Page 69 of Forged

I lean back just enough to meet her gaze fully.

“The Monarch.”

I park halfa block down from the Marchetti Tower and kill the engine, letting the silence settle inside the car before I allow myself to look up at the building. From the outside, the tower represents power and presence. Inside, the hierarchy of the Marchetti family make their home.

Leaving Austin was a risk, there are too many moving pieces, but my instructions have been clear from the beginning. There’s information I need to gain, and that means following them.

My focus is pulled to the front doors of the building when Lars steps out first, scanning his surroundings. It’s subtle—a squaring of his shoulders, a fractional turn of his head.

Neomi follows him into the open air, smoothing the fabric of her dress down over her hips as the city wind catches it. Even from this distance, I can see the way he looks at her before the door shuts behind them.

After Vegas, I wasn’t convinced this would last. Commitment has never been Lars’ natural inclination. But when she relocated to Chicago with him, I understood something had shifted. This is no longer damage control from a reckless night.

A driver waits with the rear door already open. Lars places his hand at the small of her back, then he speaks to the driver before sliding into the back of the car with Neomi.

The car pulls away from the curb. I count to five before I start mine. I remain close enough to track them, but far enough not to register as surveillance.

The Monarch comes into view a few minutes later, understated from the outside. No neon or spectacle. It doesn’t need theatrics to draw power. The city’s most influential men find privacy inside its walls and discretion in its shadows.

Their car stops beneath the valet overhang. Attendants move quickly when they recognize Lars. He and Neomi step out together and disappear through the doors.

I circle once before easing beneath the same overhang and handing my keys to the attendant. A brief adjustment of my cuffs and a pass of my hand through my hair before I nod to the doorman.

Inside, the lighting shifts to gold and crimson, bass moving through the floor in steady pulses. The hostess greets me and I decline the offer of a private table and choose the bar instead.

This mission was always going to require proximity.

Distance isn’t useful for gathering information. Distance allows detachment. Distance protects clarity. But distance will not give me access to what I need. And distance won’t allow me to acquire what I want.

The plan has always been simple in structure. Establish presence, earn their trust, gather insight, then retrieve what I was sent for. All of that requires me to remain patient.

It has worked so far.

What I did not anticipate was the way observation would evolve into something more intrusive. The longer I watch them, the more I see the fault line I am about to create.

My loyalty has always been constant. This assignment has been the first time doubt has presented itself.

Tonight is the night I make contact. And the thing that gnaws at me is will I be strong enough to keep the lines from blurring.

The first thingI notice when we step through the doors isn’t the music pulsing beneath my heels. It’s the way the room changes when Lars walks in.

I’ve been in exclusive spaces before. High-stakes tables, private lounges and rooms filled with men who think they run the world. I know what real power looks like when it enters a room.

Lars doesn’t have to command power, they willingly give it to him.

The hostess straightens before we reach her. The manager appears from somewhere behind the bar as if summoned. Security shifts. No one makes a spectacle of it, but the air adjusts around him.

“Mr. Marchetti,” the hostess says warmly. “Are you here for business or would you like to be seated at a table?”

“Hello, Heather. This is my wife, Neomi.”

Heather smiles warmly. “Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Marchetti.”

I return the smile as Lars speaks, “We’ll need a table this evening.”

Heather picks up her phone and shortly after, a waitress appears. “Mr. Marchetti, right this way.”

Lars nods and places his hand lightly around my elbow as we’re guided through the main floor.