Harper stood in front of the mirror, bare and unguarded, hands braced on the dresser, staring at her own reflection like it belonged to someone else. Pale light seeped through the curtains, cold and thin, brushing the edges of the room in silver. Her face looked older in it—drawn, sleepless, a little hollow—but there was something steadier behind the eyes than yesterday.
The bed creaked once behind her. Brock hadn't said a word since she started moving. He'd just sat there, boots on, jacket half-zipped, watching her like a man afraid to breathe too loud and break the fragile thing forming in front of him.
She dragged open the dresser drawer—borrowed furniture, borrowed clothes, everything in this room a temporary loan. The soft rasp of fabric sounded too loud in the quiet. Dark jeans Vera had given her. A fitted black sweater that had belonged to someone else once. Leather boots scuffed from another life, pulled from storage in the basement. She laid them out on the bed like armor pieces, methodical, deliberate. The kind of ritual that kept her from unraveling.
The cold raised goosebumps along her arms as she reached for the sweater. She pulled it over her head, the cotton soft and foreign against her skin, smelling faintly of detergent instead of smoke. Then the jeans, stepping into them one leg at a time, pulling them up over her hips.
Her fingers found the zipper. The metal was cold, small between her thumb and forefinger. She pulled—the teeth caught, released, climbed. Halfway up, her hand started shaking. Not the violent tremor of panic, just a fine vibration she could almost hide. She paused, breathed through it, flexed her fingers against the denim. The shaking eased. She finished the zip.
Every movement a small act of defiance against the part of her that still felt Kato's hands, that still heard his name like a blade scraping steel, that wanted to hide until the world stopped asking her to be brave.
No one would blame you.
Vera had said it last night, quiet and certain, her hand in Harper's hair. You've done enough.
But then came Brock's voice—the one she'd clung to in the dark hours between—talking about the coast, the dog, the porch. A life that sounded so ordinary it felt impossible. She wanted impossible.
Her reflection waited. Unforgiving. She straightened her shoulders until her spine found its line again.
"You don't have to do this," Brock said finally.
She met his eyes in the mirror. "Yes, I do."
He shook his head once, slow. "No. You want to. There's a difference."
She turned toward him, heartbeat steady now. "You're right," she said. "I want to."
Something softened in his face, not relief exactly—something heavier, proud and pained all at once. He stood, crossed to her, adjusted the collar of her sweater with careful hands, the way he used to check her gear before a job. Then he stepped back, gave her space. She watched his hands fall to his sides, fingers flexing once like he wanted to reach for her again but knew better.
The mirror caught both of them together now—him behind her, tall, shadowed, and her, small but unbending. The air between them felt like the moment before a trigger breaks: quiet, certain, irreversible.
She slipped the jacket over her shoulders. The weight of it settled her heartbeat, and with it, her resolve. In the mirror, the girl who'd screamed in the snow yesterday was gone. The woman looking back was someone who'd walk into a room full of monsters and not flinch.
Decision made. Armor on.
Brock was still there behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him through the layers. He didn't speak—just turned her gently by the shoulders until she faced him. His eyes searched hers for a long moment, looking for cracks, for fault lines, for any sign she was about to shatter.
She held his gaze. "I'm okay," she said quietly.
"I know." His hand came up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering at her jaw. "Doesn't stop me from checking."
She leaned into the touch, eyes closing briefly. When she opened them again, she reached up and caught his hand, brought it to her mouth, kissed his knuckles—scarred, rough, the hand that had destroyed her and rebuilt her in equal measure.
"We're going to be okay," she said. Not a question. A statement. A belief.
His throat worked. "Yeah," he managed. "We are."
She rose on her toes, and he met her halfway—a kiss that tasted like coffee and determination, soft and sure and grounding. His hand slid to the back of her neck, holding her there for a moment longer, like he was memorizing the shape of her against him.
When they pulled apart, his forehead rested against hers. "You and me," he murmured.
"You and me," she echoed.
