Chapter 32
The morning sky is grey and dark, like it knows something I don’t yet.
The silence in my office is shattered when Lars pushes through the door, a folded newspaper in hand and a look on his face I don’t like.
He’s not alone—Rossi, Cormac, and Stefano follow close behind.
All of them carry tension in their shoulders, the kind of tension that doesn’t come without chaos.
Lars drops the paper on my desk without a word. It’s already opened to the page he wants me to see.
“A Union of Legacy and Loyalty: Falco and Kavanagh to Marry Saturday.”
I don’t breathe. I stare.
A photo of her and Anthony Falco spans the page. If I didn’t have a trained eye, I wouldn’t know it’s been photoshopped. Her expression carefully chosen—likely from some unrelated gala photo or private picture—pasted next to a man whose name alone makes my jaw clench.
Zara. Marrying into the Falco family.
A headline meant to solidify power, confirming what we speculated. An image meant to cement the lie.
The room is quiet. Lars and my men stand waiting. Watching.
I stand, the paper crinkling under my hand as I crush it in my fist. My heart is a hammer behind my ribs, but my voice is steady.
“When did this hit?”
“This morning,” Lars says. “Citywide. Philly too. They’re making a show of it.”
“She didn’t agree to this,” I mutter, more to myself than to them.
“She wouldn’t,” Lars agrees.
The others exchange glances, then it’s Rossi who speaks first. “We knew Lachlan was reaching. But this? This is desperation.”
“Or arrogance,” Cormac adds. “A final attempt to prove he still has control.”
Stefano leans forward, fingers tented. “Either way, it’s a mistake. One we can use.”
“Planning a wedding of this scale means movement. Staff. Transport. Logistics. Even the Falcos can’t keep all that under wraps. We start pressing on their people, someone’s going to squeal,” Lars says.
My hand is still clenched around the paper. “We’re not just crashing a wedding. We’re ending a bloodline.”
“Careful,” Stefano warns. “We go in too loud, too fast, we risk Zara. If they get spooked—”
“They won’t touch her, they need her too badly,” I growl. “Besides, by the time they know we’re coming, it’ll be too late.”
The room hums with a current of dark energy now. Plans are forming behind every stare.
“Location?” I ask.
“Not announced,” Lars says. “But I’ve got eyes scanning venues tied to the Falcos. We’re cross-referencing guest movements, florist bookings, vendor contracts. Something will break.”
“What if they keep her hidden until the ceremony?” Cormac asks.
“Then we take the ceremony,” I say. “I prefer we have her before she walks down that fucking aisle. But we move when we know we can safely extract her. No sooner.”
Rossi leans forward, the strategist in him already working. “We could hit one of the smaller safehouses. Rattle them. Make them reassign personnel. Force a shift.”
“Too risky without better intel,” Lars counters. “But if we can intercept the dress fittings or hair and makeup staff, we might tag where she’s being prepped.”
My head is already pounding. The thought of her being paraded like some showpiece, wrapped in white and forced to smile beside that bastard Falco, makes my blood boil.
Lars looks at me. “We’re with you. But we need to be smart. Rage doesn’t win wars. Precision does.”
“I’m calm,” I lie.
“You’re not,” Lars says. “But we’ll channel it.”
The tension in the room is broken by a knock. Heavy. Measured.
I glance at Lars. He doesn’t need to say anything. He already knows who it is.
“Come in.”
The door opens and Tomas steps in, dragging a man between him and Marco. The man’s wrists are bound, his suit torn, blood staining the collar of his shirt. He’s limping, mouth swollen, one eye nearly shut.
“Picked him up outside the north dock,” Tomas says. “Lachlan’s security. He’s been in and out of the estate grounds.”
A spark lights in my chest. Satisfaction. The first real edge we’ve had.
The man is dropped into the chair in front of my desk. He glares at me through his bruised eyes, trying to muster courage. Trying to mask the fear in his eyes.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask calmly.
He nods.
“Then you know what happens next if you don’t talk.”
He doesn’t answer.
I smile coldly. “You’re going to tell me where she is. And you’re going to tell me everything else I want to know. Because if you don’t…” I lean forward, resting my arms on the desk. “I’ll spend the next several hours showing you how creative I can be.”
