16. Lars
It was hard as fuck to leave Neomi this morning.
After I left her bed, I went home to shower off the night and put my head back where it belongs.
The water was scalding, grounding me in routine.
I should reach out to Rowan to hack into Argent's surveillance system and see if it grabbed footage of the man that followed her, but that would come with a lot of questions.
By the time I dress and load my weapon, I have locked away and compartmentalized whatever softness crept in while holding her last night.
I need to have a rational mind for my meeting with Cash.
When I pull into the Lone Saints compound, the sun is already punishing—hot and blinding off the chrome-accented bikes lined up beneath the awning.
Heat rises off the pavement in shimmering waves, carrying the scent of gasoline and dust. Inside the war room, the air-conditioning barely dents the heat of the tension waiting for me.
Cash stands by the table, arms crossed. Hale leans over a laptop, thick hair falling into his face until he shoves it back with a muttered curse. Whatever they’re looking at has drained the humor from the room.
“Marchetti,” Cash says, jerking his chin toward the screen. “You need to see this.”
I cross the space in a few hurried steps. Hale clicks the first file.
The footage is from a surveillance camera—grainy, time-stamped from around dawn two days ago. Ignacio Cruz, Maravilla’s second-in-command, strides into frame with a soldier at his back. He’s mid-sentence when a shadow peels away from behind a dumpster. I recognize the silhouette immediately.
Sera.
She moves with effortless precision. Two gun shots to center mass before Ignacio even understands what’s happening. He collapses. His man lunges—she pivots, blade flashing once as she drags it clean across his throat. He drops beside his boss, blood spreading across the concrete.
Sera crouches next to Ignacio’s body. She places the black rose at his temple. Then she looks up, straight into the camera.
Her mouth curves into a mocking smile as she reaches into her coat and pulls out another folded scrap of paper. She holds it up to the lens, just like last time, and opens it.
Doing your fucking job, Marchetti.
My jaw tightens as the words burn across the screen.
Hale freezes the frame, the message hovering in stark white against the dark grain of the footage.
Cash exhales. “Another message for you.”
“She is dead set on riling you up, Chicago,” Hale says, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I’m not riled up,” I hiss. “She's being helpful, in fact. She’s giving me clues to her motivation. She thinks she’s the problem solver, and yes, taking down members will help, but she’s not stopping the corruption like she might think she is.”
Cash’s gaze sharpens. “She’s creating a fucking battlefield.”
“Wait.” I pause. “There has to be a pattern or a reason for her chaos. First, it was soldiers, now she’s zigzagging through leadership.”
Hale looks at me, brow creased. “You’re right.” He paces, hands moving while he speaks. “Lieutenant, then a lower logistics member, then back up to a Capo, then a Hacker, now she’s back up to second in command.”
I nod. “Which means she’s going to take out a lower member next.” I tap a pen in my palm. “Logistics or Tech? Who would you take out next if you’ve been killing and they still won’t back down? Who would you go after if you wanted to hit where it hurts?”
Cash walks to the intel board that lines the wall. He stands in front of it for a moment, then he pulls a picture and throws it on the table.
“Their women.”
Hale runs his hand through his hair. “Fuck. Veleno will face hellfire if she even goes near one of their wives.”
I pick up the picture of the Maravilla matriarch, his mother. I know in the deepest parts of my soul that if anyone came after Vi, I would go on a killing spree.
“We have to stop her before she does anything that stupid.” I walk to the board and pin the picture dead center. “I’m going to direct our reinforcements from Chicago to detail Cecilia Maravilla. She’s our priority now.”
Cash nods. “Well, we might need more men, because that wasn’t the only thing I have for you today.”
Hale presses play on the next file. Early morning light barely cut through the haze clinging to the asphalt. Two black SUVs roll into an abandoned lot and come to a stop.
The first door opens and Maravilla himself steps out, broad shoulders stretching his jacket, ink crawling up his throat—a snake, the Maravilla symbol.
From the second vehicle, Anthony Falco emerges.
