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The alternative, it seems, is unthinkable.

Lavinia’s gaze lifts over my shoulder, where I know Eugene came in behind me. He’s standing with the Dukes, hands shoved in his pockets. “How is he?” she asks, gathering herself in that special marriage of Lucia and West End armor.

Glancing at Wick, I sigh. “Numb, I think. He didn’t say much on the way over.” A twinge jolts up my spine and I step back. “I think we’re both terrified of what it means for Stella.”

Wicker jams his fists into his pockets, looking unsure of his place here. “They could have been unconnected. I wouldn’t make any conclusions yet.”

“This is Forsyth,” Nick says, drawing Lavinia protectively into his side. “Everything is connected.”

Wick nods, unable to argue that much. “Well, whatever we can do or offer,” he tells Nick, shrugging. “Pace is good at getting into files if you need to know what the police know.”

Lavinia sniffs, glancing up at Nick. “That might come in handy.”

Nick neither accepts nor declines. “I should be out on the Avenue, sniffing out some leads,” he says. But she strains up to press a kiss to the tattoo of her lip print on his neck—the side unmarred by the shrapnel scar—and I know from the way he looks at her that he won’t be leaving her side anytime soon.

“The girls?” I ask, looking around. “Are they… handling it?”

Lav shakes her head. “They’re a mess. And they’re scared.”

This knowledge makes it worse, and the grief combined with the anxious energy in the room spurs me to accept the only thing I know to do. “Tell me what I can do to help.” I scan the room, eyes landing on Sy’s. “Where’s Mama?”

Nick nods toward the back. “She’s talking to Laura's dad on the phone.”

“Okay.” I take a deep breath, feeling Wick’s hand slipping into mine. “Anything else need doing?”

“Remy’s keeping up with his uncle,” Lav explains, and I see him off to the side, texting on his phone. “The girls are planning a vigil for later tonight.”

“Oh, that sounds nice. Here?”

“At the tower.”

Good. Staying busy is good, which is what we need to be doing, because I cannot think about what all of this means for Stella.

“Food,” I say, as if it’s the easiest solution in the world. “We’ll need food.”

Wicker perks up, saying, “Yeah, I’ve gotten good at the lasagna,” and my heart clenches at these small, easy offers. “Just point me to a pot.”

“I’ll help,” I say, unable to resist lifting our joined hands to my lips.

“And we’ll need booze. A shit-ton,” Lav adds, gaze dropping abruptly to my stomach, “well, for most of us.”

“A couple more weeks,” I say, ignoring another twinge.

Wicker doesn’t, though. He frowns, leaning down to whisper, “You sure you can handle this? I know Lex says it’s good for you to move, but?—”

Interrupting him with a kiss, I explain, “I’ll feel better if I do something.”

Despite looking unconvinced, he sighs. “Just no heavy lifting. Get one of the fifty guys in here to do it, okay?”

Lav nods, looking a little more steady now that we have a plan. “We’ll send a few of the guys out to stock the bar at the tower, and?—"

Wicker tugs me away. “We can go see what’s in the kitchen, in case we need to send someone to the store.”

She exhales, taking a breath so deep I’m jealous. The baby has dropped a bit, settling more on my pelvis which is hell on my hips, but falling into the rhythm of work does the trick. Wicker and I pull out ingredients and heat the ovens. As he works cutting onions, other girls slowly begin finding their way into the kitchen, where I give each a job.

“I know Mama keeps a bunch of frozen bread in the chest freezer,” I tell Daphne. “Go see how much there is? It’ll defrost pretty fast if we set them out.” I turn and eye some DKS recruits who look overwhelmed and lost. They never met Laura. “Hey, guys. See that stack of tables against the wall?” One pimply kid nods. “Start putting them out in rows—Family Dinner style. And then the chairs?—"

“Verity Sinclaire!” I spin and my mother stands in the doorway. She looks like hell, eyes red and puffy. “What the hell are you doing?”