Chapter 20
Zora
The transition back to the city feels far more difficult than I expected. Several days have passed since Ireland, and yet part of me still feels trapped inside the Keegan estate.
Physically, I am back where I belong, seated in my office high above the city while meetings fill my calendar and executives fight over contracts worth millions.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, traffic crawls through the streets below and glass towers stretch toward a gray afternoon sky.
Everything is familiar. Controlled. Predictable.
My mind, however, refuses to cooperate.
Every quiet moment pulls me backward. Sometimes I find myself remembering the endless stone corridors hidden beneath the estate. Sometimes I hear gunfire that isn't actually there.
More than once, I have caught myself staring blankly at my computer screen while wondering whether Roisin managed to escape whatever happened after we left. Whether she survived the fallout. Whether she ever made it out at all.
And then there is Nico. Or Lucien. Or Il Fantasma. I still have no idea which version of him was real. The thought lingers long enough that I have to consciously force myself back to the present.
Across from me, Stefano sits at the conference table reviewing the files we brought back from Ireland.
The documents occupy nearly the entire surface between us.
Financial records, private correspondence, surveillance photographs, banking information, political dossiers, corporate agreements, and decades worth of carefully catalogued secrets are spread across the polished mahogany table in neat stacks.
Unlike me, Stefano appears entirely absorbed in the work.
For almost half an hour he says nothing.
He simply reads. Occasionally he separates certain documents into a new pile.
Sometimes he rereads a page before setting it aside.
Once or twice, I notice his expression tighten ever so slightly before returning to its usual neutrality.
Most people would never notice those reactions.
I do. Because I know exactly what is in these files. I spent enough time studying them after Ireland to understand what Fergus had really built.
These aren't random scandals collected by a paranoid old man.
They are decades of leverage. Every politician, judge, minister, police commissioner, executive, and crime boss documented in these folders represents another piece of a system designed to control people who believed they were untouchable.
Eventually, Stefano closes one of the thicker folders and leans back in his chair.
"I knew the information Fergus was protecting would be valuable." He says. "What I did not anticipate was the scale."
His fingers rest lightly on one of the files. "This is extraordinary."
Coming from Stefano, that is practically a standing ovation.
"It nearly got us killed." I reply.
His eyes lift toward me. "I heard about the attack."
"It stopped being a covert extraction and turned into a battlefield in less than ten minutes."
"And yet you still brought everything back."
For a moment, silence settles over the room. Neither of us needs to explain the implications. We both understand them.
The files do not simply expose corruption. They explain how corruption functions. They reveal the machinery hidden behind decades of political decisions, financial arrangements, criminal partnerships, and carefully orchestrated outcomes.
For years, people assumed the Keegans maintained power through money and violence. But the truth is far more unsettling. They maintained power because they knew exactly where every important body was buried.
Stefano folds his hands together. "If even a fraction of this information became public, governments would collapse. Corporations would tear themselves apart. Criminal organizations would start killing one another before sunrise."
"And if it stays private?"
A faint smile touches his lips. "Then whoever controls these files controls the people inside them."
The weight of that statement settles heavily between us. I already knew the information was valuable. Hearing it spoken aloud makes me realize just how much power is currently sitting on my conference table.
Eventually, my thoughts drift toward the question that has been bothering me ever since we left Ireland. "Mr. Rinaldi."
His attention shifts toward me.
"What happened to him?"
A slight frown appears. "Who?"
"Domenico." The name hangs in the air.
"He disappeared the moment we landed. I haven't heard from him since."
Stefano shrugs. "He was a contractor."
"That's not an answer."
"That is the answer."
I lean back slightly. "My dad hired him years ago."
Stefano remains silent.
"He trusted him enough to use him during Aurelia's kidnapping." The room grows noticeably quieter. "Dad knew something about him."
For the first time during the entire meeting, Stefano pauses. Not for long. Just long enough.
"Marcus knew many things."
"Mr. Rinaldi."
His gaze hardens slightly. "And most of those things died with him."