He stepped back, but his hand found hers immediately, fingers lacing tight. "Ready?"
She squeezed once. "Let's go."
Brock kept hold of her hand as they stepped into the hall. The house was awake now—the low creak of floorboards, muted voices below, the faint metallic clatter of someone setting mugs on the counter. Morning light bled through the narrow stairwell window, striping the walls in thin gold. Each step down felt heavier than the last, the air thickening with the quiet awareness of what the day would ask of them.
You're absolutely right on all counts. Let me revise:
The kitchen went quiet when they walked in.
Not a dramatic silence—just a small hitch in the rhythm, the kind that came when everyone knew what a day meant but no one wanted to name it. Vera stood at the counter with the coffee pot in hand, steam curling around her wrist. Knuckles leaned against the sink, arms crossed, jaw tight. Mason sat at the table, fingers drumming a slow beat against his mug. Kier and Onyx hovered near the far wall, the kind of casual stance that wasn't casual at all. Rook stood by the window, coffee in hand, watching the morning light stretch across the backyard. Morrow and Hale were at the far end of the table, talking quietly over something on Morrow's tablet.
Calder stood at the head of the table, a map spread in front of him, a notepad covered in his sharp handwriting beside it. Gage leaned against the doorframe behind him, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Calder glanced up when they entered, gave a single nod—acknowledgment, not pity—and went back to whatever calculation he'd been making.
Vera moved first. She crossed to Harper, mug already in hand, and pressed it into her palm without a word. The ceramic was warm, the coffee dark and bitter-smelling. Harper wrapped both hands around it, grateful for something to hold onto.
"Thanks," she murmured.
Vera's hand found her shoulder, squeezed once. "Anytime, love."
Harper took a sip. The coffee burned going down, grounding her in the heat and the bitterness and the now.
Brock's hand found the small of her back—a quiet touch, steadying. Present. She leaned into it slightly, just enough to let him know she felt it.
Knuckles stepped closer, clapped Brock on the shoulder before looking at Harper. "We're right there with you. The whole way."Harper looked up at him. Found his eyes steady, concerned but not pitying. "I know," she said. "Thank you."
He nodded once and stepped back, satisfied.
Calder straightened from the table. "Alright. Let's go over this one more time." His finger traced a line on the map. "Meeting's at eleven hundred hours. Place is called Marchand's—upscale, neutral territory. Private room in the back. The Maw requested it specifically."
"Public enough to force civility," Gage added from the doorframe. "Smart."
"Who's going?" Mason asked.
Calder's gaze swept the room. "Me, Gage, Brock, Knuckles, and Harper." He paused, let that sink in. "Five of us. The Maw's sending six—contacts named Greco, Carlo, and four others we haven't ID'd yet. They'll have the numbers, but this isn't about posturing. It's about establishing whether we can work together without killing each other."
Harper's fingers tightened on the mug. Greco. Carlo. Names she'd gleaned from intel months ago, back when the Maw had just been targets on a board. Now they were people she'd sit across a table from. People whose organization had destroyed her.
"Estimated time?" Brock asked.
"One hour, maybe two. Depends on how the conversation goes." Calder folded his arms. "We're there to establish terms, exchange intel, and figure out if working together is even feasible. Keep it professional. Stay focused on the Syndicate."
"Ground rules?" Gage asked.
"No weapons at the table. If either side needs to step out, we do it together—no one goes anywhere alone." Calder's eyes found Harper. "If at any point you need to leave, you say the word. We all leave. No questions asked."
Harper nodded, throat tight.
"And if it goes sideways?" Knuckles asked.
"Then we walk. Clean, professional, no escalation." Calder's voice was firm. "This meeting happens because both sides want it to. The second that changes, we're done."
The room held that for a beat. Everyone processing what walking into that room would mean.
Kier shifted against the wall, his eyes finding Harper's across the room. He didn't say anything—didn't need to. The look was enough. A quiet solidarity, a shared understanding of what sitting in that room would cost her.
Harper held his gaze and gave the smallest nod. I'm okay. I can do this.
