Chapter 75
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Drago
I follow behind Declan, watching as he drops his gun into the box the priest is holding.
I just keep reminding myself Lily is safe. She’s with Lev. This is the end. I’m going to be a dad. That’s the one thought that is getting me through this.
I was always going to fight like hell to get back to my girl. But knowing there is a chance she’s carrying our baby. Our fucking future.
I’ll burn down the world to make sure I can crawl through the ashes to get back to them.
“They are all waiting for you in the back,” the priest says, voice low as he grips the wooden box like it might save his life. “I will take you through. God help you if this turns violent.”
My jaw ticks.
If he were looking out for us, we would never have ended up here. We wouldn’t have lost what we’ve lost. We wouldn’t be standing in a church, pretending peace exists, while men like the Preacher walk free.
If God were real, why are there monsters out there that traffic women and children like they’re cattle?
I lost my faith a long time ago.
The only person I trust to keep me alive… is myself.
“It won’t,” Declan replies, calm as always. “We’re adults. Not animals.”
I follow, dropping my handgun into the box without hesitation. I don’t need weapons. I’ve been trained to be one.
And like that, I slip back to the man they need me to be today. The one ready for war.
One by one, the rest of our men do the same, the clink of metal echoing through the church like a countdown. The priest sets the box down on a pew and leads us past the gold cross, down the dingy stairs, deeper into the place where sins go to rot.
Enzo has eyes everywhere. This whole building is wired. He’s close by, but far enough that he remains safe. The king is guarding his empire.
But no matter how many fail-safes we create…
There’s always a weakness.
Always a crack.
And men like the Preacher know how to slip through them.
The priest doesn’t speak as he stops at a heavy wooden door. His hand trembles slightly as he unlocks it, and my gaze narrows.
A man who spends his life in the house of God shouldn’t look like he’s about to piss himself.
He opens it.
Declan straightens his tie like he’s stepping into a boardroom, not an underground chamber where men come to lie and kill. We’re all suited up for a meeting hiding bulletproof vests underneath.
He strides inside, power in every step.
We follow.
The room is bigger than I expected. Brick walls are sweating and damp. Harsh lighting. A long wooden table like a damn courtroom.
No windows. No escape routes that don’t require violence.
Declan takes the head of the table. Conan and Finn sit on either side of him.
I take my place beside Conan, the twins opposite me.
And then I look across the table.
Six men as agreed upon.
A huge guy sits in the center, leaning back like he owns the air in here. Tattoos run across his face, his head, his neck. Gang ink. Prison ink. Loud ink.
I shift in my seat, not because I’m scared, but because men who want to be ghosts don’t decorate themselves like billboards. What’s the point in being a ghost if you walk around like you want the world to fear you?
And that’s the first sign. The second is his hand.
He pulls out a cigar like he’s in a movie, tries to light it with slow confidence, but there’s a tremor in his grip.
Nerves.
A cult leader nervous? That doesn’t track.
My gut twists hard. Not with surprise. With confirmation. Because we planned for this.
Two days ago, Enzo laid out every scenario like chessboards across the table at Inferno. He didn’t just prepare us for the likely outcome. He prepared us for the dirty one. The long game.
The one where Tatiana plays games, and where the real Preacher doesn’t show his face. The one where she sends a sacrificial mouthpiece to sit in the center seat and take the heat while the real monster stays hidden.
Scenario B.
The decoy. Tatiana’s favorite move.
I’d bet my life she thinks she’s clever. I’d bet my life she’s enjoying it. And she’s not the only one. Because on the far right of the table, one man isn’t watching Declan. He’s watching me.
The second our eyes meet, a grin spreads across his lips like he’s just found something delicious. Tatiana’s contact.
I give him a subtle nod, my face cold, my posture relaxed. I’ve got the necklace. But he isn’t touching it until this is done.
His grin says he understands. It also says he thinks I’m trapped.
