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No more running from Dad’s billions, no more hiding from the power they brought.
I wanted quiet mornings, her bare feet on hardwood, coffee brewing while we laughed about nothing.
I wanted her—every day, every night, her love the anchor I’d never known I needed.
But first, I had a gift for her, something to show her I was all in, and that meant a trip to Isle of Palms.
Atlas surprised me, catching me in the hall after the service, his bulk filling the doorway.
“Going to the island?” he asked, voice low, like he’d read my mind.
“Yeah,” I said, pausing, keys in hand. “Getting something for Hallie Mae.”
“I’ll come,” he said, no hesitation, like it was the most natural thing.
I raised a brow, smirking. “You? Shopping?”
He shrugged, a rare grin tugging his lips. “Anna’s been talking about beaches. Figure I’ll scout it out. Plus, you’re shit at picking gifts.”
I laughed, the sound lighter than I’d felt in weeks. “Fair enough.”
We drove out, the Lowcountry unfolding—marshesglinting gold, oaks heavy with moss, the air thick with salt and possibility.
Atlas was quiet, but it was the good kind, the kind that didn’t need filling.
I thought about the funeral again, the way Hallie Mae had held her mom’s hand after, her strength quiet but unshakable.
I thought about Dom, the men we’d have to bury, their names carved into us like scars.
I thought about 77—faceless, relentless, a shadow we’d broken but not killed, and the CIA’s offer, a leash they thought they’d slipped around us.
They were wrong.
We weren’t their dogs—we were wolves, and we’d hunt 77 our way, on our terms, until every last one was gone.
But for now, Charleston was ours—quiet, safe, a bubble I’d guard with everything I had.
I pulled into Isle of Palms, the beach stretching wide and pale, waves whispering secrets to the shore.
Atlas climbed out, scanning the horizon, his bulk a steady anchor beside me.
“Place looks good,” he said, nodding toward a row of cottages, their porches weathered but warm, like they’d been waiting for her dream.
“Yeah,” I said, my throat tight, imagining her here—barefoot, laughing, her hair loose in the wind.
I’d found a realtor earlier, a quiet deal, a plot just off the main drag, close enough to hear the ocean but private, tucked behind dunes.
The gift wasn’t the house—not yet, not built—but the deed, the promise, a piece of paper that said I’d give her the world if she’d let me.
I pulled it from my pocket, folded tight, the ink still fresh from the lawyer’s office.
Atlas glanced at it, raised a brow. “Big move.”
“She’s worth it,” I said, simple, true.
He nodded, no judgment, just understanding—a brother who’d found his own peace with Anna and knew what it cost.
We walked the plot, sand crunching under our boots, the realtor waiting a discreet distance away.