Fastlane

Chapter twenty seven

Nadia

If I wanted to hide decades-old secrets, the Cathedral in the center of town was the last place I’d choose. Sure, no one came here anymore; the people here had given up on mass and sacraments a long time ago, but it was also old and dusty. I had to hold back the urge to sneeze a dozen times over.

It was broad daylight, so snooping around wasn’t hard; neither was locating the administrative office in the basement.

Down a long hallway, past some file cabinets, was the door.

The office itself was nondescript, exactly what you’d assume you’d find.

Desk, chairs, papers, bookshelves, and mountains of boxes.

Fuck me, I was gonna be here a while.

_____

“C’mon, Stonebridge. What are you hiding?” I groaned, rubbing the heel of my palm into my eyes. It’s been three hours of fruitlessly searching, and I’d found nothing but baptism records, weddings, and the ex-priest’s grocery list.

Abandoning the office, I reenter the hallway and start rifling through the file cabinets. The first two drawers are the same bullshit, but the third one contains old newspaper clippings that catch my eye.

WELCOME TO STONEbrIDGE: FIRST TOWN FOUNDED BY ROMANI GYPSIES

Attached was a picture of a group of people standing by the welcome sign, smiles on their faces. The newspaper dated back to 1879. Stonebridge was founded by a Romani community. The revelation sent a pit of dread to my stomach.

Now, I searched with renewed fervor. Because I knew what I was looking for now. I knew what I would find. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt when I found it. In the second file cabinet, in the top drawer, was another news clip.

STONEbrIDGE CELEbrATES INDEPENDENCE DAY, CHILDREN’S CHOIR SINGS NATIONAL ANTHEM

The headline read, but the picture is what causes my knees to buckle.

In a gazebo I don’t recognize, there is a little girl who looks a lot like me.

She’s in a dress, bows in her pigtails, as she sings with the other choir kids.

The caption at the bottom of the picture, naming all the kids, confirms it for me.

Sena Slade.

My mom. My mom was from Stonebridge. This was her home. She was born here; this was the land Olympus wanted. The home they stole her from. Deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole I go, absorbing the information with an unrivaled thirst. I need to know more; I have to find it, for her.

I piece together the town’s hidden history. Uncovering what was buried.

Stonebridge was once a paradise, a haven for those who were lost. Those who were persecuted, displaced. For those who didn’t have a home. And it was an extremely lucrative one.

I find old territory lines and maps of old routes, maps of mining lines up and around Greyveil Summit. The original founders were skilled craftsmen and trade workers. The land was rich, and they mined everything. From gold and silver to iron and coal, and even fucking diamonds.

They worked with textiles too. Creating clothes and other in-demand goods.

It didn’t end there. Stonebridge was founded in a geographically advantageous place.

The original founders had easy access and sole control of shipping routes to Asia, where they sold and traded their goods.

For a brief period of time, Stonebridge was rich.

Filthy fucking rich, and as more and more people migrated over, that wealth was shared amongst the community rather than coveted by one person or family.

That castle crumbled when Olympus came knocking, wanting to buy the land, but once again displace the people.

Records were buried. Archives were burned. The history was changed, and the names of those whose blood, sweat, and tears built Stonebridge were erased.

Except not well enough. Because they missed things.

Or maybe they didn’t think anyone would ever look hard enough to find them.

I dig deeper in the files, hands moving faster now, less careful.

Paper cuts sting across my fingers, dust clinging to my skin, but I don’t stop.

I can’t. A thinner stack of parchment slips loose from the bottom of a drawer, tied together with a fraying cord.

Not newspapers or church records. Something older.

My pulse spikes as I untie it. The ink is faded, but not gone. It’s structured and clean. Intentional. Not stories. Records. My eyes skim the top page.

Terms of Transfer: Stonebridge Territory

My breath catches. Transfer. Not sale. Not purchase.

Transfer. Like the land was never really theirs to begin with.

Like someone else had already decided where it would end up.

I flip through the pages faster, heart hammering now.