Kier's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. Then he lifted his mug in a small salute before taking a drink.
Mason stood, grabbed the coffee pot, and refilled Harper's mug without asking. "We'll hold down the fort," he said quietly.
"I know," she said.
Rook turned from the window, his voice low and even. "You've got this, Harper."
She almost smiled at that. "Yeah. I do."
Vera moved back to the counter, started pulling food from the fridge—bread, butter, eggs. "You've got a few hours before you leave," she said, setting a pan on the stove. "So you're going to sit down and eat a proper breakfast. All of you."
Knuckles huffed a quiet laugh. "Yes, ma'am."
The tension in the room cracked just slightly—not breaking, just easing enough to let them breathe. Calder rolled up the map. Gage poured himself another cup of coffee. Mason and Onyx started pulling plates from the cabinet without being asked. Morrow looked up from his tablet and nodded at Harper—just once, but it was enough.
Harper stood at the center of it, mug warm in her hands, Brock at her side, the rest of them moving around her like a well-oiled machine. Not smothering. Not coddling. Just there.
She took another sip of coffee and let the bitter heat settle in her chest.
You and me, Brock had said.
But it was bigger than that, she realized. It wasn't just the two of them against the world.
It was all of them. Together.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.
─•────
The city slid past in gray streaks. Harper sat between Brock and Knuckles, the hum of the engine louder than any of them dared to speak. Calder drove, eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. Gage sat forward in the passenger seat, elbow propped against the door, scanning the mirrors like he was cataloging every car that lingered too long behind them.
Harper watched the blur of buildings through the glass, each one ghosting by before she could catch a full glimpse. The world looked almost normal out there—people walking dogs, buses sighing at red lights, steam curling from street grates—but it felt like watching another planet. Everything inside the SUV was too still, too deliberate.
Her palms rested on her thighs, coffee gone cold in her stomach. Not fear exactly—fear had a sharper edge. This was something slower. Readiness, maybe. Like standing at the edge of a drop and knowing the wind would catch you either way.
Brock's knee brushed hers when they hit a bump. He didn't look over, just turned his hand palm up between them. She set her fingers on his, light at first, then tighter. The silent exchange said everything words couldn't.
Knuckles leaned his head back against the seat, eyes half closed but alert in that way only he managed—body resting, mind coiled. "We just keep it steady," he said quietly. "No one needs to prove anything."
Calder's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. "Exactly that."
The light ahead changed and the SUV eased forward, tires whispering over wet asphalt. Outside, the streets began to narrow, buildings turning sleeker, cleaner—the kind of district that pretended crime didn't have a seat at its tables.
Brock's voice broke the quiet, low enough that it didn't have to travel far. "You good?"
Harper turned her head toward him. His eyes stayed on her, steady but not pressing.
"I'm fine," she said.
He nodded once. "If that changes, you tell me. You don't try to power through it. You tap me, we leave. Doesn't matter what's on the table."
Knuckles shifted beside her, gaze still on the passing storefronts. "He means it," he said. "We walk if you need to. No questions, no speeches."
Harper looked between them—two men who'd seen her at her worst and still sat on either side like walls she could lean against. She swallowed, nodded once. "I know."
Brock squeezed her hand, brief and firm. "Alright then."
Calder slowed as traffic thinned. The storefronts grew glassier, the sidewalks lined with planters and soft-lit awnings—money everywhere, disguised as taste. The SUV turned onto a narrow side street where the morning felt too quiet, the kind of silence bought by expensive leases and good lawyers.
"There," Gage said, tilting his chin toward a stone building on the corner. Marchand's. Polished brass lettering, frosted windows, a valet stand already set up despite the hour. From the outside, it looked like somewhere people came to talk about mergers and investments, not blood and territory.
Calder pulled to the curb and put the vehicle in park. "Alright," he said. "Showtime."
No one moved for a moment. The idle tick of the engine filled the space where words should have been.
Brock reached for the door handle, then paused, looking past Harper at Knuckles. "You ready?"
