Chapter 62
The air in the war room is already tight when I step inside, heavy with the weight of decisions waiting to be made.
Lars has claimed his usual post at my right, relaxed in body but not in eyes.
Dom plays the part of indifference, pen spinning, jaw sharp.
Cormac’s file is spread open. Stefano doesn’t look up from his laptop, though I know he’s clocked every movement since I walked in.
This is the core. The five of us. No second-tier lieutenants. No advisors. Just the men who’ve built this empire beside me. The ones I trust to hold the line when everything else is crumbling.
I take my seat and let the silence stretch, just long enough to make the weight of it settle across the room like dust.
“Lachlan’s still not talking,” Cormac says. “Thirty-seven hours in a locked room and all he’s done is ask for water and bitch about the lighting.”
Dom huffs. “He thinks we won’t touch him. Still playing the long game.”
“He’s not the only one we have,” Lars cuts in. “Three of his inner circle were taken with him. One is pretty young and might not be too loyal yet.”
Cormac closes the file in front of him. “I say start with him, leverage what we can get out of him against the others.”
Nodding, I say, “Split them up. If they bleed, they bleed. I want information. Especially if they can give us something on Falco.”
Stephano leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Do you want a clean extraction or full pressure?”
“Pressure,” I answer without hesitation. “I want names. Contacts. Locations. I want every plan Lachlan whispered when he thought he still had a kingdom.”
Lars’s gaze flicks to me. “And if they give us Falco?”
My jaw ticks. “Then we hunt him down before he can disappear again.”
Because I know he’s already halfway there.
Anthony Falco ran the second Zara slipped through his fingers at the altar and intel has become less than helpful in the past two weeks.
He left his men scrambling, only taking his closest men with him from what we’ve heard.
But he’s out there—waiting, watching. And I’ll be damned if I let him rebuild in our blind spots.
“Falco’s loyalists haven’t hidden,” I say. “Some went underground when the east collapsed, some stayed in Philly, but he still holds presence here and on the east coast. He can’t move without them. We need to find the men who stayed and offer them a deal they can’t refuse.”
“What are we talking here? Money? A title?” Dom asks.
“We promise what we have to and deliver nothing,” I confirm.
“Send word to DeMarco in Philly. Tell him to start spreading the word. Bartenders, dealers, old crew. Anyone still cashing paychecks from the family name is to talk about the new era of the Marchetti Syndicate. They’ll start jumping ship soon enough. ”
Cormac nods. “Then, hopefully the rats lead us to the den.”
“Exactly.”
I take a breath, then shift to the other problem. The one none of them know yet.
“There’s one more thing,” I say, lifting my gaze to meet each of them. “Lachlan has a second daughter.”
The room stills. lifts a brow. Lars straightens. Dom stops spinning his pen.
“He kept it quiet,” Lars says. “Even when he tried to barter with Zara’s engagement, he never once hinted there was another.”
“He didn’t need to,” I say. “She was out of reach. Her mother pulled her early. Changed her name. Moved.”
“Do we know her previous name?” Stephano asks.
“Isadora Vale Kavanagh.” The name rolls through the room.
“How old?” Dom asks. “Mid-twenties?”
“Twenty-four, from the earliest records I could find.” Lars paces. “Private boarding schools. Low profile. No known affiliations. But she exists. And if Lachlan ever whispered her name in the wrong ear, she’s a target.”
“Or a pawn like her sister,” Cormac says darkly.
“Or a backup,” Lars adds, voice colder now. “If he couldn’t control Zara…”
“He had another piece ready to move,” Dom finishes.
I nod. “We need to find her. Now. I want Rowan’s team pulling her last known address, digital trail, anything she used with that name—or any alias since. We’ll cross-reference school lists, flight logs, private banking, anything flagged through Syndicate filters.”
Dom glances at me. “Do we bring her in?”
“Only if we can do it gently,” I reply. “If she’s clean, we give Zara the reunion she’s asking for. But if she’s been compromised…” I pause, jaw tight. “We neutralize the threat. Quietly.”
The silence that follows is heavier now.
This isn’t just about revenge anymore. It’s about prevention. Lachlan built more than a legacy—he built contingencies. And one of them is walking around right now, unaware she may have just become a target.
“She’s blood,” Lars says quietly. “To Zara.”
“And that’s why we handle this carefully,” I answer. “We don’t let Lachlan weaponize anyone else she loves.”
The room begins to shift back into motion. Notes are taken. Calls prepared. The wheels of the machine turning once more.
But beneath it all, the urgency sharpens. The pieces on the board have changed, and this game—this war—is far from over.