I clear my throat and lean slightly toward Conan, my lips barely moving.
“Ní heisean,” I whisper in Gaeilge so only he can understand. “Not him.”
Conan stiffens beside me, but he doesn’t react, not outwardly.
Declan doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t need to. He’s already sliding into the role. Because this is the part where we keep the negotiation intact.
We let the puppet talk. We let the performance breathe.
We let the decoy think he’s important, that they’ve got one over on us. While Enzo listens from above, recording everything, mapping every word, every tell, every subtle shift.
And once this peace talk ends? That’s when the real plan goes live. The decoy doesn’t lead us to peace; he leads us to a trail. And no one on this earth tracks men better than the Sterling brothers.
Hunter Sterling and his crew don’t do sermons and suits. They’ll follow this fake Preacher the moment he leaves this church. They’ll tail him to his handlers, his contacts, his drop points. And eventually to the real Preacher.
Declan rests his hands on the table, gaze razor sharp. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Preacher.”
“Likewise,” the decoy says, puffing out smoke like he wants to cover the tremor in his hand. Even the accent is pathetic. An exaggerated southern drawl. He really thinks he’s the star of the show.
“So talk, peace, Mr. Quinn,” he drawls, spreading his arms. “How do you see our organizations living harmoniously?”
Declan’s answer is immediate. “I don’t.”
The decoy’s smile twitches.
“That won’t happen with how you run yours currently,” Declan continues, calm as death.
“Right,” the decoy says, tapping his rings on the wood. “So by peace, you mean… stop my business?”
“Find new business,” Declan replies. “We’re here to stop a war. The terms are simple. You stop trafficking women and children.”
The decoy tuts. “So dramatic, Declan.” His smile stretches. “Can I call you that?”
“No,” Declan says. “Not until you give me your name.”
The decoy leans back like he’s enjoying himself. “Pete.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
Declan doesn’t blink. “Fair enough. Carry on.”
Pete’s eyes flick toward Tatiana’s contact for half a second, like he’s checking he’s performing correctly, then he leans forward again.
“I traffic women who have no other path left on this road. You know the types. They’re lost…
we give them purpose again so they can find a higher power eventually. ”
Bullshit.
My fists clench beneath the table.
Declan doesn’t snap. Doesn’t rise. He stays controlled because control is the weapon right now.
“You traffic women across our state lines and into our clubs under our noses,” Declan says evenly. “We don’t stand for that.”
Pete claps loudly, mocking. “Aren’t y’all so righteous?” He leans forward, face twisting mean. “Bet you wouldn’t hesitate to lodge a bullet between my fucking eyes.”
Declan’s spine straightens. “I would,” he says flatly. “Yes.”
Pete pauses. And I watch for the real reaction.
Not from Pete. From Tatiana’s contact. He barely moves, but his smile sharpens.
Because he knows this is all theatre. He knows we’re still sitting here.
Still playing along. Still letting this go on.
Because we want him to walk out of here feeling safe.
Feeling smug. Feeling like the big scary Quinns couldn’t touch him in God’s house.
Declan tilts his head, voice almost conversational. “But you’re a piece of shit.” He taps the table once. “If you agree to stop trafficking, I won’t lodge that bullet in your skull. How does that sound?”
Pete scoffs, trying to recover swagger. “This peace isn’t very peaceful.”
Declan’s mouth curves slightly. “No,” he replies. “It isn’t.”
Then his eyes harden, the temperature in the room dropping. “It’s just the only reason you’re still breathing.”
I keep my face neutral. Because everything in me is primed to kill, but today isn’t about killing the decoy.
It’s about what the decoy leads us to.
And as Pete keeps talking, the pieces slot into place one by one, neat as a blade sliding into a sheath.
Tatiana thinks she’s protected the real Preacher by hiding him. But she’s done the opposite.
Because now?
Now we get to follow the trail, and we don’t stop until we find the ghost.