Page 90 of Forged

Rowan agrees. “It also gives him legitimacy. By absorbing Zara’s father’s organization, Falco positions himself as the man capable of filling that vacuum.”

Dante shifts slightly where he stands, his eyes cutting toward Enzo with a question he does not need to voice.

Everyone in this room understands the implication.

Falco is not simply claiming property. He is reaching toward something that once belonged to Zara’s family, knowing exactly how that gesture will be interpreted.

“He’s bold,” I say. “And we all know he’s reckless enough to think that we won’t retaliate.”

“He’s a fucking idiot if he thinks this will go unanswered,” Enzo rumbles.

The room falls into thoughtful silence as we all consider the same reality. Escalation means open conflict, and open conflict brings attention that no syndicate wants from the federal agencies watching the city. The same fragile balance that keeps operations running smoothly is also what allows men like Falco to test boundaries without being crushed immediately.

Rowan breaks the silence first.

“If we respond publicly, we legitimize his claim on the contested territory. If we ignore the move entirely, he strengthens his hold and presents himself as the stabilizing force.”

Dante pushes away from the wall and crosses the room toward the screen. He studies the map for a moment before tapping a single warehouse location near the south docks. When he turns toward Enzo, his expression makes his meaning clear.

That facility sits dangerously close to one of our secondary shipping routes.

He’s suggesting pressure.

Enzo considers the location for a moment before nodding slowly.

“We will not respond publicly,” he says. “Instead, we apply pressure where it hurts—product and men. We also need to speak with Chief Edwards over at police headquarters and be sure his men are on our side. Fuck, this is money I don’t want to spend.”

The plan settles into place almost immediately.

“Supply chain interference,” I suggest.

“Selective interference,” Enzo corrects calmly. “A delayed shipment here, a redirected truck there. Let Falco feel friction in every corner of those new operations.”

Rowan begins outlining the adjustments on his tablet. “I can reroute two of our distributors through third-party contracts. Itwill squeeze his margins and disrupt his scheduling without drawing attention.”

Across the table, Dante’s gaze shifts toward me, the tension in his posture suggesting he is ready to move the moment Enzo gives the signal.

Enzo meets his eyes and offers a single nod. Dante turns and walks out of the room without a word.

I lean forward, resting my forearms against the table as I look toward Enzo again.

“And if he continues pushing?”

Enzo’s gaze meets mine with steady certainty.

“Then we remind him that Chicago answers to one ruler.”

A week passesby in a blur.

Life with Lars settles into a rhythm I never imagined for myself. Our penthouse sits high above the city, the wide windows wrapping around the living space and overlooking the city. During the day, the skyline glitters with glass and sunlight, and at night the city glows beneath us in a thousand scattered lights. It still feels surreal sometimes, standing in a kitchen larger than my old apartment back in Florida, while watching traffic crawl along the streets dozens of floors below.

I spend some afternoons at the estate with Zara and Violette, both of them determined to make me feel welcome in a world I still don’t fully understand. Zara has a dry humor that sneaks up on you, and Violette has a way of asking questions that makes it impossible not to answer honestly. They treat me like I belong amongst them, which still catches me off guard when I stop to think about it.

It’s been a long time since anyone treated me like family.

When I return to the penthouse, Lars always seems to appear shortly after, as if the man somehow senses the exact moment Iwalk through the door. Tonight he has taken over the kitchen again, as he works at the stove with quiet concentration. The smell of garlic and butter fills the room, drifting through the open space while I sit at the island with a glass of wine, watching him move between the counter and the range.

“You’re staring,” he says without turning around.