Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Sophie
What in the actual…?
For over an hour, I lay in bed, tossing and turning. Even though I drank wine and took a warm bath, there was no way I could sleep. So instead, I got up, poured another glass, and opened my computer.
Research is always the right answer.
Now, sitting cross-legged on my sofa with my robe wrapped tightly around me, I stare, wide-eyed, at an image on the screen.
The picture of Lucian unmistakable.
Even in a still shot, he manages to look at ease in a world where everyone else seems to be working much harder to prove they belong.
Caleb is standing next to him, his attention focused away from the camera.
But I’m staring at the man across from them.
Dante Moretti.
No. That can’t possibly be right.
Hoping I’m wrong, I zoom in.
Oh. God. It is him.
The reputed underboss of the Moretti family.
Meaning the man who insists I marry him casually hangs out with the mob?
They’re all seated at a wedding reception, and the caption identifies the bride and groom as Isla and Dorian Vale. And that’s another name I recognize. He’s a billionaire businessman running for the US Senate. Until recently, no one had actually given him a chance of winning.
Then I return to the photograph and study it more carefully.
Lucian is talking to Moretti.
Caleb is watching him.
Something else catches my attention.
Dorian Vale has one hand resting on the back of his bride’s chair. There’s a ring on his finger, understated enough that I almost miss it.
And there’s an owl on it.
I lean closer to the screen.
No freaking way.
I enlarge the image until the pixels begin to blur. But there’s no mistaking the shape or the tiny green eyes.
It’s the same owl I’d seen on Lucian cuff links.
Because there’s no possible way that can be a coincidence, I open another tab and type both their names along with owl insignia.
Most of the results are useless, but several pages in, I find an old article speculating about something called the Zeta Society.
Or, more dramatically, the Titans.
Titans? Seriously?
Apparently some men aren’t satisfied with being rich. They also need secret societies and bird jewelry.
There’s no membership list. Nothing official. Just rumors linking powerful businessmen, politicians, financiers, and other men whose names tend to appear in headlines. The owl, according to the article, is supposedly one of their symbols.
Supposedly.
I look at the photograph again.
There is nothing accidental about the grouping, no awkward we happened to be assigned the same table body language.
Suddenly my wine tastes bitter.
After putting the glass down, I exhale. “Time to figure this out.”
I open a blank document. At the top, I type their names.
Then I add a heading for known associates. Beneath it, I list Rafe Sterling from the hotel. Then Dorian. Then Dante.
And beneath that, I add one more line.
Possible affiliation: Zeta Society / “Titans.”
Research may always be the right answer, so why am I now thinking that ignorance occasionally has its advantages.
I take another sip of wine before returning to the query that brought me here.
Lucian Hawthorne.
There are pages of results.
Business articles. Photographs from charitable events. Financial conferences. Interviews with publications I’ve actually heard of.
He’s listed as co-owner of Hawthorne & Pierce, so I click on that. And that’s where I learn Caleb’s last name. Pierce.
How fitting is that?
Details of what the firm actually does are vague, described in expensive-sounding language that has obviously been crafted by a PR firm.
Supposedly they deal in international finance, strategic risk, complex asset restructuring, and even private intelligence.
I reread the words.
Even though money and its psychology are the area of my expertise, I have no idea what any of this means.
What’s even more interesting is what’s not on the site.
There are no testimonials from happy customers. No helpful meet our team videos. No chat box popping up to ask how they can assist me today.
The section labeled Private Intelligence grabs my attention.
Supposedly the firm advises select private clients and corporations on matters involving geopolitical exposure, reputational risk, financial vulnerability, and complex international interests.
I blink.
Then read it again.
That sounds suspiciously like we find out things people don’t want us to know.
I copy that paragraph into my document. Then I type, Are they spies?
The idea is laughable. But I don’t smile. Nothing about tonight is funny.
If I don’t find a way to keep myself from screaming, I may actually start.
Lucian’s bio tells me he’s one of the firm’s founders, notes his international upbringing and experience in finance, negotiation, and risk management.
International upbringing.
That’s intriguing enough to have me searching again.
A search through older articles finally reveals that his father had been a high-ranking European diplomat, a very successful one until confidential communications were leaked during sensitive negotiations.
The language in the article is careful, and there are no accusations that the elder Hawthorne personally leaked anything.
There is, however, the standard Mr. Hawthorne is planning to spend more time with his family.
There’s a photograph accompanying the article. I zoom in to see a much-younger Lucian standing a few feet behind his father outside some grand European building. He’s still unmistakably himself in a dark suit, shoulders straight, his expression neutral.
How old was he? Eighteen? Nineteen?
Then a sliver of compassion unfolds inside me. I know what it’s like to have your life determined by your father’s bad choices.
“No.” Determinedly I close the image.
I’m absolutely not refusing to have tenderness for Lucian Hawthorne.
The man freaking bought me.
I return to the company website to read Caleb’s bio.
And I learn almost nothing. He’s listed as cofounder, operations, and security. That part definitely fits.
But a search of his name in a different tab gets me pages of irrelevant results, including a dentist in Arizona, a college football player, a school board member, and a man in Florida who seems extremely passionate about breeding exotic fish.
As for the Caleb who is a hulking, threatening presence at Lucian’s side, there’s nothing.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I search the company.
Maybe unsurprisingly, I find a number of lawsuits.
And yet…
None were successful. Most were dismissed. Others were withdrawn.
Interesting.
If anything, their lawyers—or the duo themselves—appear to be frighteningly competent.
But patterns are my entire professional life.
One event means nothing. Two deserve attention. Three require investigation. So I add another heading to my document.
Litigation. Then I write: People sue them. The cases are quickly resolved. How? Why?
My cursor blinks.
After squeezing my eyes shut, I type: Legal? Or other means?
I fall down another few rabbit holes. Then I realize my wineglass is empty.
I consider refilling it, then decide against it when a quick glance at the corner of my screen shows that it’s 2:13 a.m.
I have clients tomorrow.
Today.
Whatever.
Still, one question bothers me. How did my father fall into their trap?
Even though I should come back to the question tomorrow, I can’t help but open a new search, this one containing the names of Lucian and my father.
The search seems to work forever until…
I see a result from many years ago, and I click on it. The page takes forever to load, probably because it’s so old.
My father is standing with a group of businessmen at some fundraising luncheon. He looks younger, happier. And one of his hands is resting on Lucian’s shoulder. Caleb is nearby.
The room around me seems to contract.
Eight years ago, they told me they’d been invited to my parents’ anniversary celebration, and I hadn’t believed them.
Why would I?
They’d appeared out of nowhere, interrupted Adrian’s proposal, assaulted him when he swung at Lucian, said things that made him walk away from me without explanation, then stood there, telling me I would thank them someday.
That I would be theirs.
They angered me, scared me. And I vowed I would never belong to them.
I reach for the glass, even though my brain knows it’s empty.
Have they been planning this since then?
They knew about my mother’s treatments.
They knew what would make him surrender.
A chill crawls down my spine as I scroll through everything I’ve uncovered about them, their connections, their money, and a photograph proving they were already close to my father before I knew they existed.
And my dad straight-up lied to my face.
I slam the lid of my laptop closed.
A couple of hours ago, I convinced myself research was the right answer.
It wasn’t.
Right now, I desperately wish I knew less.
My adversaries are ruthless.
With a small shiver, I wrap my arms around my middle.
How am I going to get out of this?