31. Wolfe
WOLFE
The garage was shadowed and cold. Concrete sweat in the air. Lights low. Mason stood next to the back wall, arms crossed, tablet in hand. His expression didn’t shift when I stepped into view. He just held out the tablet.
“You’re going to want to see this.”
I didn’t respond.
I took it.
And the second I saw the routing code—Belgium, under a security consulting front tied to diamond infrastructure—I knew this wasn’t about Cloe.
Not directly.
Someone used her to make a point. To get my attention.
They succeeded.
“It’s a ghost corp,” Mason said. “Looks like a front through a diamond customs shell near Antwerp.”
I scrolled. Every account tied to a private money trail. Moved fast. Moved clean. Too clean.
“Military-trained subcontractor took the job,” Mason added. “No direct employer. All offshore. This was planned.”
I nodded once. Didn’t say anything for a moment.
“She was followed,” I said eventually. “This wasn’t a mistake.”
“No. Someone knew she was yours.”
I handed the tablet back. My jaw was already tight enough to ache.
Mason looked at me. “Could be someone in the Antwerp loop. Could be someone watching your diamond trade from the outside. Or…”
“Or it could be one of London’s enemies.”
“Exactly.”
That name tightened everything behind my ribs. I pulled out my phone. Called him. London answered on the second ring.
“Didn’t expect you.”
“You’ve got a leak.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Someone used your back-end to fund a hit. On someone close to me.”
Pause.
“Cloe?”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched.
Then London’s voice came low, sharp.
“Tell me what you need.”
“I need to know if it’s one of yours. Or if someone’s coming for both of us.”
“I’ll find the thread.”
“I’ll cut it.”
The line went dead.
I turned back to Mason.
“Trace it all.”
“I already started. ”
“Find whoever signed off on the offshore account.”
“And if it leads nowhere?”
I stared down the garage.
“Then I find the nearest someone. And make them bleed.”
“Wolfe,” Barron said, voice lower now.
“Tell me you didn’t start something you can’t finish.”
I met his eyes.
Cold.
Unflinching.
“I didn’t start it.”
“But you’re going to finish it?”
“Every last fucking piece.”
That was the last word.
I walked out of the conference room without looking back.
Not at Barron.
Not at Royal.
Not even at Cloe.
I knew she was still standing there.
I’d felt her eyes on my back through the whole fucking fight. I didn’t want to see her face. Not like that. Not right now.
I didn’t want to see her face. Not like that. Not right now. Because if I looked? I’d forget why I was so goddamn angry in the first place. And I couldn’t afford that. Not when Selene was still out there.
Not when Barron was already unraveling.
And not when I knew?—
The next time this family burned…
The bullpen was silent. Conversations stopped the second I stepped out. A few heads dropped. One guy closed his laptop like the click might cover his curiosity. They weren’t afraid because I yelled. They were afraid because I didn’t.
Cloe stood just past the glass wall, tucked near Royal’s shoulder .
She looked?—
Small.
Like someone had carved her out of everything she used to be and hadn’t quite put her back together yet.
Her arms were crossed over her chest. The chain still gleamed faintly at her collar. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask if I was okay. She looked like she’d been slapped.
Not just by what we’d said?—
By how we’d said it.
Every word had been loud enough to echo. Every sentence carved deep enough to leave her reeling.
Her arms stayed crossed. Not like a barrier. Like she was holding herself together. Like if she let go, everything inside her would slip loose. Her lips parted like she might speak. But no sound came.
And when I passed too close?—
She flinched.
Not visibly.
Just enough for me to feel it.
And I hated myself for walking away. But I did it anyway. She just stared at me like she wasn’t sure who I was anymore. Maybe she wasn’t wrong.
Royal caught up with me halfway down the hall. Didn’t grab me. Just matched my pace and said?—
“You need a minute?”
I didn’t answer.
“Because you’re about to punch through glass, and that’s not a look that screams ‘I’ve got this handled.’”
I stopped walking.
Turned to him.
“He called her a liability.”
Royal nodded.
“He’s not wrong. ”
I stared at him.
His expression didn’t waver.
“He’s also not the one who carried her out.”
That hit harder than I expected.
“You think I’m making a mistake?”
“I think you already made it.
Now you’re just trying to own the consequences.”
“And?”
“And I respect the hell out of that.
But if you burn down the family to protect her, just make sure she’s still standing when the smoke clears.”
I looked past him toward the far window. Cloe’s reflection still hovered in the glass. Not moving. Not blinking. Just watching.
“She’s the only one I’d burn for.”
The heat hadn’t left my chest. It curled behind my ribs like something alive. Like it was pacing while I held the door closed behind it.
I wasn’t shaking.
Not visibly.
But my palms itched from the tension.
My knuckles still ached from restraint.
Barron didn’t know how close I’d come. Not to hitting him. To walking away from all of it. From the company. From the family. From the weight of keeping all of us from destroying each other.
He said she was a weakness. And he wasn’t wrong. She was distraction. She was hunger. She was softness where I’d never allowed any. But she was also the only fucking thing in my life I didn’t want to break.
I walked past the elevator like I hadn’t heard the stunned silence behind me. Like I couldn’t feel the eyes tracking every inch of my retreat .
The glass wall felt colder than it should. Everything did. The conference room burned behind me, but I didn’t look back. Didn’t slow. Because if I stopped walking?
I wouldn’t have left that room without blood on my hands.
Back in my office, I shut the door harder than I meant to. The silence hit too fast. Like it had been waiting for me to come home.
I stood there for a moment. Jaw tight. Breath locked behind my teeth. Then I moved. Took off my coat. Dropped it over the back of the chair like I was shedding something heavier than fabric.
Loosened my tie.
Didn’t sit.
Just paced.
Two steps.
Back.
Again.
I pressed my palm to the glass. It was cold. Grounding.
Through the reflection, I saw her.
Cloe.
Still outside the conference room.
Still pale.
Still watching.
She didn’t knock. Didn’t move. Just waited. But I couldn’t go to her yet.
Not like this. Not with my hands still itching to kill. Not with the rage still coiled behind my ribs like a second spine.
I turned.
Grabbed my phone.
Typed the message to London.
Because someone started this.
And I was going to finish it. The sound made the glass tremble.
My hands braced on the edge of the desk. I didn’t sit. I didn’t breathe. I opened a thread I hadn’t touched in months.
Typed:
We need to talk.
Now.
Ten seconds later, one word returned:
Understood.
London.
The only person I trusted to know what kind of war was coming. Because he’d survived it before. Because we both had. And this time? This time, I wasn’t walking away until someone bled for her.