Chapter 26
LUCAS
Noah's office was all dark wood and shadows, the kind of room built for secrets.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the harbor, but at this hour—just past dawn—the view was more gray than anything else.
He sat behind a massive desk, fingers steepled, eyes sharp despite the early hour.
The man didn't sleep much, I'd learned. Probably didn't need to.
I dropped into the leather chair across from him and pulled the note from my pocket. I'd kept it, even though every instinct said to burn it. Evidence mattered, even when you didn't know what you were dealing with.
I slid it across the desk. "New York. Old man with a cane. Eastern European accent. Handed this to me and disappeared."
Noah picked up the card, read it once, then again. His jaw tightened, but he didn't look surprised. He set it down carefully, like it might explode if handled wrong.
"Welcome to the real war," he read aloud, his voice flat. "That's bold."
"You've seen this before?"
"Not exactly." He leaned back, the chair creaking under him. "But we've been tracking movement. Shadows, mostly. Someone's been poking around Dominion Hall's operations—probing security, testing responses, then vanishing before we can pin them down."
I felt my pulse kick up a notch. "How long?"
"Couple months. It all started when we brought the first of you Montana Danes in. Nothing major, just enough to send a message."
"What kind of message?"
"That they can reach us." He picked up the card again, turning it over in his hands. "This? This is different. They're not just watching anymore. They're introducing themselves."
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "Who the hell are they?"
"That's the problem," Noah said, his frustration bleeding through. "We don't know. They're good—better than good. They move like ghosts. No patterns, no signatures, nothing we can use to track them. It's like fighting smoke."
"What do they want?"
"That's the other problem." He set the card down, meeting my eyes. "We don't know that either. No demands, no clear objective. They're just ... there. Testing us. Watching. Waiting."
I rubbed the back of my neck, the tension coiling tighter. "The wording of the note—'welcome to the real war'—that sounds like escalation."
"It is," Noah agreed. "They've been playing in the shallow end. This? This is them wading deeper."
I thought about the timeline, trying to piece it together. "The paparazzi at the Kiawah house. The drone. Could that have been them?"
Noah considered it. "Possible. But that felt more opportunistic. Someone looking for a quick payout."
"The SUV at the café, then. Two men, just sitting there. Watching."
His eyes sharpened. "That's more their style. Visible but untouchable. Making you feel watched without giving you a target. But it feels too obvious."
I felt the puzzle pieces shifting, trying to find a pattern that made sense. "So, we've got paparazzi, a surveillance team, and an old man delivering threats. Could all be connected. Could all be random."
"Or," Noah said slowly, "it could be a mix. Real threats buried under noise. That's what makes them dangerous—we can't tell signal from static."
"Which means we're blind. So, why me?"
He turned, his expression grim. "Because you're the newest piece on the board. They're testing you. Seeing how you react."
I didn't like that. Didn't like being a variable in someone else's equation. "What's their endgame?"
"That's what we need to figure out." He moved back to the desk, pulling up a tablet and swiping through files. "We've been running scenarios. Best case, they're corporate rivals trying to destabilize us. Worst case—"
"They're connected to Byron Dane's past," I finished.
Noah nodded. "Our father made enemies. A lot of them. Some are still out there, looking for payback. If they know you're part of Dominion Hall now, that makes you a target."
The weight of it settled on my shoulders like a pack full of rocks. "And Lexi?"
"She's new leverage," Noah said bluntly. "They know you care about her. That makes her valuable to them."
My hands curled into fists. "So, what's the play?"
"We tighten security. Limit exposure. Figure out who the hell we're dealing with before they make another move." He paused, studying me. "How's she holding up?"
I thought about Lexi in the guest room, curled under blankets, exhaustion finally pulling her under. "Surprisingly well. Better than I expected, honestly."
"Hollywood probably prepared her for crazy."
"Yeah," I said. "She's used to cameras, threats, people wanting pieces of her. This is just a different flavor of the same shit."
Noah nodded. "Good. We need her calm. Panic spreads, and that's when mistakes happen."
I was about to ask what our next move should be—whether we pulled back or pushed forward—when the door burst open.
Lexi.
Her eyes were wild, face pale, hair tangled like she'd just woken up. She was breathing hard, clutching her phone in one hand.
I was on my feet before I realized I'd moved. "What's wrong?"
"It's Hannah," she gasped. "She's been attacked."
The world narrowed.
Everything else—the office, the harbor, the note on the desk—faded to background noise. My vision tunneled, locking onto Lexi's face, her words replaying in my head like a recording stuck on loop.
Hannah. Attacked.
My mind clicked over, shifting gears from analysis to action. The operator in me took the wheel, cold and efficient, pushing emotion aside because emotion got people killed.
"Where?" I asked, my voice flat.
"Our house. Someone broke in—" Lexi's voice cracked. "She called me, Lucas. She was crying. She said someone was in her room and—"
"Is she still there?"
"No. She got out. She's in her car. She's—" Lexi looked down at her phone, hands shaking. "She's scared."
Noah was already moving, pulling up his tablet, fingers flying across the screen. "Address?"
Lexi rattled it off, her voice steadier now, the shock giving way to focus. Noah typed it in, pulling up a map, then a live feed from nearby traffic cameras.
"I've got eyes on the street," he said. "No visible threats. But if someone was inside, they're either still there or they bailed when she ran."
I turned to Lexi, gripping her shoulders. "Call her. Tell her to drive here. Now. Don't stop, don't talk to anyone, just get here."
She nodded, already dialing, the phone pressed to her ear. "Hannah? It's me. Listen—"
I turned back to Noah. "We need a team. Now."
"Already on it." He was typing again, sending messages, coordinating. "I'm sending four of my guys to sweep her place. If someone's still there, they'll find them."
"I'm going with them."
"Lucas—"
"I'm going," I said, my tone leaving no room for argument.
Noah studied me for a beat, then nodded. "Fine. But you follow their lead. This isn't a solo op."
I didn't answer. I was already moving toward the door, my mind running through the checklist—weapons, comms, backup plans. But underneath the training, underneath the cold efficiency, something hotter burned.
They'd gone after Hannah.
Lexi's sister. The woman she loved, the one she'd asked me to protect just hours ago.
And I'd failed.
No. Not failed. Not yet. But they'd made it personal now. They'd crossed a line, and that changed everything.
Behind me, I heard Lexi's voice, shaky but strong. "Hannah, just get here. Please. I need you safe."
I paused in the doorway, glancing back. Noah was watching me, his expression unreadable. "Be smart, Lucas. We don't know what we're dealing with yet."
"We're about to find out," I said.
And then I was gone, down the hall, down the stairs, my boots echoing against marble. The rage was building now, controlled but present, a fire that needed direction.
They'd made it personal.
And I was going to do something about it.