Knuckles cracked his neck once. "Always."
Brock's eyes flicked back to Harper. She already had her hand on the latch.
"Together," he said.
She nodded. "Together."
The doors clicked open. Cold air swept in.
Brock opened his door first; the cold hit like a reset button. Harper followed, boots finding slick pavement. The street smelled faintly of rain and exhaust, the sky still low and colorless. Gage was already out on the curb, scanning the line of parked cars, one hand resting on the door frame like a quiet perimeter check. Calder locked the SUV with a muted chirp and straightened his jacket.
They moved together without speaking—Calder leading, Brock a half-step behind Harper, Knuckles at her other shoulder. The five of them must've looked almost ordinary from a distance: a crew of professionals heading to a meeting they didn't want to be late for.
Up close, it was something else entirely. Every line of their bodies said contained readiness. The kind of calm that comes before either diplomacy or disaster.
Marchand's loomed ahead, its façade a mask of civility—polished stone, trimmed ivy, gold lettering that caught what little light the morning offered. A man in a pressed coat stood beneath the awning, tablet in hand, posture sharp enough to cut glass. The kind of host who'd seen worse than he let on.
"Reservation?" he asked as they approached, voice smooth, neutral.
"Calder," Calder replied. "Private room."
The man's gaze flicked over the group, cataloguing them in a heartbeat. No hesitation, no surprise—he'd been briefed. He nodded once and turned on his heel. "Right this way."
Inside, the warmth hit immediately, carrying with it the low murmur of early patrons, the soft clink of cutlery. Too genteel, too composed. Harper's pulse drummed against her collarbone as they followed the host through a corridor lined with dark wood and art that didn't belong to anyone who'd ever bled for money.
Each step echoed—a sound swallowed quickly by thick carpet and heavier walls. The restaurant opened wider as they moved deeper: linen-draped tables, polished silver, wine bottles catching the light like currency.
At the back, the host stopped beside a pair of frosted-glass doors. "They're already here," he said simply, then stepped aside to let them through.
Calder gave a single nod. "Appreciate it."
The man dipped his head, already retreating, his shoes whispering over the carpet.
Calder's hand touched the door handle, but for a breath he didn't move. The team's formation settled behind him—Gage to his left, Brock and Knuckles flanking Harper in silent agreement.
"Ready?" Calder asked.
Harper drew a slow breath. "As I'll ever be."
The door opened.
The private room was larger than she expected—long, narrow, walls paneled in dark walnut that soaked up the light instead of reflecting it. A single chandelier hung low over the center of the table, throwing a gold circle across polished wood and untouched crystal. No windows. Just the steady hum of quiet money and the faint smell of disinfectant trying to pass for citrus.
At the far end sat two men who didn't bother to rise.
Greco was older—fifties, maybe early sixties—with hair gone silver at the temples and a face that looked carved rather than aged. He wore his suit like armor, dark gray, immaculate, the kind of fabric that didn't wrinkle even when lives did. His eyes were pale, sharp, cataloguing everything in front of him: who entered first, who hesitated, who didn't. A man who'd made a career of silence and consequence.
Beside him, Carlo was the opposite kind of danger—thirties, lean, wired tight. A deep scar curved from his jaw to his throat like someone had once tried to unmake him and failed. His suit fit cheaper, newer, and his gaze carried that hunger Greco's didn't have to show anymore. The predator still proving himself.
Four others sat further down the table.
The first was bald and broad through the shoulders, forearms thick beneath rolled sleeves, a watch glinting under the low light. His chair angled slightly, a guard's habit even here.
Next was a younger man with a neat beard and a sharp part in his hair, watch too expensive for his nerves. His fingers tapped soundlessly against his glass; every few seconds his gaze flicked toward Greco before settling again.
The last sat near the middle, dark-skinned, posture deceptively loose, a small geometric tattoo visible just above his collar. He met Calder's eyes for half a heartbeat, gave the faintest nod—neither threat nor welcome, just acknowledgment.
