Varek Larson learned three things in his twenty years with Army intelligence: patience wins wars, information is the ultimate weapon, and evil men always believe they’re untouchable—right until the moment they’re not.

He’d left that life behind twelve years ago, trading classified briefings and overseas deployments for a quieter existence, running Larsson Security Consultants out of downtown Portland. The firm specialized in corporate risk assessment and private investigations, legitimate work that paid well and let him be home for dinner most nights. His military pension padded the bottom line, and his reputation for thoroughness kept clients coming back. The modest house in suburban Beaverton reflected his priorities: a good school district, a neighborhood where kids still played outside, and enough space for his wife, Selise’s, pottery studio in the converted garage. They bought it when their daughter, Lyra, was seven, and the pencil marks tracking her growth still decorated the kitchen door frame.

“Dad, I’m heading out,” Lyra called from the entryway that Friday evening. At twenty-one, she’d inherited her mother’s striking features and his stubborn determination, a combination that made her formidable when she set her mind to something.

Varek looked up from his laptop at the kitchen table. “Where to?”

“Study group at Powell’s, then maybe coffee with some friends.” She was double-majoring in political science and journalism at Portland State. His girl wanted to change the world, and he had no doubt she would.

“Text when you’re on your way home.”

She rolled her eyes with affection. “Always do, old man.”

Selise emerged from her studio, clay still dusting her forearms. “Be safe, sweetheart.”

After Lyra left, Selise settled into the chair beside him. “You’re working late on a Friday.”

“Background check for a client. Guy’s hiring a CFO, wants to make sure there are no surprises.” He closed the laptop. “But it can wait.”

They met seventeen years ago at a gallery showing in Seattle. She’d been displaying her ceramic work; he’d been there because his unit was in town for a conference, and his commanding officer’s wife dragged them all along. Selise Maero had been explaining the inspiration behind a series of vessels to a pretentious art critic, and Varek had watched her expertly dismantle the man’s condescending assumptions with grace and steel. He’d been smitten before they’d exchanged a word.

Her family story was complicated. Her parents had immigrated from Mexico when she was a baby, but her maternal uncle, Eldro, had stayed behind in Sicily, where the Maero line originated. Eldro Maero was a figure shrouded in family legend and careful silence, a man whose “import-export business” nobody discussed in detail. He’d visited twice during Varek’s marriage, both times for weddings, and both times Varek had noted the deference other men showed him.

“You’re thinking about something,” Selise said, her hand covering his.

“Just grateful,” he admitted. “We’ve built something good here.”

She squeezed his hand. “We have.”

Neither of them knew those would be the last peaceful moments for a very long time.

The call came at 1:47 a.m. Varek was already reaching for his phone before his eyes fully opened, that old combat instinct recognizing the wrong time, the wrong ring. Selise sat up beside him as he answered.

“Mr. Larson? This is Dr. Alden from Emanuel Hospital. Your daughter, Lyra, was brought into our emergency department approximately forty minutes ago. She’s stable, but you should come immediately.”

The drive downtown was a blur. Selise sat rigid in the passenger seat, hands clasped so tight her knuckles were white.

Varek kept his voice steady as he called Joran Vayne, his oldest friend and a detective with Portland PD.

“I need you to find out what happened,” Varek said. “Emanuel Hospital. They said she’s stable, but that’s all I know.”

“I’m on it,” Joran said immediately. “I’ll meet you there.”

The ER waiting room’s fluorescent lights made everyone look like ghosts. A nurse led them back immediately—never a good sign when they don’t make you wait. Dr. Alden met them outside a room with a gentle expression Varek recognized, the one medical professionals wore when they had to deliver bad news.

“Your daughter was assaulted earlier this evening,” he began. “She has a concussion, a broken nose, three cracked ribs, extensive bruising, and defensive wounds on her arms. We’ve completed a full examination and collected evidence for…”

Varek stopped hearing words. He was aware of Selise’s hand gripping his arm, of Dr. Alden’s mouth moving, but the roaring in his ears drowned everything out. Through the window, he could see Lyra lying in the hospital bed, her beautiful face a canvas of purple and black, her left eye swollen shut.

“Can we see her?” Selise’s voice was barely a whisper.

Inside the room, Lyra’s good eye opened when they entered. “Mom… Dad.” Her split lip made speaking difficult. “I’m okay.”