I study him carefully. He isn't avoiding the question because he doesn't know the answer. He's avoiding it because he does.
Apparently, he realizes I've reached the same conclusion.
"Leave it alone, Ms. Krogen." The warning is immediate.
"Why?"
"Because not every answer improves your life."
I hold his gaze. He holds mine. Neither of us look away. Finally, Stefano closes the last folder with a decisive snap.
"If there was a connection between Marcus and Domenico, it wasn't one he chose to share with me." The statement is carefully worded enough that it tells me absolutely nothing. Which tells me everything.
Stefano rises from his chair and straightens his jacket. For a moment, his attention lingers on the files scattered across the table before returning to me.
"Very few people could have accomplished what you did in Ireland."
I say nothing. Compliments from Stefano are rare enough to be considered historical events.
"You secured information that will influence the balance of power for years to come." His gaze remains steady. "More importantly, you secured it under circumstances that should have caused the operation to fail."
A brief pause follows. Then he inclines his head slightly. A gesture of respect.
"You did exactly what I needed you to do." A faint smile appears. "Thank you."
The distinction isn't lost on me. This isn't a superior congratulating a subordinate. This is one powerful person acknowledging the rise of another.
A few moments later, Stefano gathers his things and leaves the office, leaving me alone with the city skyline, the mountain of secrets spread across my conference table, and far more questions than answers.
The moment the door closes behind him, I head toward the executive boardroom. The walk gives me just enough time to prepare for what I expect will be another exhausting confrontation.
Over the past months, meetings with the senior advisory council have become a battle of endurance. Every decision I made was scrutinized. Every success was questioned. Every mistake, no matter how small, was treated as evidence that I wasn't ready to lead what my dad left behind.
By the time I reach the boardroom, I have already rehearsed half a dozen arguments in my head.
The room falls quiet the moment I enter. Magnus, Conrad, Roman, and Elena are already seated around the long table. Thick briefing folders sit open before them, but none of them appear particularly interested in the documents anymore. Instead, every pair of eyes in the room settles on me.
I take my usual seat at the head of the table and wait.
Normally, the questioning would begin almost immediately. It doesn't. The silence that follows feels unusual, not because it's hostile, but because it isn't.
For several moments, nobody speaks.
Then Magnus leans back in his chair and folds his weathered hands together.
"We received the complete briefing regarding Ireland." His voice is calm. Entirely devoid of the skepticism I have grown accustomed to hearing from him.
I nod once. Magnus studies me carefully before continuing.
"I've spent forty years watching people inherit power. Some were capable of carrying it. Most weren't. The common mistake they all made was believing leadership meant sitting safely behind a desk while other people assumed the risks."
His gaze remains fixed on me. "The reports make it very clear that you chose a different approach."
A faint crease appears between his brows. "You walked into the situation yourself." The statement is simple. Yet somehow it carries more weight than a speech.
Before I can respond, Conrad speaks next. "What impressed me wasn't the operation itself." He taps the folder in front of him. "It was the outcome."
I raise an eyebrow.
Conrad opens the folder and glances briefly at the contents before looking back up. "What happened in Ireland is already becoming the kind of story people tell in private rooms." He says. "The Keegans spent decades making themselves untouchable."
A faint shake of his head follows. "Do you have any idea how many people spend entire careers trying to obtain information like that?"
"I imagine quite a few."
"Most fail. But you didn't."
The room remains quiet. Nobody rushes to speak over him. Nobody dismisses what he said. That alone feels strange.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. Then Roman nods once. A simple gesture. But somehow it feels more meaningful than any lengthy speech.
Across the table, Elena closes the file she has been reading. The soft sound immediately draws everyone's attention. Elena has spent the last few months questioning nearly every major decision I've made. She is brilliant, ruthless, and almost impossible to impress.
When she finally speaks, her voice is calm. "Do you know why we fought you so hard?"
The question catches me completely off guard. I glance around the table. No one seems surprised she asked it.
"No."
Elena studies me for several seconds before answering. "Because you inherited authority."