Page 89 of Forged

Neomi slips her hand into mine as we step into the hallway. I don’t look back until we reach the elevator, and when I do, he’s still standing there, watching.

The doors close, and the elevator descends.

The Marchetti estaterises behind iron gates crowned with an arch bearing a single rose forged in black metal, its petals curled outward. The drive curves through manicured gardens where dark red roses bloom in rows beside trimmed hedges and old oak trees. Beyond them, the mansion stretches wide across the property. It looks serene from the outside, but everyone who passes through those gates understands that this place is the nerve center of an empire.

Inside, marble floors stretch through the grand foyer beneath a sweeping staircase, their pale surface veined with grey that catches the light pouring down from the skylight above. The estate is quiet today, but security moves with sharper awareness along the hallways, and the men stationed at the doors nod to me with restrained professionalism that signals something has shifted in the city.

Falco made his move early this morning.

By midday the news had traveled through every corner of Chicago’s underworld, spreading from dockworkers to accountants to the lieutenants who keep the syndicates running.Information moves fast in our world, but power moves even faster when someone decides to claim it publicly.

I cross the foyer and head toward the war room at the back of the estate, my footsteps echoing against the marble before fading into the thick Persian runner that lines the hallway. The double doors stand partially open, light spilling into the corridor. I push them wider and step into the room without bothering to knock.

Enzo is already seated at the head of the table.

He has shed his suit jacket, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled neatly up his forearms, though the rest of him carries the same quiet control he brings to every room he occupies. Rowan stands near the wall monitor with a tablet in hand, scrolling with focused efficiency. Dante has taken up position on the left side of the table, a couple of seats down from Enzo.

No one bothers with greetings. In this room, presence is acknowledgment enough. Especially for Dante, who has been nonverbal since his time served in Afghanistan.

Dante is forty-three, a former SEAL who spent years in Afghanistan doing the kind of work that leaves a man changed. It shows in the way he carries himself, silent, controlled, and always aware. His dark hair is cut short, his eyes giving nothing away, his body built with purpose. After the military, he moved into private security, taking contracts that demanded precision and discretion. One of those jobs brought him to Enzo. Dante proved himself quickly, and what was meant to be temporary became permanent. Now he leads our Ghost team, trusted without question and called on when failure isn’t an option.

I take my usual seat to Enzo’s right and settle back as Rowan taps the screen of his tablet. The wall monitor flickers to life, displaying a grid of properties, shipping routes, and financial transfers that spread across the city like veins through a body.

“With Lachlan dead, Falco has formally absorbed the Emerald Brotherhood assets,” Rowan begins, his voice steady as he gestures toward the display. “That includes their properties, distribution warehouses, shipping routes, and remaining personnel. Thetransitions were filed through a network of shell companies over the past forty-eight hours.”

Zara’s father built the Emerald Brotherhood over decades, shaping it into a powerful operation that controlled several key routes through Chicago and formed it into the Marchetti Syndicate’s biggest enemy before his downfall shattered it. After Lachlan Kavanagh died, the remnants of his empire were left in a suspended state while we assessed what could be salvaged and what needed to disappear entirely. The territory never went public again because it didn’t need to. The other Syndicates in the northern US understood that the scraps belonged to us, with our Don married to the only known surviving member of the Kavanagh clan.

Until Anthony Falco decided to claim it.

Anthony is the son of Jerome Falco, the leader of the Blackline Holdings Syndicate, based in Philadelphia. When Zara’s father arranged for Zara to marry Anthony, he invited the organization to Chicago. Ever since Enzo stole Zara from him, Falco has struggled to remain relevant in our city.

Enzo studies the screen for a moment before muttering a single curse.

“Fuck.”

Rowan swipes to the next document, revealing a set of corporate filings and ownership transfers layered beneath several offshore holding companies.

“He’s framing it as stabilization,” Rowan explains. “The argument is that the Brotherhood territory was unclaimed and its members vulnerable, so he moved to consolidate it before outside interests could take advantage of the gap.”

The territory was never abandoned. It simply waited under our watch while the dust settled around Zara’s executed family. Falco knows that just as well as we do, but Falco has never been interested in playing by the rules.

Dante’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly as he studies the map projected on the wall.

“He knew that all belonged to us,” I say, leaning forward as I trace the pattern of newly claimed warehouses along the river.

Enzo nods his head in agreement. “My guess is that he wants to build something that doesn’t belong to daddy. He wants to be the one in control. And I have no doubt that this is why he wanted us to see him with Kelly Kavanaugh.”

Rowan sets the tablet down before folding his arms beside the screen. “The properties are only part of it. Falco has also folded the remaining Brotherhood soldiers into his ranks. Some joined willingly once the paychecks started moving again. Others appear to have been persuaded.”

“How many men are we talking about?” I ask.

“One hundred and ninety-seven confirmed so far,” Rowan replies. “That number will grow substantially once the secondary crews report in.”

Men are now wearing Falco’s crest inside a city that already belongs to us.

Enzo leans back in his chair, resting his fingertips together beneath his chin as he studies the information. There is no visible anger in him, and that absence of emotion carries more danger than any outburst ever could. When Enzo raises his voice, people understand that something has gone wrong. When he grows quiet, someone eventually pays for it.

“The Emerald Brotherhood assets give him access to dock space and three secondary warehouses along the river,” Enzo says. “Control of those routes strengthens his shipping lines.”