Selise broke then, careful tears falling as she held their daughter’s hand. Varek stood at the bedside, and for the first time in his adult life, he felt truly helpless. In Kandahar and Baghdad, in a dozen other hellholes, he’d always known what to do. Always had a mission, a target, a plan. But standing here, looking at his broken daughter, he felt that careful control he’d spent decades building start to crack.

“Who did this?” His voice was surprisingly calm.

Lyra’s jaw tightened. She had his stubbornness, and he saw her decide to tell them despite her fear. “Caelan Rourke.”

The name meant nothing to Varek, but he would learn. Oh, he would learn everything.

“We met at a fundraiser last month for the campus advocacy group,” she whispered. “He seemed charming, interested in the cause. He asked me to dinner tonight, said he wanted to discuss funding.” She paused, wincing. “It was supposed to be at a restaurant downtown, but he changed locations last minute. Said his father’s penthouse had a better view, better privacy for discussing donations.” Selise’s hand tightened on Lyra’s.

“He wanted…” Lyra’s voice cracked. “He said spending the night with him was the prize for his donation. When I refused, when I tried to leave…” She couldn’t finish.

“Did he…?” Varek couldn’t complete the question.

“No. I fought. I screamed. I got away before… a doorman heard, called 911.” Her good eye met his. “But Dad, he wasn’t scared. Not even when the ambulance came. He just smiled and said his father would handle it.”

Joran arrived twenty minutes later, his detective shield clipped to his belt and his expression grim. He’d been Varek’s roommate at basic training, had stood as best man at his wedding, and was Lyra’s godfather. In the hallway outside her room, he delivered the news Varek had already suspected.

“Caelan Rourke, twenty-six, only son of Garron Rourke, real estate developer, worth north of three billion. The kid has a sheet, but nothing that ever stuck. Three prior assault allegations, all withdrawn. Two DUIs that vanished. A sexual assault complaint from two years ago that got buried.”

“How is that possible?”

“Garron Rourke owns half the city council, funds the DA’s campaigns, and has enough lawyers to form their own law firm,” Joran’s voice was tight with anger. “Uniformed officers responded to the scene. Rourke’s attorney was already there. By the time I heard about it and made calls, Caelan was home free. No arrest, no charges filed. The DA’s office is calling it ‘insufficient evidence to proceed.’”

“My daughter is in a hospital bed with a broken face.”

“I know. And I’m telling you, Tru, this is bigger than what I can touch. The Rourke family is protected at levels that make my badge worthless.”

Varek stood very still. “Then I’ll handle it.”

“Tru—”

“Thank you for coming, Joran. And for trying. But this is family business now.”

Something in his tone made Joran step back. They’d known each other for thirty years, had seen combat together, had buried friends together. Joran recognized that tone. “Don’t do anything that makes me have to arrest you.”

“You won’t,” Varek promised. “You won’t find anything to arrest me for.”

He returned to Lyra’s room. She was asleep now, medicated and exhausted. Selise stood at the window, her reflection showing tear-streaked cheeks.

“Joran says the man who did this will face no charges,” Varek said quietly.

“I heard.” Selise turned to face him, and he saw something in her expression he’d rarely witnessed: cold fury. “My brother. We should call Eldro.”

In seventeen years of marriage, Selise had never suggested contacting her uncle for anything beyond birthday cards and wedding invitations. The fact that she was suggesting it now spoke volumes about the Maero family’s unspoken understanding. There were some problems the law couldn’t fix, and Eldro Maero specialized in the other kind.

Varek’s phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

She refused to spend a night with me. My dad owns this city. You can’t touch me.

He showed it to Selise. Her face went pale, then hardened.

“Call him,” she said. “Call Eldro.”

Varek made the call from the hospital parking lot at 4:00 a.m. The number rang four times before a gravelly voice answered in Italian.

“Uncle Eldro,” Varek said in English. “It’s Varek Larson, Selise’s husband.”

“I remember who you are.” Eldro’s English carried the ghost of Italian vowels beneath American consonants. “Why do you call at this hour?”

“Lyra was attacked. Beaten badly. The man who did it is untouchable. Billions in family money, owns half the police force, and the District Attorney won’t touch him.”

Silence on the line, long enough that Varek wondered if they’d been disconnected. Then, “Tell me everything.”

Varek laid it out with military precision: the assault, Caelan Rourke’s history, his father’s influence, the text message. He spoke for seven minutes without interruption.

“Lyra is my blood,” Eldro said when he finished. “And you are family by marriage, which makes this my concern. I will arrive tomorrow evening. Do nothing until I get there.”

