We do—of course we do. We always do. Three grown men falling into step behind her without a word, drawn by instinct more than choice, following her like gravity has shifted and she’s the only force left holding us upright.
The war room is dim, lit only by the glow of multiple monitors and the low hum of machines. It’s her domain—part chaos, part brilliance. Notes, maps, and blueprints are tacked to the walls in a web of organized madness. She slides into her chair with practiced ease, her hands flying across the keyboard as lines of code blur past on the screens.
“Okay,” she murmurs, half to herself. “Watch this.”
We crowd around behind her, shoulder to shoulder, as she navigates through layers of encrypted files faster than I can track. Then she stops, pausing just long enough to open two documentsside by side. At first, I don’t understand what I’m looking at, but her grin widens until it’s almost feral.
Ronan is the first to catch on—of course he is. “Holy shit,” he mutters, leaning closer. “These are our fathers’ statements. From their silent partners.” He lets out a sharp laugh; pure disbelief laced with satisfaction. “And they’re losing a ton of money.”
Berk’s smirk deepens, a satisfaction that says she’s been waiting for this moment. “Pix,” Ronan says, using the nickname only he can make sound both affectionate and reverent, “this is incredible.”
She tilts her head, eyes glinting with mischief. “As soon as we sent the virus,” she says, her tone proud but measured, “they started pulling out left and right. Every one of their backers is running scared.”
I glance between the screens, the reality sinking in like a slow burn. For months, we’ve been living off fury and ghosts, all rage and no direction. But this—this is progress. It’s control. It’s the first sign that the empire that destroyed our families is crumbling internally.
Berk leans back in her chair, spinning it lazily to face us, her smile softening just enough to make my chest ache. “Told you,” she says, her voice low and certain. “They can’t hide from us forever.”
Ronan’s grin mirrors hers, sharp and dangerous. Emerson’s lips twitch in something close to approval. And me? I just stand there, watching her glow in the flicker of the monitors, thinking that maybe vengeance has never looked so beautiful.
“What’s on the agenda for the last warehouse?” I ask, breaking the quiet hum of the monitors.
Berk doesn’t answer right away. She’s sitting cross-legged in her chair, a loose strand of her wild, colorful hair falling onto her face as she stares at the screens. There’s a faint crease between her brows—the look she gets when her brain’s moving faster than the rest of us can keep up.
I already know that expression. She has something up her sleeve. She always does. The corner of my mouth tilts into a smirk, pride sneaking its way into my chest because, honestly, watching her work never gets old. She’s brilliant, dangerous, and completely unpredictable.
She finally leans back in her chair, turning to glance at me with that spark in her eyes. “The last warehouse is still running shipments out of the docks,” she says. “Mostly cash drops disguised as exports. I’ve got one of my contacts looking into the manifests, but Bryce is getting sloppy. He’s moving fast and covering badly, trying to keep things afloat.”
Ronan tilts his head; arms crossed over his chest. “Sloppy’s good for us. Means they’re running scared.”
“Fear makes people sloppy,” Emerson says, his tone calm and assured. “We just have to be there when he slips.”
Berk nods, her fingers tapping against the armrest of her chair. “Exactly. We hit the warehouse tonight. Then they will have nowhere left to run their product.”
Her confidence hums through the room, but there’s still a shadow behind her words. I catch it when she glances back at one ofthe blank screens, the one she’s been avoiding for hours. “What about Dean?” I ask quietly, even though I already know it’s a sore spot.
Her shoulders stiffen, the shift so small most people would miss it. “He’s gone completely dark,” she says finally. “No digital trail, no paper, nothing. It’s like he just disappeared.”
“Since when?” Emerson asks.
“Since the last time you heard from him. Before he realized you all were involved,” she answers, frustration edging her tone. She drags a hand through her hair and mutters, “Now that he knows we’re behind this, he’s being smart. Too smart.”
Ronan leans forward on the table, his jaw flexing. “Dean’s a ghost, but ghosts slip up eventually. He’s paranoid, not invincible.”
“Still,” Berk says, sighing. “It’s unsettling. He’s unpredictable. And if he’s keeping tabs on Bryce, that means he’s watching everything else too.”
I rest a hand on the back of her neck, just enough to make her look up at me. “He knows about us,” I say carefully, “but he doesn’t know about you.”
Her eyes flick toward mine, a mix of relief and lingering worry. “Let’s keep it that way,” she whispers.
“Agreed,” I tell her. “Bryce and Dean will both get what’s coming, but only on our terms. You stay out of sight, and we’ll handle the front line.”
She looks at me with that familiar mix of challenge and warmth, and it hooks deep under my ribs. “You don’t handle thiswithout me,” she says softly—no room for argument, no doubt in her eyes.
Ronan chuckles under his breath. “Sounds like she just gave the orders.”
Berk’s smirk returns, sharper this time. “Damn right I did.”
The room hums again, charged with purpose. Plans, pain, and promises all tangled together. It isn’t peace—far from it—but it’s ours. And as I watch her bathed in the blue light of the monitors, the fire in her eyes steady and fierce, I can’t help but think that Bryce and Dean don’t stand a chance.