Harper's gaze tracked along the line of them, cataloguing faces, details, exits—until it stopped on the final figure, seated in the far corner where the light thinned.
And then, she saw him.
Denton was staring right at her.
The pale eyes she remembered locked fast, shock flickering through them before he could hide it. His fingers froze around his glass; the smirk that usually lived there died half-formed. Recognition hit like recoil—the woman standing in the doorway wasn't Lilly, the girl he'd tried to charm in a smoke-choked basement. She was Syndicate. She had been all along.
She watched it happen—the memory catching up, the flush of realization that he'd talked too much, touched too much, handed her more than he ever should have. That the night he thought he'd won something was the night he'd been stripped for parts.
Harper's stomach turned hard and cold. She forced her eyes off him before anyone else could trace the line of his stare. Calder was already moving to the table, Brock's attention fixed on Greco, Knuckles scanning the exits. No one else knew. Cole had been the only witness, and Cole was dead. Only Denton held the past in his eyes, and only Harper felt it land.
Chairs scraped as the Maw rose from the table, each movement measured, rehearsed. Greco stood first, Carlo a half-second behind him, the rest following suit in a ripple of deference. Calder matched it with the same calculated control, Gage stepping forward at his side.
"Greco. Carlo," Calder said evenly, extending no hand but offering a nod. "Appreciate you taking the meeting."
"Appreciate the civility," Greco replied, his voice smooth, low, cut from years of command. "Not something either of our sides have been known for."
They held the silence for a beat, weighing one another like pieces on a board. Then Greco's gaze drifted past Calder and Gage, finding the three who hadn't moved farther than the doorway.
"Brock Lawson," he said, that name tasting old in his mouth. "And Knuckles. I'll admit, I never thought I'd be standing in a room with you two—at least not without bloodshed."
Brock's tone didn't waver. "Times have changed."
Greco's mouth curved, a dry, humorless smile. "My, they have."
His eyes slid past Brock then, landing on her. The pause stretched, deliberate.
"And you must be the woman I saw stand up to Dane in the yard," he said. "Impressive, I must say. What's your name?"
Harper felt every gaze in the room shift with the question. Her pulse knocked once, hard, but her voice came steady. "Harper."
In her peripheral, she saw Denton stiffen—just a flicker, a twitch of muscle—but she felt it all the same.
Greco let the moment linger, then gestured lightly toward the others at his side.
"These are my men," he said. "James."
The bald one inclined his head, quiet, all muscle and watchful patience.
"Nolan."
The younger man with the sharp part gave a curt nod, fingers tapping once against his glass before going still.
"Kale."
The dark-skinned man with the collar tattoo lifted his chin in acknowledgment, eyes cool, unreadable.
"And Denton."
At his name, Denton didn't move. His gaze hadn't left Harper. The muscle in his jaw jumped once before he caught it. The pale eyes stayed fixed, unblinking, like he was still trying to solve something in her face.
Brock saw it. So did Knuckles. They didn't speak, didn't shift, but the air around them changed—a low thrum of readiness, subtle but impossible to miss.
Greco's attention flicked between them, sensing it but letting it pass. "Please," he said finally, motioning to the open seats across from his crew. "Have a seat."
Calder led the way, sliding into the chair opposite Greco. Gage took the one beside him, posture casual but eyes sharp. Brock waited until Harper moved, then pulled out the chair to her right. Knuckles claimed the one on her left, the arrangement wordless but unmistakable.
Across the table, the Maw mirrored them—Greco at the head, Carlo to his right, the others spaced like a quiet wall of muscle and intent.
The scrape of chairs against wood filled the room, followed by a silence heavy enough to press against the ribs.
Harper settled into her seat, the chill of the chair bleeding through her jeans. Across the table, Carlo reached for his glass, and as his sleeve slid back she saw it—the ink coiled along his wrist. A long, black fang. The same tattoo Kato had worn.
The skin on the back of her neck prickled, heat and cold tangling as the air in her lungs thinned. She tore her gaze away before it could linger, before anyone could follow it.