“Eldro—”

“Varek.” The voice carried steel now. “In my world, we have a saying: revenge served hot burns only the hand that pours it. You are angry, and you should be. But anger makes men sloppy. Wait for me. We will handle this the right way.”

The call ended. Varek returned to Lyra’s room. She would be kept for observation for at least forty-eight hours. He sent Selise home at dawn to rest, promising he’d stay with their daughter. In the quiet morning hours, he opened his laptop and began researching. Caelan Rourke’s social media was a monument to privilege and narcissism: yachts in the Mediterranean, exclusive clubs, bottle service at nightclubs with different women every week. He’d attended Princeton but never graduated, instead joining his father’s company in a vague executive role that seemed to involve attending parties and ribbon-cutting ceremonies.

Garron Rourke was easier to research. His profile was everywhere: “self-made” billionaire, or so the story went. A real estate empire built on aggressive development and political connections. Three marriages, each wife younger than the last. His current wife, Caelan’s stepmother, was a former model twenty years his junior. Varek dug deeper, using skills and access protocols he’d maintained from his intelligence days. The surface was all legitimate business, but in the margins, he found shadows: lawsuits settled quietly, building code violations that vanished, competitors who mysteriously lost financing. Garron Rourke had built his empire on pressure and manipulation, and he’d raised his son to believe the same rules applied to people.

Joran called around noon. “I’m going to tell you something off the record, and you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Go ahead.”

“Caelan Rourke was questioned this morning as a ‘courtesy’ by a junior detective who doesn’t know better. It lasted five minutes before the lawyer shut it down, but I got a copy of his statement. He claims Lyra came to his apartment willingly, that they had a consensual encounter, and she only got upset when he wouldn’t commit to funding her ‘pet causes,’ so she became aggressive and he was forced to ‘defend himself.’ Then she ‘accidentally fell.’”

Varek’s knuckles went white around the phone.

“His lawyer also filed a counter-complaint,” Joran continued. “Claiming Lyra was attempting to extort money from Caelan through false allegations and that the Larson family should expect a defamation lawsuit.”

“He’s going to sue us?”

“It’s a pressure tactic, designed to shut you down before you make noise. Tru, I’m sorry. This system is broken when it comes to guys like this.”

After Joran hung up, Varek sat with that information. Caelan wasn’t just confident he’d get away with it; he was actively on offense, weaponizing the legal system to threaten his victim’s family.

That evening, Lyra was more alert. “I need to tell you something,” she said, her voice clear now, determined. “Before he smashed my phone, I was recording.”

Varek went very still. “Recording what?”

“When he changed the location, something felt off. So, I started a voice memo app before I went inside. It was in my jacket pocket. The whole thing—him propositioning me, me refusing, him attacking me. It’s all there. The phone was destroyed, but everything backs up to the cloud.”

Selise’s hand flew to her mouth. “You have evidence?”

“I gave the police my cloud password when they took my statement, but…” She looked at her father. “Joran said it won’t matter. That evidence gets ‘lost’ when people like Caelan are involved.”

Varek pulled out his phone and called Joran immediately. “The recording from Lyra’s phone hasn’t been logged into evidence yet.”

A pause. “No, nothing in the system. Why?”

“Because it exists. Full audio of the assault, backed up to her cloud storage.”

Joran’s voice dropped. “Tru, if I know about this, I have to submit it officially. And if I submit it officially, it’ll be in the system where his lawyers can see it and get it suppressed before anyone relevant hears it. Or it might just disappear.”

“Don’t submit it yet,” Varek said. “Give me twenty-four hours.”

“You’re asking me to sit on evidence.”

“I’m asking you to be strategic. Twenty-four hours, Cole. Then do whatever you have to do.”

Another pause. “Twenty-four hours. But Tru, be careful. These people don’t play fair.”

“Neither do I,” Varek said, and ended the call.

Eldro Maero arrived at Portland International at 6:00 p.m. Varek picked him up alone. At seventy-two, Eldro was lean and weathered, wearing an expensive suit and carrying a single leather bag. His hair was silver, his face lined with decades of sun, and his dark eyes missed nothing.

At the hospital, Eldro sat beside Lyra’s bed for a long time, studying her injuries with an expression of stone. He took her hand gently, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and in Italian—words Varek didn’t understand but recognized as some kind of vow. Then, Eldro turned to Varek. “Now, we talk somewhere private.”

They went to a 24-hour diner. In a corner booth, Eldro ordered espresso and listened as Varek laid out everything he’d learned.