There are signatures, some I don’t recognize, some scratched out so violently the paper tore beneath the pen.

Entire sections have been blacked out, but the words are still there.

Relocation of residents to be conducted in phases.

Noncompliant parties to be removed.

Assets to be reassigned accordingly.

Reassigned. The word lodges in my throat like glass. Because this wasn’t a takeover. This was a process. A system.

“Jesus…” I breathe, but even that feels too small for what I’m looking at.

The papers slip from my hands as I reach for one of the boxes on top of the cabinet, tearing into it. This one is heavier, thicker, filled with ledgers instead of loose documents. I drag one out, flipping it open. There are names. Rows and rows of them.

Ages. Family ties. Occupations.

My fingers slow as I scan down the page, something cold creeping up my spine. There’s another column. Status. At first, it’s normal. Relocated. Missing. Deceased. Then: Reassigned.

Again. And again. And again.

My stomach twists violently. The ages drop. Twelve. Ten. Eight. Reassigned. My grip tightens on the page until it crumples slightly under my fingers. They didn’t just drive them out. They sorted them. Cataloged them. Took what they wanted.

A sharp breath punches out of me as I slam the ledger shut, like that’ll make it less real. Like closing it means it didn’t happen. But it did, it fucking did. It’s right here. It’s always been right here.

“Fuck.” I whisper, dragging a hand down my face.

I feel sick to my stomach, but I have to see this through.

These people deserve to have their story heard.

I have to see the rest, no matter how hard it is to breathe right now.

This isn’t just history. This is- I stop.

Because something clicks. I reach for one of the maps I’d tossed aside earlier, stumbling onto my knees and smoothing it out on the floor with shaking hands.

Old routes, drawn in careful ink, stretching across the town and up into Greyveil Summit.

Trade lines. Mining paths. Distribution. I stare at it. Then I reach for another map, a newer one. One I already know by heart. Territories. North. South. East. West. LBC. Phantoms. Kingsmen.

I lay them over each other. Line by line. Route by route. My breath stutters.

“No fucking way.” My eyebrows hit my hairline.

They match. Not perfectly, but close enough that it makes my skin crawl. The South side routes Naoya’s pushing into? They’re not new. They’re not even an expansion. They’re the same fucking lines. Just… repurposed, the control shifting.

My mind races, piecing it together faster than I can keep up with. The Scorpions didn’t just inherit that territory. They were put there. Purposely and carefully. And when they fell…

My gaze snaps back to the boxes. No, not fell.

They were removed. Replaced. Just like before.

Just like with the founders. My chest tightens.

This isn’t gang territory. It never was.

It’s infrastructure. Built long before any of us touched it.

Controlled long before we thought we were in charge.

A hollow laugh slips out of me, sharp and humorless.

“We really thought we owned this place,” I murmured, elbows on my knees.

We don’t. We never did.

I shove the maps aside and grab another folder. This one is newer than the others. Not ancient, not crumbling, but hidden. Inside are documents that definitely don’t belong down here.

Clean paper. Sharper ink. Organized and deliberate. My pulse spikes again as I flip it open. No names. Just symbols. Breakdowns. Units. My eyes scan quickly.

One symbol stops me cold. I know it. I’ve seen it a thousand times. The Kingsmen crest. But beneath it?

Designation: Domestic Enforcement Unit

“No.” I freeze. That doesn’t make sense. That’s not possible. I flip the page. Another symbol. Different, but familiar all the same: The Phantoms. My throat goes dry.

Designation: External Operations/ Eastern Alignment

Eastern? Bratva, I realize. That’s what we were told. That’s what everyone believes. That the Phantoms are working for the Bratva, doing their dirty work. That’s what the Phantoms themselves think.

Except…this doesn’t say Bratva. It doesn’t say Chicago Outfit either. It doesn’t say anything about outside alliances at all. These are just roles. Functions. Like pieces on the same goddamn board. Like they were assigned. Placed. My hands start to shake.

“It’s fake,” I whisper.