Under the table, Brock's hand found her knee. Solid, steady. His thumb brushed once against her jeans and stayed there, an anchor in a room that suddenly felt too small.
Calder's voice broke the silence, low and even. "Well—Greco—you called this meeting. We're here."
Greco leaned back in his chair, one hand resting lightly on the table's edge. "Let's get this out of the way first," he said. His voice carried the kind of composure that came from years of never needing to raise it. "We won't pretend this is pleasant for anyone. At one point, many of us have been—or still are—enemies."
He let the words hang, gaze sweeping the table before continuing. "That being said, we're here because we have a common enemy. The Syndicate."
The name settled heavy in the room. Even the air seemed to still around it.
"As I'm sure you're all aware," he went on, "the Syndicate has dominated East Halworth for years. Earlier this summer, they eradicated a few small gangs—namely the Crimson Vipers."
The words hit like a phantom blow. Harper's breath snagged before she could stop it. Brock's hand tightened on her knee under the table, a quiet tether that told her he was here.
Greco continued, unhurried. "After that, their focus turned to us—the Black Maw." His eyes slid down the table, first finding Knuckles, then locking on Brock. "I don't need to go over the details of that aggression, as two of the men sitting here were directly involved in the execution of it. And I'd wager the redhead between them played her part as well."
The pause that followed was thin and deliberate, a blade drawn halfway.
"But," Greco said finally, sitting forward, the light catching on the silver at his temples, "we're willing to make concessions. We understand there's been a… shift in loyalties. A mutiny, of sorts. And suddenly, the Syndicate finds itself without some very important dogs."
Knuckles broke the silence first. "Orders were orders."
His tone was even, stripped of heat. He looked from one Maw face to the next, meeting each stare without malice. "All business. Nothing personal."
The words hung flat In the air, a line neither challenge nor apology.
Brock leaned forward, forearms braced on the table, eyes fixed on Greco. "There's only one thing I need to clear up," he said quietly. "Kato."
Under the table, Harper's hand closed around his knee—a silent plea, pressure sharp through denim. Please don't.
But Brock didn't look at her.
"Who commanded him?" he asked. "Who gave the order?"
Across the table, Carlo shifted first. "Kato is dead."
Brock's jaw flexed. "I know."
He reached for Harper's wrist, slow but deliberate, and drew her arm up onto the table. The movement was careful, almost gentle, as he turned her hand palm-down and eased the fabric of her sleeve back. Pale skin, cross-hatched dozens of fine scars, caught the chandelier's light.
"I made sure of that," Brock said. His voice stayed low, steady, the kind that carried farther than shouting. "Orders are orders, and nothing is personal—but I want it clear. Three of your men, including Kato, strung her up and carved into her to bring me out. That's what your orders turned into."
The table stilled. No one moved.
Greco's gaze lingered on the marks—long enough to make it uncomfortable, but not cruel. When he finally spoke, his words came measured, deliberate.
"Kato was… a wildcard," he said. "He was instructed to lure you, or Knuckles, into a trap—as I'm sure you can understand, given the weapons shipment incident." His eyes flicked up, meeting Brock's squarely. "He was not instructed on how."
He exhaled once, slow. "Know this: I'm aware of the Syndicate's methods, and I know what they call strategy. The Maw does not operate that way. Had I known what he planned, Kato would have been pulled from the job before it began."
Brock let go of her wrist. Harper drew her arm back, sleeve falling to cover the scars, the fabric rasping faintly against her skin. The weight of the room settled again.
Greco watched the movement, his eyes following until her hand disappeared beneath the table. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than before, but not soft. "All is fair in these wars," he said. "But for what you were put through… I apologize."
The words weren't warm, but they were deliberate—meant, not performed.
Harper swallowed, the sound small in her throat, and gave a single nod. She didn't trust her voice enough to answer.
Under the table, her hands wouldn't still. Brock's found one and folded over it, steadying her, his thumb tracing a slow line across her knuckles until she could breathe again.
