1. Lars
Austin greets me with heat—thick, suffocating, nothing like Chicago air. The sun bleeds across the skyline as I steer the rented BMW out of the Executive Airport lot and merge into traffic. As I close in on the city, I watch glass-plated high-rises turn into golden silhouettes.
When I reach the condo that Enzo arranged downtown, the streets begin to pulse with early-evening noise.
Music drifts from bars. Valets wave cars into place.
The tower where I’ll be staying sits in a part of town dripping with money—sleek, exotic cars at the curb, manicured balconies, gold-lettered signage catching the last light of day.
The condo is minimalist, cold, and expensive.
Floor-to-ceiling windows, black marble counters and stainless-steel appliances that look like they have never been used for anything more complicated than reheating takeout.
It’s one of the most secure residential high rises in Austin.
A place marketed as urban luxury but designed for people who don’t plan on staying.
A perfect temporary cage.
Back in Chicago, Enzo, the Don of the Marchetti Syndicate, looked me dead in the eye and told me to find his wife’s estranged half-sister, bring her home, and make sure no one else got their hands on her first. Sera Corrigan—illegitimate daughter of Lachlan Kavanagh—is a trained killer, and a walking matchstick in a city already soaked in gasoline.
Every move she has made lately has risked dragging Chicago into a war it didn’t ask for.
When Enzo’s wife, Zara, told us she had a long-lost sibling, our first worry was where that sister’s allegiance fell.
She had Kavanaugh blood after all. Lachlan Kavanaugh had led the Emerald Brotherhood, my family’s longtime rival syndicate for decades.
But then after our hacker and Digital Intelligence expert, Rowan, tracked Sera down, we found out she went underground after turning eighteen, with a new name and no digital footprint.
We were finally able to locate her down in Texas, only to find that she had slipped into the role of leading a rogue cell of previous Marchetti soldiers called Veleno. And now she was apparently on a type of Robinhood mission to take out the Maravilla Organization.
The Maravillas have been a problem in Texas and the southeast for years now. In the days of Enzo’s father, we battled for shipping lines, suppliers, and men. The past twenty years have been quiet between us after a battle that nearly took out both of our ranks and caused the death of Enzo’s father.
But lately, the Maravillas have been on the move, trying to expand their reach again beyond Texas.
There have been more civilian deaths and more destruction in their wake.
We had planned to wait until they crossed into the upper Midwest to intervene, but with Sera’s chaos we need to control the situation sooner rather than later.
My job is simple in theory. Locate Sera, secure her, and end whatever mess she’s making before it escalates. As the Marchetti Syndicate’s Underboss, I’ve completed far more complicated tasks in the past.
I step inside and turn on the lights. After setting my bag down, I prepare to do a sweep of every room.
It isn’t a habit born of paranoia; it’s a result of training and experience.
Once I’m satisfied that the place is clean, I grab my keys and head back out.
Enzo gave me clear instructions to meet with our ally, The Lone Saints motorcycle club, as soon as I landed.
The drive to the Saints compound takes me away from downtown’s glass and cranes and into the city’s east side. Neon signs flicker half-broken. Brick walls wear layers of paint and bright murals. Decades-old homes sit beside new modern monstrosities.
When I pull up, the steel gates part before I come to a full stop.
Cash Calder waits outside.
The Lone Saints are one of three ally organizations that the Marchettis have here in Texas and Cash is their President.
They keep the peace in Central Texas and have pledged their loyalty to the Marchetti Syndicate if things turn treacherous.
When Enzo decided I would be the one to come and hunt down Sera, he reached out to the Saints and that’s when they communicated the pressure from Maravilla and the danger that Sera was bringing, confirming that we had to step in and stop Sera.
Cash is standing outside when I pull into the yard.
He’s broad-shouldered, early forties, tattooed forearms marked with a lifetime of decisions most men wouldn’t survive.
Black hair streaked with gray at the temples.
Eyes that assess in a single, lethal sweep.
The photos from his file didn’t do him justice.
Standing in front of him, I can feel the gravity of his quiet confidence.
I step out of the car. “Calder.”
He studies me for a beat—long enough to pass judgement and make it clear this is his territory. Then he turns and starts toward the building.
“Marchetti,” he replies, his voice deep. “Come on in.”
No wasted politeness. I respect that.
Cash leads me through the open-air garage first. The space is wide and concrete, half shaded, open to the heat.
Motorcycles sit scattered in various states of assembly—frames are stripped down to the bone, engines are laid out in careful rows, and someone organizes parts with precision along the far wall, telling me that no one here works casually.
The smell of oil and exhaust hangs thick in the air.
Two men stand over a bike on a lift, hands moving steadily as they work. Another wipes grease from his fingers with a rag, eyes lifting just long enough to clock me before going back to what he was doing. No one stops or stares. I’m noticed, cataloged, and dismissed.
That tells me more than any show of force ever could.
Cash pushes through a steel door at the back of the garage, and the noise shifts the moment we step inside.
There’s the crack of pool balls breaking somewhere to the left.
