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And, for now, I have Mae’s trust. I have Finn’s warm words and warmer arms.

I’m safe.

I repeat it like a mantra, over and over again. Maybe if I repeat it enough times, I’ll actually start to believe it.

Chapter 18

Jonah

We left just after midnight. I paused outside of Ani’s door, but Finn was taking care of her. There’s a bite of jealousy in my chest, but mostly I feel relief.

It’s weird, caring about someone like this. Even weirder to share. But somehow, this works. Finn gets her in ways I don’t, and I know she trusts him. She needs him and I am not about to take that away—from either of them. Because it’s obvious that Finn is already falling hard.

And Finn’s right—she deserves to figure out who she is without someone trying to shape her into what they want. She’s had enough of that already. More than I even realized until she told us everything at the family meeting.

I threw my bag over my shoulder and followed Boone out to the truck. The drive was long and quiet.

Boone drove the first leg and I took the second. We didn’t talk much. There wasn’t much to say that wouldn’t spin both of us up. I had my eyes on the road and Boone had his on the screen of his phone, but I knew damn well he wasn’t just scrolling pointless bullshit. He was still working on our plan.

I wasn’t surprised that Gunner was his first call. The man was one of ours, though he never operated under anyone’s commandfor long. We’ve seen him in situations most people wouldn’t survive. I’ve watched him clear buildings with nothing but a combat knife and zero fear.

Boone trusted him the way he only trusted a select few. Not because Gunner followed orders, but because he always finished the job and never sold out the people he worked with. When Boone needed someone to dig without leaving a footprint, Gunner was the obvious choice.

He stayed in the Green Berets when we got out. He’s not special forces anymore, but the work isn’t all that different. And if there is anyone who can trace the full reach of Ani’s father without triggering alarm bells, it’s him.

Now we’ve just reached the edge of the city, and the sky has changed from black to steel gray. The smog settles low over the Los Angeles skyline. Brighton Hills is on the outskirts, but we’re headed deeper into the city first. We cut through industrial streets with cracked sidewalks and broken fences. Boone gives the directions one street at a time, his voice clipped.

The building is an old warehouse on a street that doesn’t see much traffic. No sign on the door. No light in the window. I park where I’m told and follow Boone to the door. He doesn’t knock. He enters a code on a keypad and opens the door without hesitation.

Inside, it’s all concrete and exposed pipes. The man waiting for us stands near a table that looks like it used to belong in a mechanic’s shop. There’s a laptop open, a small burner phone beside it, and a black mug with baked-in coffee stains.

Gunner looks up when we step in and nods at us. “Boone. Jonah.”

Boone doesn’t smile. I nod once in return.

“Didn’t think I’d see both of you on my doorstep again,” he says, leaning back against the table. “It must be serious.”

“It is,” Boone answers.

Gunner jerks his chin toward the laptop. “Let’s get to it, then.”

He doesn’t waste time on small talk or pleasantries. His fingers tap through folders skillfully. Some of what he shows us is familiar—things Ani told us and we looked into on our own. He shows us public-facing business assets, old security camera stills, property registries tied to shell corporations. Then he opens the second set of folders.

“This is what’s behind the curtain,” he says. “Your girl’s father isn’t just pulling strings. He’s building a net—real estate fronts, offshore accounts, a tight rotation of private handlers and mid-level muscle. All of it linked to high-volume money laundering and a very quiet but steady stream of bribes tied to city contracts.”

Boone folds his arms. “How deep does it go?”

“You ever heard of GEVRA?”

Boone’s expression hardens.

“Yeah,” Gunner says. “That deep.”

He keeps flipping. The next page has three names. Ani’s father. Davit. And a third I don’t recognize.

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“Connector,” he says. “One of the brokers that tied the Brighton Hills deal into a few other international portfolios. Mostly property and trade. But that’s not what’s keeping the lights on. It’s the trafficking behind the curtain.”