Page 62

Nikolai looks up, his expression unreadable. “And you are?”

The man pulls out a wallet, flashing an FBI badge. “Special Agent Frankford,” he announces. “With RICO.”

The room falls silent. The air thickens with tension as the implications of his words settle in. RICO—Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations—a section of the FBI created to dismantle organized crime syndicates. Eavan stops mid-reach for her wine. Cillian puts his fork down slowly, eyes narrowing. Nikolai leans back in his chair—one hand resting near the edge of the island, calm but balled into a light fist. Gunnar’s hand sits on the gun tucked at the rear of his pants—and I suddenly wish I hadn’t left mine in my nightstand downstairs.

Agent Frankford’s eyes dart between Cillian, Nikolai, and me. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he continues, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of disbelief. “I wasn’t expecting to find the heads of three rival families laughing and sharing dinner. Bonding over the untimely passing of your fathers?”

This fucker has some balls, I’ll give him that.

The mention of our late fathers sends a ripple through the room. This is either one hell of a coincidence or the FBI is connecting the dots. They’re drawing lines between our families, our actions, and the chaos that ensued.

I meet Agent Frankford’s gaze, my expression hardening. “What do you want?” I ask, my voice low and controlled.

He doesn’t falter. “Truth be told, I have a few questions about Rian O’Brien.”

“Rian O’Brien?” I steer the conversation, my hand curling into a fist at my side. “Is that the reason you’re standing in my apartment, Agent Frankford?”

He smiles faintly. “Among others.”

Nikolai stands, folding his napkin with deliberate care. “Want to tell us why you’re really here? Because I don’t think you showed up to compliment Enzo’s risotto.”

Frankford lets out a dry chuckle. “You’re right. I didn’t come for the food. Though the company…” He gestures lazily between the three of us. “Now, that’s interesting.”

He takes a step further into the room, his shoes tapping softly on the hardwood floor. “Your fathers bled this city for decades, carving it into pieces like a pie none of them wanted to share,” he discloses, his voice calm but deliberate. “And now—suddenly—it’s quiet. Almost like someone turned down the volume.”

“You got a problem with peace, Agent?” Cillian asks.

“What I have a problem with is the unknown. O’Brien, Romanov, Roseti—each of you inherited an empire built on violence. Now you’re having dinner together? It doesn’t make sense, unless you figured out that together, you’re untouchable.”

We stay quiet, none of us taking the bait. Frankford inhales slowly, his gaze wandering between the three of us again, his jaw tightening, like he’s contemplating what to say next. “Here’s what I think,” he shares. “I think you’re planning something big. Bigger than territory, bigger than protection rackets or drugs. I think you’ve already started it.”

“And what would that be?” Nikolai asks quietly.

Frankford smiles. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

And that’s when I know—when we all know—he’s not here with evidence. He’s here with questions hethinkshe knows the answers to, just waiting for one of us to accidentally confirm his suspicions.

He’s hunting.

The FBI doesn’t show up at the family dinner table unless they already have something—or they want you tothinkthey do.

He didn’t flash that badge to introduce himself. He did it to rattle us.

Cillian played it cool.

Nik barely blinked.

And I’ve been waiting for this since the day we left our fathers in that warehouse.

It wasn’t a question ofwhetherthe FBI would be knocking on our doors. It was a matter of when.

The FBI knocks when they’re close enough to smell blood, of which the three of us have spilled plenty. When they’re ready to arrest, they barrel through the front door. If that day arrives, they better come with a lot more than a fucking leather flap concealing a cheap badge.

Because I’m not going down easy.

And neither are my brothers.

First, to my husband—my rock, my partner, my Daddy—thank you for your endless love, strength, and support. You hold me up when the words won’t come and celebrate with me when they do.

To Katie—my editor and comma queen—thank you for your friendship and believing in what we can accomplish. Your tireless support and unwavering willingness to battle me over my fondness for the wordfuck(it’snevertoo many) helped shape this story into something amazing.

To my incredible alpha team—Lexi, Amanda, Kristen, and Katie—thank you for your feedback, your enthusiasm, and for loving these characters as fiercely as I do. And to Katelin,my ever-diligent proofreader, thank you for helping to polish every page and make sure Daddy Enzo and Eavan’s story shines like they deserve.

And finally, to my readers—you beautiful, feral brats—thank you for diving into these worlds and devouring these men with such passion. You make this all possible. I’m endlessly grateful.