I pause outside Zara’s hospital room, fingers tightening around the bouquet in my left hand.
It’s simple—pink roses and pale cream tulips.
Clean. Elegant. The kind of thing she’d pretend not to care about, and then smell three times in a row when she thinks no one’s watching.
Tucked inside the inner pocket of my jacket is the real gift.
The one I couldn’t wait to give her the second I saw it.
The door opens before I knock.
Lars steps out, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. He raises a brow when he sees me.
“She’s awake. Hungry. And pretending she doesn’t like watching The Great British Bake Off.”
“Good,” I grunt. “She’s healing.”
“She’s also opinionated,” he adds, gesturing to the stack of bridal magazines and dog-eared baby books on the nightstand. “Violette’s fueling it.”
“Of course she is.”
He nods. “Now that you’re here, I’m taking a break.”
I nudge past him and step into the room.
Zara’s in bed, upright, a soft blanket pooled around her waist and her dark hair loose around her shoulders. There’s a pink flush back in her cheeks now—color returning to her skin, strength in the way she lifts her chin when she sees me.
God, she’s beautiful.
“Someone’s brooding,” she says, smirking faintly as she spots the flowers. “Did you kill someone on your way here?”
“No,” I say. “But it’s early.”
I cross to the bed and set the bouquet on the tray beside her lunch. “These are peace offerings. I figure you deserve something beautiful that didn’t come with a bullet wound.”
She tilts her head, softening. “You brought me flowers.”
I reach into my jacket next and pull out the velvet box, placing it gently in her lap. “And this.”
Zara gives me a suspicious look, takes the box from my hand, then flicks open the lid.
Inside is a delicate gold chain, thin and gleaming, with a teardrop-shaped amethyst pendant at the center. Deep purple, smooth and faceted, catching the light with a shimmer.
“The baby’s birthstone,” I tell her. “February. If your due date’s right.”
Her throat works around a breath, and her fingers move to the pendant, touching it gently. “Enzo…”
“I wanted you to have something that symbolizes that we’re building something bigger than what they tried to take from us.”
She says nothing for a long moment. Then reaches out, curls her fingers into the front of my shirt, and pulls me toward her, my lips land on hers.
It’s soft. Certain. And it guts me more than anything else ever could.
When I straighten again, I take the necklace from the box and fasten it around her neck. Violette is in the corner flipping through a magazine like she hasn’t been watching us over the rim of her reading glasses. Lars comes back in and flops into the chair near the window.
“Well,” he drawls, “I’d like to propose that every debrief going forward comes with fresh flowers and emotionally symbolic jewelry.”
“It’s amethyst,” Zara corrects without looking at him, still tracing the chain against her collarbone.
“It’s perfect, Enzo, well done,” Violette grins. “We love a witchy birthstone.”
I drag a chair closer to Zara’s bed and sink into it, one arm draped along the backrest. “Are you ready for an update?”
She nods. “Let’s hear it.”
I keep it surface-level. Just the broad strokes.
“Lachlan’s still locked down. Not talking. But his men are cracking. We’ve got feelers out in Philly. Quiet infiltration, using names connected to the Falco family. If Falco’s building something, we’ll know soon.”
“And my sister?” she asks.
I meet her eyes. “Rowan dug and found some information based on the name you gave us. But it all comes to a dead end around the time she turned eighteen. But we’re already running background sweeps—bank records, travel logs, education data, private networks.”
“Did my father say anything about her?”
“He’s not speaking,” I say, “but once he’s ready to talk, it will certainly be a topic that will be discussed.”
Zara’s jaw tightens. She looks away for a second, then turns back. “Her mom’s name was Erin Vale. She was nice, even if I didn’t like her for having a child with my father.”
Lars types something quietly on his phone while she speaks.
“We were close. When we were little, she called me Zari. We had matching bracelets. Plastic things, but she never took hers off.” Her voice goes quiet. “Until they left.”
“Do you know what school she went to?” I ask. I already know Rowan’s crew will comb every school record within two hundred miles, but I ask anyway.
“She was pulled before middle school. Her mom just…vanished with her. I can’t blame her. It’s possible my father paid her off.”
Violette speaks up gently. “And you think she stayed hidden?”
Zara hesitates. “Maybe. But if she knew who she was…she might’ve tried to blend in. She could’ve changed her name. Gone underground.”
“She could’ve also made enemies,” I say. “Even without knowing it.” I reach for her hand. “No matter what the outcome, I’ll find her,” I promise.
And if someone got to her first—if Lachlan had contingency plans we haven’t seen yet—I’ll conquer whatever corner of the world they’re hiding in.
Because if that girl matters to Zara, it’s my duty to protect her.