Page 125 of The Final Cut

“If he destabilizes again, we take him back to surgery. For now, we keep him sedated, support his pressure, monitor his labs, and repeat imaging in four hours.”

The urge to demand more is both strong and useless. I can buy specialists, equipment, security, and silence. I cannot buy Cal’s body into obedience. That truth sits poorly with me.

“He has family asking to come,” I say.

Dr. Mehta’s eyes soften by a degree. “The daughter?”

“Yes, Reva.”

“It would be best if she waited until morning.”

“She’s not going to like that.”

“I assumed.” A pause. “Then let me be clear. If she comes here tonight, it will be for her, not him. He’s heavily sedated and medically fragile. Any movement around him increases infection and security risks. You already know the second part better than I do.”

I look through the glass. Mehta is well aware of all of the cartel…infringements…we’ve had to take care of while her staff has done its best to rotate around us, business as usual. It’s not fair to them to do anything to drive that threat factor up by even the smallest amount.

Cal lies pale and still beneath a tangle of lines, the man reduced to breath sounds, monitors, numbers. He should be at the cabin telling Reva not to glare at him and threatening to come down here himself with a weapon he has no business holding. Instead, he is in a bed while I decide which truths will hurt her least and fail before choosing one.

“She needs him alive,” I say.

Dr. Mehta is quiet for a moment. “Then keep her alive long enough for him to wake up.”

I almost smile. It would have been better if she had given me medicine. Medicine has instructions.

I thank her, confirm the private security rotation, replace one man whose fatigue has started to show in his eyes, and send three more to the hotel before I leave. One books the penthouse under a corporate account unrelated to Blackwood or Noir. One takes the service elevator before the rest of the team arrives. One walks through the lobby twice, once as a guest and once as a courier, to see who notices.

No one place is safe now, so I choose the most public one.

A swank hotel with too much staff, too many cameras, too many witnesses, two private elevators, a concierge level, underground parking, controlled service access, and enough wealthy guests to make a loud attack inconvenient for a woman like Isabel. The penthouse is ridiculous. Five bedrooms, private terrace, reinforced entry, elevator access that can be locked down from both ends, and a floor plan Ever can turn into a trap if he has ten minutes and a bad mood.

I send the coordinates in a dead-drop file.

I do not text the address.

Delia was right. Isabel prefers people over systems, and I have no intention of giving her either if I can help it.

By the time I reach the hotel, the lobby is all polished marble, low gold light, orchids, and the quiet glide of money pretending it has never been afraid. Two of my men are stationed near the bar as if they belong there. Another reads a newspaper by the elevators, which is absurd but effective. The concierge gives me a practiced smile and a key card he does not look at.

“Mr. Valiant,” he says. I don’t blink at the pseudonym, although I’d like to strangle whichever of my men thought it’d be cute.

“Any issues?”

“None, sir.”

Lovely.

I ride the private elevator alone and use the time to put my face back where it belongs.

Reva will see through it anyway.

The doors open into the penthouse foyer, and voices reach me before the suite does. Shiloh, low and amused. Ever, less amused. Delia, dry enough to scrape paint. Reva’s voice beneath them all, not laughing exactly, but close enough that something locked in my chest shifts.

For three seconds, I let myself stand in the entry and listen. Then I walk in.

The penthouse is exactly what money buys when subtlety gives up. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a view to the city. Pale stone floors. Dark wood. A living room large enough to hide a firing squad in good tailoring. Room service covers the dining table: silver domes, white plates, baskets of bread, fruit, steak, pasta, enough coffee to float Shiloh and Reva through a minor apocalypse. The terrace doors are locked. The curtains are half drawn. Ever has already moved furniture to improve sight lines.

Reva sits at the table between Shiloh and Delia, holding a fork like she forgot what food is for. Homer is in a soft carrier near her chair, judging the suite through mesh. It’s open; he’s clearly decided against emerging just yet. Deacon leans against the wall, pale around the mouth, one hand near the bandage at his ribs. He looks at me first.