On her other side, Knuckles' hand brushed her knee once, a solid squeeze—there, real, wordless.
The tremor eased, not gone but contained, held between them.
Calder cleared his throat, voice cutting clean through the quiet that had settled. "Moving on," he said. "I know both of our sides have done plenty of damage to each other." His tone was measured, even—authority without ego. "And as Knuckles said, what he, Brock, and anyone on their team did was under Syndicate command."
He gestured down the table toward them. "These three—and three other ex-Syndicate—have been with us for some time now. We started hearing about bold attacks on Syndicate patrols and wondered what gang was stupid enough to poke the bear, then caught wind of the rumours. Whispers about defections, about pieces of the Syndicate breaking loose."
Calder leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, his gaze steady on Greco. "Then we saw it firsthand, and we were… surprised, to say the least, by who was leading the charge."
A ripple passed through the Maw side of the table—small, restrained. Carlo's brow twitched, Denton's fingers resumed their nervous roll along his glass.
"So," Calder went on, "we did what you're doing now. We approached them. We got to know them. We learned what they're capable of—and what they've lost. And now?" He spread his hands slightly, not for drama, but clarity. "Now, I'm confident we can put the history where it belongs and work together to end the Syndicate."
The words hung there, pragmatic and final, the first real bridge laid across the table.
Greco leaned back, eyes shifting down the line of his men. No words passed between them, but something did—an unspoken exchange, a flicker of judgment, consideration, agreement. When he looked back to Calder's side of the table, his expression was unreadable.
"We are willing," he said finally, "to put aside our grievances and… opinions." The pause was deliberate, the word carrying a quiet edge. "Which is why we called this meeting."
His gaze settled on Brock. "The question is—are you able to put yours aside?"
Brock's jaw tightened, not defensive—just steady. He glanced first at Harper, then at Knuckles, then back to her again. The air between them held the kind of trust that didn't need speaking.
"Yes," he said. His voice was even, unflinching. "None of us are proud of the things we did under the Syndicate. Our goal since we left has been to take them down—and to stop being hunted by them." He met Greco's eyes, firm. "If that means working with people we once called enemies, then it's something we're willing to do."
For a moment, the room was still—no argument, no reply, just the collective sound of breathing and the low hum of the chandelier overhead.
Greco watched Brock for a long moment, eyes flicking over that steady jaw, measuring what he'd heard against what he'd seen in the field. Then a slow smile—no warmth, only the ease of a man who recognizes usefulness when he sees it. "Good," he said. "Because the three of you are key players here. You know the Syndicate through and through. You know where their compound is, you know the layout of the interior—"
Knuckles cut in before Greco could finish, voice flat and practical. "Look, hurt as they may be, an attack on the compound itself is basically suicide. That place is locked down. Cameras everywhere. Everyone who works for the Syndicate lives there. There isn't a secondary location—the compound is the location."
Harper's head turned toward Greco. "How many are there?" she asked, simple and direct.
Both Greco and Brock blinked, surprised she'd spoken. Harper met their looks and repeated it, quieter this time. "How many Black Maw are there?"
Greco's hand hovered over the table for a second before he answered. "When we count everyone—direct affiliates, muscle, runners, support—we're at close to one hundred and fifty."
Harper leaned back against the chair, muscles folding for the breath. She looked at Knuckles, then at Brock. "The Syndicate was what, two hundred? And that was before we left." Her eyes narrowed. "The numbers are close."
Brock's reply was immediate, low and practical. "Not close enough. Not yet."
She shrugged once, the movement small but decisive. "Fine. Then we keep hitting patrols. We work together, prove we can sync up. Talk around a table is one thing—doing a dozen coordinated jobs together is another. We put a few ops under our belt as a group, then we think bigger."
Greco considered her for a beat, the room leaning into the logic like a hinge. Across from him, Denton's pale eyes didn't blink; his fingers drummed a thin, impatient rhythm on the wood. Greco's smile softened the barest fraction—transactional, but not dismissive. "We test the partnership," he said at last. "Small operations. Equal stakes. See if your crews talk the same language when the bullets start to fly."