“This recording,” Eldro said. “It is your ace. But played through their corrupt system, it will be neutralized. We must use it differently.”

“I’m listening.”

“You were intelligence, yes? You understand leverage and pressure points.” Eldro sipped his espresso. “Garron Rourke has built an empire on corruption, which means he has many enemies. People he has crushed, cheated, destroyed. These people want revenge but lack the means or the courage. We find them. We unite them. And we use your daughter’s evidence not to convict his son—though that will be pleasant—but to destroy the father’s empire. When the empire falls, the son becomes vulnerable.”

“You’re talking about a coordinated campaign.”

“I’m talking about war,” Eldro corrected. “Not with guns. Those are crude and draw attention. War with information, with pressure, with fear. You expose Garron Rourke as the criminal he is, you collapse his political protection, and Caelan becomes just another violent man without a shield.” Eldro’s smile was cold. “Then, we handle him properly.”

“This will take time.”

“Good things do. Your daughter needs time to heal. You need time to build your case. And I need time to make some calls.” Eldro leaned forward. “In Sicily, we have an expression: Al nemicu, mancu u cori. To your enemy, not even the heart. We are patient. We plan. We wait. And when we strike, we strike once and completely.”

Varek felt something settle in his chest: a sense of purpose, of direction. This was a mission now, with objectives and a strategy. “What do you need from me?”

“Everything you can find on Garron Rourke and his business. Every enemy, every rival, every person he has wronged. I will handle finding the ones with useful information and the courage to use it. You will handle the investigation. Together, we will build a trap.” Eldro’s eyes glinted. “And when it closes, both Caelan and his father will wish they had never heard the name Larson.”

Lyra came home three days later, moving slowly and staying mostly in her room. Selise took leave from the community college where she taught art, and the house took on the quiet, careful atmosphere of a place where someone was healing. Varek converted his home office into a war room. Eldro had taken a room at a nearby hotel but spent his days at the house, making phone calls in Italian and occasionally disappearing for meetings he didn’t explain.

“I have made some progress,” Eldro announced on the fourth day, spreading documents across Varek’s desk. “Garrono Rourke has been busy making enemies for thirty years. I have found three who are willing to help if we can guarantee their safety and success.”

The first was Jalem Ketrel, a former city councilman who opposed one of Garron’s development projects and found himself facing fabricated ethics violations that destroyed his career. The second was Odrin Sallas, a contractor forced into bankruptcy after Rourke used legal pressure to steal his company’s largest project. The third was Corven Thale, a journalist who’d written an investigative piece about Rourke’s business practices and been sued into silence.

“They all have pieces of the story,” Eldro explained. “But separately, they lack the evidence and the courage to act. Together, properly orchestrated, they become dangerous.”

Varek had been conducting his own investigation, mapping Garron Rourke’s empire: shell companies, offshore accounts, and the complex web of political relationships that protected it all. What he’d found was extensive corruption—bribes to city officials, falsified building permits, intimidation of competitors, and systematic tax evasion.

“The question is how to make this public in a way that can’t be suppressed,” Varek said.

Joran Vayne arrived that evening, officially off duty. In the war room, he studied the evidence. “This is good work,” he admitted. “Better than good. This is prosecutable, but the DA won’t touch it. Marsha Vess has been in Rourke’s pocket for years.”

“So, we go over her head,” Eldro said. “The federal authorities.”

“The FBI would need a reason to get involved,” Joran said. “And they need to believe they have a case that won’t be killed by political pressure at higher levels.”

Varek had been thinking about this. “What if it wasn’t just about Garron Rourke? What if we connected his corruption to a broader pattern? Other developers, other politicians—a systemic problem that the feds couldn’t ignore.”

Joran’s eyes narrowed. “You need a trigger. Something that forces their hand and makes it a PR nightmare if they don’t investigate.”

“A scandal,” Eldro said softly. “Something public that cannot be ignored. Something that makes Garron Rourke radioactive to his political allies, forcing them to distance themselves. And in that moment of weakness, we introduce the evidence through channels he cannot control.”

Varek turned to his laptop and pulled up Caelan Rourke’s social media again. “Caelan is throwing a party next weekend. Annual charity gala at his father’s downtown tower. Politicians, business leaders, media coverage.”

“You want to crash his party?” Joran asked.

“I want to make it the last party he ever throws,” Varek said.

