Chapter 15

Valentin Rossano’s private dining room was buried deep in the stone basement of a harbor-front restaurant that officially served the finest seafood in the city, and unofficially served as the nerve center for the Rossano Syndicate's legitimate commercial operations. Alistair had been eating there since his grandfather first brought him at fourteen. He had never once enjoyed the food.

"Three months," Valentin said, swirling a deep red vintage in his glass, the candlelight catching the heavy gold rings on his fingers. "Three months and absolutely nothing. The girl is extraordinary, Alistair. A true ghost."

"She is," Alistair said, his voice entirely devoid of inflection.

Valentin studied him with the patient, predatory attention of a man who had survived thirty years of gang wars by reading people better than they read themselves. "You've pulled Renner's tactical teams back from the Oakhaven district."

"The thermal audits returned nothing but baseline noise. Continuing to run heavy surveillance through those blocks only signals to her contacts exactly where we are looking. It drives her deeper."

"So you've gone quiet."

"I've gone patient." Alistair raised his own glass, the wine tasting like ash. "She will need something eventually. Specialized medical resources. Sophisticated financial infrastructure. A port to route a legitimate identity through. When she makes her move, she will leave a trace. Hex always leaves a data trace—not out of sloppiness, but because real-world survival requires real data generation."

Valentin leaned back in his leather chair, rolling the stem of his glass between two fingers. "And the heir?"

"Confirmed."

"Julian knows?"

"Julian knows precisely what I allow him to catch," Alistair said coldly. "He believes he dug the information out himself, which keeps him dangerously invested in the illusion that he possesses leverage over me. He doesn't."

Valentin smiled—the sharp, dangerous smile of an old fox who appreciated a brilliant chess move without wanting to be caught on the board himself. "And when she surfaces, Alistair? What do you actually intend to do?"

The private room fell profoundly still. The muted sounds of the harbor—the groaning of heavy ropes, the slap of black water against stone, and the low calls of the night watchmen—filtered through the three-foot-thick foundation walls like a distant murmur.

"That depends," Alistair said quietly, "on exactly what condition she surfaces in."

"And what you want that condition to mean to you."

"Don't philosophize, Valentin. You're far better at logistics."

"I'm far better at reading men than logistics, and you know it." The older man set his glass down with a heavy, definitive thud. "You didn't come here tonight to update me on search parameters, Alistair. You have interchangeable corporate suits for that. You came here because you are deeply unsettled, and you have no one else in your life you can afford to be human in front of."

Alistair said nothing, his face a perfectly constructed mask of indifference.

"That legal document she left behind," Valentin said softly, his voice dropping an octave. "The separation waiver on your desk. My man at the estate tells me you haven't allowed the staff to move it. Three months, Alistair, and that cold piece of corporate paper is still sitting exactly where she dropped it."

The heavy silence in the room was answer enough.

Valentin stood up, signaling the waiters for the main course. "Find her, Alistair. And when you do—whatever it is you choose to say to her, do not say it like a Thorne. Say it like a man. You might be surprised what that actually gets you."

He said it lightly, as if it were a small, trivial piece of advice. Alistair picked up his fork, his jaw set in stone, and the crushing weight of the unsaid sat at the table between them through the rest of the meal.