Page 96 of Wicked Mafia Beast
Two weeks after the warehouse and The Foundry is starting to look like home again.
We replaced the front entrance with reinforced steel and a biometric system that would make Luca proud. New glass in the windows. New furniture on the main floor to replace what Brennan and his men destroyed. The contractors patched and repainted the brick walls, the hallway shelves were restocked with books, and two of the five typewriters survived the fight without damage. The other three are being repaired by a man in Wicker Park who looked at me like I'd handed him holy relics when I brought them in.
The garden is harder.
I kneel on the rooftop gravel in the early morning light, my hands deep in fresh soil, pressing new root balls into holes I've dug with my bare fingers. I rebuilt the dome and replaced the cracked panels to keep the warm air trapped inside while October sharpens its teeth outside. Some of the original rosebushes survived. Their roots held beneath the trampled soil,stubborn and deep, refusing to die even after Brennan's boots crushed everything above ground.
I know the feeling.
The new varieties are called Love's Promise. Pink and white, a variety bred to bloom after frost because some genius horticulturist decided beauty shouldn't be seasonal. I ordered two dozen from a nursery in Oregon and planted them alongside the survivors, new growth woven between old scars.
My left arm aches when I dig. The through-and-through has healed to a tight, pink line that pulls when I extend fully. The graze on my side is already a scar, another addition to the collection, barely visible beneath the ink. Onyx traces both wounds at night when she thinks I'm asleep, her fingertip following the new damage the way she follows the old, mapping each mark, memorizing the cost of loving a man whose body keeps a running tally of violence.
She's downstairs right now. I can hear the faint rapid-fire click of her keyboard through the open rooftop door, the sound that has become the new heartbeat of The Foundry. She writes the way she does everything, fast, fierce, with a focus that shuts out the world and a scowl that deepens every time she hits a sentence that doesn't meet her standards.
The Malone exposé. Three weeks of writing, rewriting, and rewriting again. She uses the USB drive I gave her and her own firsthand knowledge and she is building a case in newsprint that will bury what's left of her family's empire. Luca verified every draft. No Syndicate mention. Not a word. Every page focused entirely on the Malones and the rot they've spread through Chicago's infrastructure for forty years.
She's good at this. She's better than good. She's the journalist she was always meant to be, working in the office of a man who was supposed to be her enemy, wearing his shirt, drinking from a mug with a chipped handle that neither of us acknowledges has become permanently hers.
The brothers came by last week. All of them. Persia brought scones and Sofia, who grabbed my index finger and refused to let go for twenty minutes while Onyx photographed the whole thing with her phone and threatened to use it as blackmail. Katriana brought a stack of books and Charlotte, who tried to eat one of my typewriter keys. Drake stood in the repaired kitchen, arms crossed, scanning the new security panel with professional approval, and nodded once in my direction. From Drake, that nod carries the weight of a speech.
Rafael pulled me aside near the elevator, his gray temples catching the afternoon light, his dark eyes carrying the quiet gravity of a man who has spent two decades holding this family together through force and love and the occasional act of extreme violence.
"She's one of us now," he said. Not a question.
"Da."
"Good." He clapped my shoulder, careful of the healing arm. "Don't waste it, brother."
I don't plan to.
Seamus is at Club Genesis. Sharing space with men who underestimated the women connected to the Red Letter Syndicate. Brennan is in a federal hospital ward with his jaw wired shut and charges stacking up faster than his lawyer can read them. And Declan Malone is in a Syndicate-controlledholding facility, cooperating fully, his testimony building a case that will seal every coffin in the Malone empire.
Onyx hasn't visited her father. She's not ready. I don't push.
I finish planting the last rosebush and brush the soil from my hands, pressing the earth firm around the base. The morning light filters through the dome in warm patches, catching the new growth, tiny green shoots already pushing up from the survivors.
Life after pain. That's what this garden has always been about. Proof that what gets destroyed can grow back. Different and scarred, but alive.
I wash my hands in the utility sink and take the stairs down to the main level. The smell of fresh coffee hits me in the hallway, mixed with the cedar-and-brick scent of The Foundry and beneath all of it, honey and musk, her.
She's at my desk. Cross-legged in my office chair, swimming in a henley she stole from my closet three days ago and hasn't returned, her dark hair piled in a messy knot on top of her head, her bare feet tucked beneath her. The bullet graze on her temple has healed to a thin scar along her hairline, a pale line that she covers with her hair when she wants to and leaves visible when she doesn't. Today it's visible.
The laptop screen glows in front of her. Her brow is furrowed, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, her blue eyes narrowed at whatever paragraph is currently failing to meet her standards. A pen is tucked behind her ear and she has a smudge of ink on her jaw from where she rested her chin on her hand.
She is the most beautiful thing in this building. And this building has a rooftop garden.
"Coffee?" I lean against the doorframe, pushing my hair back from my face and crossing my arms. ¿
"Three cups ago." She doesn't look up. "I'm running on caffeine and spite at this point."
"The article?"
"The third section is fighting me. The financial connections between the Malone shell companies and the port authority contracts are dense and I need to make them readable for people who don't speak forensic accounting." She pauses, chews the pen cap, scowls at the screen. "Which is most people. Including me, sometimes."
I pour her a fourth cup anyway and set it on the desk beside her elbow. She reaches for it without looking, her fingers finding the chipped handle by muscle memory, and takes a sip that's more reflex than intention.
"Thank you." She murmurs it the way she murmurs everything when she's deep in work. Automatic but genuine.