Over the next five days, they planned. Eldro reached out to their new allies. Joran used his connections to identify which FBI agents were clean. Varek focused on Caelan. The young man’s arrogance was a gift; he documented everything online. Varek identified a pattern: multiple women who’d appeared in Caelan’s photos and then vanished. He tracked them down. The first, Mirelle Risa, now living in Seattle, didn’t want to talk until Varek said, “My daughter was assaulted by Caelan Rourke. I’m not a reporter. I’m not a cop. I’m a father trying to protect my child.”

After a long pause, she whispered, “He assaulted me two years ago. I went to the police. His lawyers made me sign an NDA and accept a settlement. Said if I ever spoke about it, they’d bury me.”

“Would you be willing to break that NDA if I could guarantee he’d face consequences?”

“Do you really think you can touch him?”

“I’m working on it.”

Mirelle gave him three more names. By the end of the week, Varek had spoken to seven women. Six had similar stories: assault, intimidation, NDAs. None would go on record. The fear was too deep.

“This is valuable,” Joran said, reviewing the notes. “But without testimony, it’s still not enough.”

“We have Lyra’s recording,” Varek reminded him.

Eldro had been quiet. Now he spoke. “You are thinking like men bound by their laws. We are not. The recording does not need to be evidence in a court. It needs to be heard by the public.”

Varek understood immediately. “A leak.”

“Not yet,” Eldro cautioned. “First, we set the stage. The charity gala is in three days. We use that event to create chaos in Garron Rourke’s world. Then, in the midst of that chaos, we release the recording through channels that cannot be suppressed. Social media, multiple news outlets simultaneously, directly to the FBI. By the time his lawyers react, it will be everywhere.”

“And Caelan?” Varek asked.

Eldro’s smile was cold. “For him, we have a different plan. One that addresses the personal nature of his crime.”

The charity gala was scheduled for Friday night at the Rourke Tower, a glass and steel monument to Garron’s wealth. The plan had multiple components, each designed to converge at the event. Jalem Ketrel would attend and circulate among the politicians. Odrin Sallas had prepared a detailed report on the Tower’s building code violations, ready to be delivered to the media. Corven Thale had primed journalists he trusted with hints of a major scandal. Joran had connected with an FBI agent, Brett Renlo, who was not in Rourke’s pocket. And Eldro had arranged for over two hundred protesters—families displaced by Rourke’s projects, workers who’d been cheated—to gather outside.

The day before the gala, Varek visited Lyra. She was healing, but he saw the shadows in her eyes. “I want to help,” she said when he explained the plan.

“Absolutely not. You’ve been through enough.”

“Dad,” her voice was firm. “He did this to me. I can’t just hide in my room while you try to fix it. I need to be part of this.”

Selise appeared in the doorway. “She’s right, Varek. This is her fight, too.”

He looked between his wife and daughter, seeing the same determination. “What do you want to do?” he asked Lyra.

“The recording. When you release it, I want to release a statement with it. My name, my story. No anonymity. If other women see me stand up, maybe they’ll find the courage to come forward, too.”

“His lawyers will come after you.”

“Let them try,” her jaw set in that stubborn way that was pure Larson. “I’m done being afraid.”

Friday arrived cold and rainy. The Rourke Tower glowed against the dark sky. Limousines delivered guests in designer gowns. Outside, protesters began gathering, their numbers swelling to over three hundred. At 7:03 p.m., Varek and Eldro entered, blending into the crowd. He spotted Garron Rourke near the bar, and beside him, Caelan. The young man looked like a recruitment poster for inherited privilege, a champagne flute in his hand and a smug smile on his face. Varek felt his hands clench. Every instinct screamed to cross the room and break that face. But Eldro’s hand touched his elbow briefly. A reminder. Patience.

At 8:00 p.m., Corven Thale triggered the first domino, sending a coordinated message to fifteen journalists: Rourke corruption scandal breaking NOW. Check social media & secure inboxes. Then he posted a thread online—a narrative of Garron Rourke’s criminal empire, complete with documents. Inside the gala, guests began checking their phones. Conversations shifted. Varek watched Garron Rourke’s face as someone showed him a screen, confidence cracking.

“Now,” Eldro said quietly. “We add fuel to the fire.” He nodded to Jalem Ketrel, who began showing documents to city officials. At 8:15, Odrin Sallas released his building code report to every news outlet. By 8:30, the party was in chaos. Half the guests had left. Garron Rourke stood in the center of the room, barking orders into his phone. And Caelan… Caelan looked genuinely frightened for the first time, isolated as people who’d been laughing at his jokes minutes ago pretended not to see him.