A long bar runs along one wall with shelves of liquor behind it.
A redhead is working the bar, hair in a messy bun, a bandana as a headband, and a low-cut tank top revealing her pale skin.
A few men linger there, talking quietly, while others sit around tables.
Cash cuts straight through the room, toward a door set flush into the far back corner. There isn’t a sign or a guard, just the understanding that not everyone gets invited beyond it.
He opens the door and steps aside, letting me enter first into a short hall with three doors and a set of stairs at the back.
Cash opens the first one on the left, leading me into the war room.
Maps line the walls, marked and layered with notes and pins.
Screens glow with live feeds, satellite images, and scrolling data.
A massive table dominates the center of the room, cluttered with folders, photographs, and open laptops. Finally, a room that feels familiar.
Ryker Hale, the Saints’ VP, is already inside, leaning over a monitor, attention locked in.
He’s tall, less muscular than Cash, and in his early thirties.
He’s built lean and sharp, as if every inch of him was carved for function.
Thick brown hair falls forward until he shoves it back with an irritated swipe.
Once Cash closes the door behind us, he looks up.
“Hale,” Cash says, gesturing vaguely. “Marchetti finally landed.”
Hale gives me a once-over. “Chicago sends the fancy ones.”
“Good to finally meet the Lone Saints’ brain,” I reply, reaching out to shake his hand.
His mouth tilts just enough to acknowledge the hit. “And the Marchetti hammer.”
The tension in the room isn’t hostile; we’re just three men who understand each other’s world.
Cash moves to the table and taps a folder. “You’re here for Sera. I want you to see what Maravilla pushed into my city.”
I step closer, picking up the folder, but a video steals my attention.
The screen shows a man face-down on cracked pavement, blood pooling beneath him, a tattoo of a snake winding up his neck.
By his ear rests a black rose—lacquered and glossy.
As Cash zooms in, I see a single thorn left intact on the short stem.
I frown. “Is that hers?”
Hale straightens, folding his arms. “That’s her calling card.”
“She started leaving evidence that Veleno is executing these hits?” I ask.
Cash exhales through his nose. “They’ve started calling her the Obsidian Rose.”
The name means nothing to me yet, but the way they say it makes my spine straighten.
Hale taps the screen. “She leaves one every time. Same flower. Placement depends on how she took them out. Always near the neck or the heart. It doesn’t matter who the target is—runner, lieutenant, driver. If the rose is there, the message is the same.”
“And what do you think the message is?” I ask.
“That she was there,” Hale says. “And she’ll be back.”
Cash nods. “It started months ago. First in El Paso, then the Valley, and now Austin. Maravilla’s crews are saying she moves like a ghost. They don’t see her coming.”
“She’s escalating quickly,” Hale adds, leaning back against the table. “Hitting higher-value targets. Less time between incidents and always leaving behind the rose.”
“She’s being bold. She wants them to know.” I let the information and the scene on the screen roll through my mind. “Or…she wants us to know.”
Hale’s mouth twitches. “Whatever her reason is, everyone from here to the Rio Grande is trying to track her down.”
Cash folds his arms. “She’s hitting Maravilla where it hurts, and he’s losing his shit. He’s brought in muscle from El Paso, Laredo, Monterrey—anyone who can shoot and follow orders.”
“And Falco?” I ask.
Cash’s jaw ticks. “He’s circling Austin’s edges. Philly wants a foothold in the shipments from Mexico. It doesn’t matter if it’s drugs or arms; they want a piece of it. If Falco gets to Sera first, Chicago becomes ground zero. And Maravilla will be our problem to face alone.”
Hale lifts a photo from the table. “She’s a ghost. Veleno protects her at all costs. She doesn’t appear in the public eye. She hits, disappears, then resurfaces somewhere new.”
Both men look at me. I already know what Enzo expects. I also know what happens if I fail.
“If you need her alive,” Cash says, “you need to get to her before Maravilla or Falco does. And I need both of them contained so Austin doesn’t turn into a battlefield.”
“Think we can manage it?” I ask.
Cash snorts. “You’re a Marchetti. If you can’t bring this to a controlled end, we’re all fucked.”
I nod. “We’ll end it.”
Hale leans back, twirling a pen. “Anything else you need while you’re here?”
“Yeah. I’m going to be here for a while. If I’m stuck in this heat, I’d like some entertainment.”
Hale lifts a brow. “Entertainment?”
“Poker,” I clarify. “I play.”
Cash chuckles. “We’ve heard. Rumor is you cleaned out half a room in Chicago.”
“Exaggerated.” I smirk. “Mostly.”
Hale grins and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a plain card with nothing but his name and number. He scribbles an address on the back and hands it over. “Show security that card. They’ll let you in. Just know the table’s full of old rounders and young sharks.”
I take it, amused. “I’m not walking in to lose.”
“Good,” Cash says. “Blow off steam if you need to. But don’t forget why you’re here. Austin can be full of distractions if you don’t stay focused.”
I pocket the card. “Don’t worry about me staying focused. I’m here to do one thing.”