in my goddamn home.
I end the call without a word. Place the phone down carefully, like anything faster might set off the kind of explosion I won’t be able to contain. My thoughts spiral.
Zara Kavanagh. Hiding in plain sight.
I should burn the bridge, shut the door, lock it, and make peace with never getting the answers I want.
But I won’t. I know myself too well—I’m not walking away from her.
Not when she made me crave something real.
Not when the need still lives under my skin, when my body wants her more than my pride wants revenge.
Now the task sits heavy in my chest. I have to find her.