All of it. The Kingsmen aren’t tied to Chicago. The Phantoms aren’t tied to the Bratva. Those aren’t alliances. They’re covers. Stories. Something to keep us from looking in the right direction. From looking here. I flip through the rest of the folder faster, heart pounding in my ears now.

Every gang. Every territory. Every role. It’s been perfectly mapped out and controlled. It’s a pattern. A fucked up system. And stamped in the corner of every single page, that same mark.

Subtle. Easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. Three intersecting lines. Not a name and not a signature. It’s just a symbol. My chest tightens. I’ve never seen it before. Not on skin. Not in ink. Not anywhere that mattered.

Which means that it was never meant to be seen. My fingers hover over it, not quite touching, but still curious. This isn’t Olympus’ mark. Not the pillar with the olive branch. This is something else. Something above it, that holds more prestige. It’s older yet hidden.

A chill crawls up my spine. I dig deeper into the folder, flipping until something else catches my eye.

Another document, dated twenty-four years ago.

The same year the Scorpions burned. My heart stops beating.

Slowly, I turn the page, and there it is again.

That symbol. Stamped in the corner like a quiet command. My pulse roars in my ears as I read.

South Sector Adjustment Approved.

Local enforcement to be utilized.

Assets to be redistributed following compliance.

My vision blurs for a second. Approved. My grip tightens on the page.

This wasn’t retaliation. It wasn’t chaos.

It was decided. Planned and executed. Pop didn’t just avenge his son, and Naoya didn’t just help him do it.

They carried it out. Pop and Naoya were playing into someone else’s hand.

Pawns on a chessboard they couldn’t even see. A game they didn’t know was happening.

My mind flashes back to the meeting. The way Naoya didn’t argue.

Didn’t negotiate or hesitate. He stated it.

Like it was already done. Like the outcome had been decided long before he walked into that room.

A slow, sick realization settles in my chest. Twenty-four years ago, someone stamped this and decided the Scorpions were done.

Today, someone made the same decision about the South Side. This wasn’t history anymore. Because it’s still not over. It’s happening again, this time, right in front of us. And whoever sits behind that mark, whoever decides when something gets “adjusted”, they’re still here.

They damn near shoved that in my face when they sent me that threat with the phone. Followed through on it when my brakes were tampered with. Enough to scare me, enough to show me how easily they could have access to me, how easily they could kill me.

My grip tightens on the paper, knuckles going white as something else starts to click into place. Not just who, but where. My gaze drifts slowly around the room. The low ceilings. The stale air. The walls pressing in like the ground itself is trying to swallow everything whole.

Buried. Everything here is fucking buried.

The records, the truth, the people they erased.

My pulse steadies, but it’s not relief. It’s something colder.

Something sharper. My mind racing, operating like the machine my father forced me to become.

My father. I know him as Anton Stonyanov, but that wasn’t his only name. He was Ares.

My father taught me a lot of things about the opulence of Olympus.

Enough to know this isn’t their usual tactic.

To bury things under paperwork, behind God’s back, somewhere no one would be able to find.

Olympus relishes its secrets, but it holds them close and wouldn’t leave this information here without supervision.

Because this isn’t just how Olympus operates.

I flip the page back over, eyes scanning the top corner again, slower this time. More deliberate. There, a heading I didn’t clock before. It’s faded, half-cut off, as if someone tried to remove it.

Division: Under

My brow furrows. Under? Under what? I start flipping faster now, pulling every document with that symbol, stacking them side by side. Old, new. Founders, Scorpions, it doesn’t matter. Every single one of them is stamped. Cataloged and filed. Under? A slow breath leaves me.

Underground routes. Buried archives. Reassigned names. Erased histories. Control over what disappears. My stomach drops. No, this isn’t Olympus. Not all of it. Just one part. One big fucking part. The part no one sees. The part that deals with what’s buried, what’s forgotten.

What’s dead.

“Hades…” The name barely leaves my lips before I hear the unmistakable sound of a gun being loaded.