Chapter 3
THREE
TRISTAN
Istare out the window of my private jet at nothing but a black sky and the occasional wink of city lights far below.
Europe's somewhere down there.
Elliot came through early.
Twenty hours instead of twenty-four. A name and an address that led to Naples.
Matteo Romano.
Former banker, current broker for something called the Black Door. Zara traced his encrypted accounts back to one of Keira's old operational zones, which is still apparently active.
It's likely another dead end, which means I should have sent someone else.
That's how I normally operate—delegating tasks and keeping my hands clean. Let other people do the work while I pull the strings from a distance. It's efficient and safer.
I run one of the largest hedge funds in New York.
On paper, it's pristine—private equity, offshore accounts, portfolios designed to make powerful people richer.
In reality, it's a laundering machine. Criminal money goes in dirty and comes out legitimate, invested, and untouchable.
I don't move product. I move numbers. And numbers are harder to trace once they've been dressed up properly.
The biggest mafia houses have my back, which means I'm protected on all fronts.
That's why I came to New York—to stop doing the groundwork myself. And, well, I didn't want to run into Keira after what she did to me. She worked for the Irish mafia, and her base was in the UK.
So why the fuck am I here now doing groundwork?
Great question.
The thought of one of my men finding her first—seeing her face before I do, hearing whatever lie she's prepared, watching her disappear again—it makes me even more furious than if I were to stay home and hear about it.
So here I am, thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic, chasing a likely stale lead.
An incoming text from Nick steals my attention.
Nick
There will be a car waiting when you land. Romano's villa is forty minutes outside Naples. Zara's pulling surveillance now.
Me
Thank you.
Nick
You want backup? I can send someone.
Me
No.
Nick
Stop being stubborn.
Me
I said no.
I set the phone facedown on the armrest and close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come. It never does anymore. Just her face. The boy's curl. And the countless questions swirling around my head.
Why send the lockbox after all this time? Why didn't she tell me about him? Did she think I would harm my own child? Why leave breadcrumbs if she wanted to stay hidden?
Unless she didn't send the lockbox and someone else did.
This fucking ordeal has stripped me down to raw nerve.
It's not the lack of control that's destroying me.
I know nothing is ever truly within our grasp but what I can't handle is the not knowing.
I've built my entire life around being seven steps ahead, around having answers before anyone else knows there are questions to ask.
Control isn't something I cling to out of ego.
It's the only thing that's ever kept me alive.
I'm spiraling, and I hate it.
I just need to stay focused, knowing I'll have answers soon enough.
The plane dips slightly, adjusting course. The pilot's voice crackles over the intercom—something about descent and arrival time. I tune it out, counting down the hours until I'm standing in front of Matteo Romano.