“I’m not scared of you,” he spits.
I stand and walk around the desk. Lars moves aside. I pull a blade from the inner pocket of my jacket, nothing flashy—just sharp and precise. I kneel beside him, placing the edge gently against his cheek.
“You should be.”
There's silence in the room now. Heavy. The man swallows, and it’s all the permission I need.
I cut. Not deep. Just enough to draw blood.
He gasps, jerking against the restraints. Blood wells up slowly.
“That’s nothing,” I whisper. “But if you don’t speak, you’ll find out just how many ways I can dissect a man without killing him.”
“I—I don’t know exactly where she’s kept,” he stammers.
“Wrong answer.”
“No! I mean it—I don’t. The estate’s sealed off. Staff are rotated. I only saw her once—maybe twice. Always escorted.”
“Where?” Lars asks.
“West Wing, I think. Old part of the estate. Guard rotation is heavier there. That’s all I know.”
I stand and nod at Tomas. “Hold him. If we need more, we’ll ask again.”
Lars steps forward. “That gets us one step closer.”
“It’s not close enough,” I say. “I want eyes on that estate. Drones. Satellite if we have to. I want to see every car, every shadow. No one moves until we have a way in—and a way out with her.”
“Enzo,” Rossi says, cautious. “If we set foot on his property, inside his home, this is war.”
“War it is then.”
Everyone goes silent. And in that silence, I feel the weight of what’s coming.
The basement under the Monarch isn’t on any blueprints.
It’s older than the club itself—built when my grandfather ran things and a small building with a deli was above it.
I built the club and reinforced it when I took over.
Soundproofed, stripped bare except for the chair bolted to the floor, the overhead light, and a drain in the concrete.
He’s down there now. The guard from Lachlan’s crew. Hands bound behind the chair, face still smeared with dried blood and fear. He hasn’t spoken again since his first round of answers, but I haven’t asked any follow-ups. Not yet.
I need the next part done right.
I stand at the sink tucked into the corner of the prep room, rolling up my sleeves. The water runs over my hands as I steel myself for what comes next. It isn’t the blood that bothers me. It’s the waiting. The anticipation of the intel he could give me.
Lars steps into the room behind me, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t speak right away. He doesn’t need to. I can feel the weight of his stare.
“Are you sure about this?” he finally says.
“I wouldn’t be down here if I wasn’t.”
“You can still get answers without drifting this far into the dark.”
I dry my hands and turn, meeting his gaze. “If you’re about to question my commitment to this—”
He holds up a hand. “Not your commitment. Your clarity.”
I narrow my eyes. “Say what you mean.”
“You’re unraveling,” Lars says, blunt as ever. “You’ve been holding it together for days, but your patience is gone. And this—” he gestures around the room, the tools, the chair, the guard, “—feels more personal than strategic.”
“It is personal.”
He nods. “That’s what worries me.”
I step closer. “You think I’ve lost my edge?”
“No,” he says. “I think you’ve sharpened it to the point that you’re willing to cut yourself open just to feel something.”
I don’t respond.
Lars exhales, eyes softer now. “Enzo. You’ve gone after enemies before.
You’ve taken down families, exposed traitors, flipped soldiers without blinking.
But this—Zara—it’s not just about revenge.
You’re obsessed.” Lars shakes his head. “And if this ends in blood? If we burn everything we’ve built, if men die, all of the destruction just to save one woman? ”
I step in, chest to chest. “Then they die. For something that fucking matters. For my family line.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t back away.
I continue, “I might be obsessed, but I’m willing to risk it all, Lars. She breathes life into me. Without her, my bloodline will die because there won’t be another woman who can take her place.”
He watches me carefully. “That’s a dangerous kind of obsession.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But she’s mine. And they took her.”
Lars drops his arms to his side. “So what’s the plan then?”
“I bleed the truth from that guard. Then we move. Small team. Quiet. Surgical.”
“No scorched earth yet?” he asks, half-smirking.
“Not until she’s out.”
Lars nods. Then his hand drops to his side, and he unhooks the ring of keys. He tosses them to me. “Then do it. But don’t take too long. There’s only hours left now.”
I turn toward the door. “Let’s see what information we can get from this asshole.”