They meet in the center of the lot. Their handshake is brief, but it tells us everything we need to know. Then they disappear into the building together.
Hale lets out a quiet curse. “Well,” he mutters. “There’s our apocalypse.”
Cash’s voice drops. “If Falco and Maravilla are aligning, Austin becomes a war zone. And Chicago becomes the prize.”
“Veleno can’t fight both of them. The last count we had on their numbers was just under a hundred and fifty,” I state.
Cash’s gaze meets mine, unblinking. “We can’t protect her if they align their forces.”
I rewind the scene and study the frozen frame on the screen—Falco’s hand grasped in Maravilla’s. The calm certainty in both men’s posture is unsettling.
Two wolves deciding which territories they want to carve up next.
“Lone Saints stay out of their line of fire,” I say. “Period. I’ll reinforce your borders.”
Hale straightens. “How much reinforcement are we talking about?”
“Enough to hold your routes and your clubhouse without drawing attention,” I reply. “I’ll send for another fifty men. Meanwhile, make sure your men keep recruiting, but vet more carefully than ever.”
Cash nods. “Good. We hold our ground, you track Sera, and together, maybe we can keep Falco from turning Austin into a fucking graveyard.”
“I’ll handle my end.” I check the time on my phone. “Send me the files and I’ll keep you updated on the men.”
With the meeting done, I leave. Pulling out my phone, I type:
Me:
Reinforcements needed. Call a private line. ASAP.
The reply comes quickly.
Enzo:
Happy birthday, Fratello. Fifty men on their way. They’ll report to the Saints. Call tomorrow. Go have fun tonight.
I stare at the message, the corner of my mouth curling despite the weight sitting in my chest.
There’s a war coming. But the only thing I can picture as I slip my phone back into my pocket is a blonde poker shark with dark eyes.
Be in the lobby in ten. — L
The driver pulls up to the Argent a few minutes later. He steps out, opens my door, and then I walk into the lobby. And everything else evaporates.
She’s sitting in the lobby, in a curved velvet chair near a column of backlit marble.
She’s sitting with her legs crossed, and one heel dangles lazily from her toes.
The red dress hugs her body in all the right places.
Hair pinned up with a few strands falling loose, just as I requested.
And around her throat is the bell pendant.
It’s small and gold, resting at the base of her throat like it was always meant to live there.
She looks up and it feels like taking a punch to the ribs. When I picked out the dress, I knew she would look beautiful in it, but my imagination didn’t do it justice. She is unbelievably gorgeous.
She stands slowly, her eyes sweeping over me in a way that makes heat coil under my skin. I stop in front of her, close enough to smell warm skin and her perfume, to see her pupils dilate. Close enough that I can reach up and brush my knuckles under the pendant.
My fingers tap the tiny gold charm.
“Perfect,” I breathe. “You look amazing, Bella. Absolutely breathtaking.”
The words feel foreign in my mouth—too honest, too exposed. Her breath catches softly, as if she wasn’t expecting me to be gentle.
Her hand lifts, brushing my wrist where it rests against her collarbone.
“You’re full of surprises, Lars.”
“You have no idea,” I say.
Her cheeks blush as her lips part. And for a beat, the entire lobby disappears. It’s just her and I sharing this moment.
I straighten, take her hand, and walk her toward the car waiting outside. The driver pulls the door open. She slides in first, her dress whispering against the seat, and I follow, our thighs brushing in a way that throws even more heat on everything simmering between us.
The car door closes, sealing us in the dim hush of leather and tinted glass. She leans in, shoulder against mine, her perfume curling into my lungs.
“So,” she says, eyes bright with mischief, “where exactly are you taking me?”
I look at her. This woman who bluffed a grown man into surrender. Who carries a gun like other women wear jewelry. The woman who smells like temptation and trouble that I would chase across continents.
“Vegas,” I say.
Her lips part, a slow, wicked smile forming. “Vegas?”
I nod. “We’re wheels up in 30.”
Her breath comes sharp. “Are you always this impulsive?”
“No,” I say, brushing a fingertip over her knee. “Only with you.”