Calder tapped a finger on the map folded at his elbow, eyes already scanning for likely patrol corridors. "We pick neutral ground for the first hits. South district—predictable routes, minimal civilian exposure. We deploy three from each side. If that goes clean, we expand."
Knuckles nodded once. "Three each. We keep it tight, keep it silent. No loose mouths."
Brock's gaze slid to Harper, asking a thing with nothing more than a look. She met it and nodded back. The plan was a promise in small pieces—risk managed, trust built one job at a time.
Gage considered for a long beat, fingers drumming the rim of his glass as if weighing the sound. When he spoke, his voice was flat, reasonable. "I can get behind this. It's a smart move. We've got intel on Syndicate routes—give us a few days to pin the patrol times, the choke points. We make a plan, you make yours, we sync up, and then we call the hit." He looked from Greco to Calder. "We go from there. If the teams work together, we keep pressing until we're confident enough to take the compound."
Calder let a thin smile split his face, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "Maybe a few months," he said, "and the Syndicate finally gets taken off the map."
There was a low ripple of agreement—nods, a curt tightening of lips—until Carlo cut across it, voice cool and sharp. "I want to clarify what happens after all of this." He leaned forward, palms flat on the table as if to mark the ground. "Once the Syndicate is gone, the Black Maw becomes the largest operation in East Halworth. We will want access to territories and routes. My people will need passage—control of supply lines, checkpoints." He glanced toward Calder, expression waiting for purchase. "The Vultures will be welcome to some of it. And then we end with a truce between us." He leveled his eyes at Brock. "Between all of us."
Brock's hands went up slowly, as if to show there was nothing to fight for in the air. His voice was quieter than the men around the table deserved. "I don't care what any of you do." He let the words fall, clean. "When the Syndicate is dead, none of you will hear from us. We're getting out of this city. Going somewhere else." A short laugh—no humor—pressed at the back of his throat. "What happens here after the last Syndicate man takes his last breath is no longer my concern."
The room tightened at that, follows muted and not unkind. Greco's face gave nothing away—no smile, no snarl—only the practiced stillness of a man who'd heard promises and betrayals from every direction. Calder's jaw moved once; Gage's fingers stilled. Knuckles' grip against Harper's knee lightened by the tiniest fraction, like a man taking in a boundary and accepting it.
Greco spoke finally, tone returning to business. "Then it's settled. I appreciate all of you taking the time to come here and assist us in making East Halworth a better place. We'll be in touch."
Chairs pushed back, wood legs whispering over polished floors. The choreography of men standing—the faint creak of leather, the jingle of a watch chain—filled the room like the sound of old gears catching again.
One by one, hands met across the table. Calder first, with Greco—a firm, formal clasp that carried weight but no warmth. Gage followed with Carlo, eyes flat, both men testing pressure. Knuckles moved next, his grip solid, nod curt.
Harper rose when Brock did, her chair sliding back on the polished floor. She followed his lead down the line—Greco, Carlo, James, Nolan, Kale—each handshake brief, professional. Their palms were rough, their eyes cautious, as if touching her meant something they hadn't decided yet.
Then she reached Denton.
He smiled before she could speak, that same twitch of arrogance trying to disguise the pulse in his jaw. He took her hand, fingers closing a little too long, a little too sure. "So," he murmured, voice pitched low enough that the others wouldn't catch it. "Your name isn't Lilly." A flicker of teeth. "And I'm guessing Dawson isn't really your lover either."
He held her hand as If the old script still applied, the air between them tainted by a memory neither could fully bury.
Harper's answering smile was small, almost kind. "He isn't."
She nodded toward Brock. "He is."
The color drained from Denton's face in an instant—the shock sharp and naked before he swallowed it down. His fingers loosened, the handshake ending on a silence thick enough to taste.
Harper withdrew her hand, calm and steady, and moved past him without another word.