Chapter 26 Enzo
The sound of gloves hitting the bag echoes through the gym like a rhythm meant to break bones.
Lars doesn’t stop when I enter. His fists thud against the leather, knuckles sharp and fast, body angled with lethal precision. His hair’s tied back in a short knot, damp with sweat. He works in a controlled rhythm, every punch precise. Calculated violence disguised as routine.
When the final hit lands with a dull, satisfying thud, he steadies the bag before stepping back, breathing hard, and rips the gloves off. Once the gloves are gone, the color beneath is revealed. His nails are painted charcoal gray. Glossy. Immaculate.
Lars has always liked contrast. He’ll walk into a bloodbath wearing nail polish or loafers that cost more than some people’s cars, and no one ever questions it. Not when he can put someone through a wall without blinking.
He tosses the gloves to the bench and wipes down with a towel, never looking my way.
“Thought you’d be at the club,” he says, voice casual as he runs the towel over the back of his neck. “You usually like to lick your wounds surrounded by stilettos and dim lighting.”
“Something came up.”
“Judging by your expression, that ‘something’ has tits and still hasn’t been found.”
I don’t answer yet. He tosses the towel aside and turns, giving me his full attention for the first time. There’s dried blood along his jawline from last night’s hit. A souvenir from reminding the Kavanaghs we still own this city.
“How bad was it?” I ask.
“Controlled burn,” he says. “Two guards down. No bystanders. We left a message loud enough for Lachlan to lose sleep over.”
“Good,” I reply. “We’re going to need the distraction.”
Lars pauses, the smile fading. “Are you planning something bigger?”
I shake my head as we walk to the corner of the gym. I lean against the steel support beam and cross my arms. The weight of what I learned less than an hour ago sits heavy on my chest and I need to talk through the thoughts filling my head.
“She’s a Kavanagh.”
Lars stills, eyes narrowing. “Who?”
“Lilly.” My jaw tightens as I force the truth out. “Her real name is Zara Kavanagh.”
A whistle slips past his teeth before he drags a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ. That’s a hell of a reveal, Enzo.”
“She was at Declan’s bedside before he died. Different alias than the one at the club.” My hand rakes through my hair, frustration burning through me. “I went through her hotel room—cash, burners, wigs. She wasn’t just running, she was hiding.”
Lars mutters a curse under his breath. “You think Lachlan’s got her locked up now?”
“If he’d known where she was all these years, she never would’ve gotten this far. He’d have dragged her back by her hair. My guess? He only just caught her scent.”
Arms folded across his chest, Lars’s gaze sharpens. “So what does that make her? A wildcard? A Trojan horse wrapped in a pretty package? Are you sure you’re not walking into a trap?”
I stop pacing, meet his stare dead-on. “If she was playing me, she missed too many chances. Two nights alone with her. She wasn’t asking questions, wasn’t fishing for intel. I watched her, Lars. She’s not part of Lachlan’s game.”
His voice dips lower, edged with warning. “You’re certain? Because I’ve known you a long time, brother. And this—” he gestures at me, steady, unblinking, “—this isn’t you. You’ve never been rattled over a woman. Maybe your judgment isn’t as clear as you think.”
The air between us sharpens. My gaze cuts into his. “She isn’t just any woman.”
Lars doesn’t flinch. “No. But you still let her into your bed.”
“That was two years ago. I didn’t know who she was.”
“You do now.” His tone doesn’t rise, but that calm weight carries further than any shout.
Silence settles, heavy as a loaded gun. Lars has stood beside me through fire, betrayal, and blood, but he’s never looked at me like this—like I’m the one pulling us toward the edge.
“It doesn’t change anything,” I finally say, but the words scrape hollow even to my own ears.
“The fuck it doesn’t.” Lars steps in closer. “She’s Lachlan’s daughter. That gives her leverage. That makes her dangerous. And if they don’t know she’s a soft spot for you yet, we’re standing on borrowed time before they do. When that bomb goes off, it won’t just hit you. It hits all of us.”
He’s not wrong. But I can’t shake what I saw in her. The truth she wasn’t saying out loud. And my gut—my goddamn gut—is telling me this isn’t black and white.
“I need to know where she is,” I say finally. “Who has her.”
Lars nods, knowing there’s no convincing me otherwise. He sighs, eyes changing, already calculating.
“We’ll dig. I’ll have Rowan focus on it. Maybe she left a footprint she didn’t mean to. And I’ll have the warehouse crews start sweeping our side. If Lachlan grabbed her, someone in his circle’s going to talk eventually.”
“Make them talk.”
Lars grins. “You want fingers or limbs?”
“Start with fingers. Limbs if they refuse to talk.”
He heads for the locker room, stripping off his sweat-soaked shirt, already moving at a pace that tells me things are in motion.