“It is time,” Eldro said.

Varek’s phone buzzed. A message from Joran: FBI en route to Rourke Tower. ETA 10 minutes. Things were moving faster than planned.

Eldro had pulled out his own phone. “The recording,” he said. “Lyra gave me permission to upload it to multiple platforms simultaneously. Once I press this, it will go live. It cannot be stopped.”

“Do it,” Varek said.

Eldro’s finger touched the screen. Within seconds, Lyra’s voice filled the internet, followed by the audio of the assault—Caelan’s ugly threats, her screams, his casual laughter. It was damning, crystal clear, and already viral.

Varek watched Caelan’s face go white as someone showed him a phone. Garron Rourke grabbed his son’s arm and pulled him toward a private elevator, but before they could reach it, FBI agents entered, led by Renlo.

“Garron Rourke,” Renlo announced, his voice carrying across the now-silent room. “We have a warrant to seize records. We’re also placing you under investigation for fraud, bribery, and racketeering.”

Garron’s face went from red to purple. “You have no authority!”

“We have plenty of authority, sir. Federal jurisdiction supersedes your local connections.”

As FBI agents spread through the tower, Eldro leaned close to Varek. “The empire falls. Now, we handle the son.”

But before they could move, Caelan ran—not toward the elevator, but toward the emergency stairs. “Stop him!” Garron shouted, but no one moved.

Varek and Eldro followed. Joran’s voice came through Varek’s earpiece: “I’ve got eyes on the back exit. He’s heading for the parking garage.”

Caelan burst into the underground garage. Varek emerged from the stairwell behind him, blocking the exit. “Caelan Rourke.”

The young man spun around, genuine fear in his eyes. “Stay away from me! My father will have you arrested!”

“Your father’s currently being placed under federal investigation. His protection is gone. His money is about to be frozen. His lawyers are busy saving themselves.” Varek took a step forward. “Which means you’re all alone.”

“I didn’t do anything to your daughter! She wanted—”

“Finish that sentence,” Varek said very softly, “and I will break your jaw. We both know what you did. So do the seven other women I found. So does everyone who’s heard that recording.”

Caelan’s bravado crumbled. “What do you want?”

“Justice.”

“I’ll pay! My father will pay!”

“Your father is bankrupt. The FBI is seizing his assets. There is no money coming to save you.”

Eldro emerged from another stairwell, cutting off Caelan’s other escape route. “In Sicily,” the old man said conversationally, “when a man harms a daughter of our family, there is only one acceptable response. It is very old-fashioned. Very permanent.”

Caelan’s legs buckled. “Please… I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”

“You made many mistakes,” Eldro said. “The first was believing you were untouchable. The second was sending that arrogant text. The third was existing in a world where men like me still exist.”

Joran’s voice in Varek’s ear: “Tru, I’ve got two PD units responding. You need to clear out.”

But Varek wasn’t finished. “Do you know what my daughter is doing right now? She’s preparing to testify, to put her name and face to what you did so that every other woman you’ve hurt knows they’re not alone. That’s courage, Caelan. Something you’ll never understand.”

“I’ll confess!” Caelan said desperately. “I’ll turn myself in! Just… don’t hurt me.”

“You’re going to face consequences, Caelan. Legal, social, personal.”

Eldro produced a phone and showed Caelan the screen, a news article with his face next to headlines about assault allegations. “Your name is ruined. Your life is over. The question is whether you survive long enough to see the inside of a prison cell.”

That was when Caelan broke completely, dropping to his knees on the concrete, crying. Varek felt no satisfaction, only cold calculation. This man had hurt his daughter, and this moment of fear was only the beginning of what he’d pay.

“Let’s go,” Varek said to Eldro. “He’s not worth any more of our time.”

They left Caelan sobbing. By the time police arrived, he was still there, incoherent and broken. Joran later told Varek that Caelan had been taken into protective custody because he was an active threat to himself.

The next morning, the news was everywhere. Garron Rourke’s empire was collapsing. Caelan Rourke faced charges from multiple assaults. The recording had been played on every major news outlet. Three more women had come forward. But for Varek, watching the news with Selise and Lyra, it still wasn’t enough. The legal system was moving, yes. But the personal accounting, the real price for what Caelan had done, was still unpaid. Eldro seemed to read his thoughts.

“Patience,” the old man said. “The trap is closed. Now comes the final part. The part where we ensure this ends properly.”