Page 2 of Forged

I extend the paper toward her. She takes it with both hands, eyes flying over the page before snapping back to mine, wide and blazing.

“Fuck,” she breathes. “Lars…we got married?”

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 asurban luxurybut 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 bornof 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 driveto 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 inchof him was carved for function. Thick brown hair falls forward until he shoves it back with an irritated swipe.