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The large doors that lead to our meeting room creak open. A long hall separates us from the doors, twenty-foot ceilings, and archways leading to our ornate wooden table. A room of Gothic and Roman architecture at The Partners new residence in Ibiza.

I watch a man being dragged down the Spanish tile floor with a hood over his head. I study Roland’s smug face as he drags the man across the floor.

“Why did you call us here?” Kozlov asks.

I am surprised when Roland’s father speaks up. “If this is some attempt to get a spot at the table, you’re mistaken, son. Nothing will get you back here.”

“Are you sure about that?” Roland asks.

I roll my eyes. “Get on with it.”

Roland grins at me as he pushes the man to the floor. I can smell him from here. Like the man has been living in the streets for years. His clothes torn and filthy. His olive skin covered in dirt.

“Let’s see what you have to say now.” Roland pulls the man’s shoulders back and wraps his arm around his neck as he pulls the hood off the man’s head.

I hold in my gasp when I see the man before me. I glance to the side and see no shock on the rest of The Partner’s faces.

I turn back toward the man. He looks nothing like he used to. His dark hair is past his shoulders, his beard wild and just as long. But his eyes are unmistakable, just like his brothers’.

Dean opens his mouth and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Thiago Montford, we’ve been looking for you.”