Nate’s bar was closed to the public. The back room was open.

The chairs were down from their tables. The bourbon was on its usual shelf. Julian had already poured himself a glass. Gilbert was nursing a whiskey, his shoulders looser than they’d been a week ago but still carrying the particular tension of someone who had information to share. Nate was behind the bar, mixing his gin with tonic. Franz was in his usual seat, his drink untouched, waiting.

The door opened and Arianne walked in.

It was the first brotherhood meeting she’d attended since the club fight. Since the station. Since the photoshoot. Since everything. She’d been absent from the last one. Tonight she was here, and the room adjusted to her presence the way it always did. Not deference. Just recognition.

She took her seat beside Franz. His hand brushed hers under the table—brief, grounding. She didn’t pull away.

"Angelika Sinclair is leaving for Rohan in three days," she said. "I met with her this afternoon."

Nate raised an eyebrow. He came around the bar, his gin in hand, and dropped into the chair across from her. "You gave her an exit."

"A job. An apartment. A fresh start. She has nothing here. Her family disowned her. The Taylors want her to publicly validate their divorce lie. She refused."

"And you’re sending her to the far east."

"There’s a company I know. They need interpreters. She speaks Rohan fluently."

Nate swirled his gin. "I didn’t expect that. After what she did to the twins."

Arianne looked at him. "Everyone reaches bottom at one point in their lives. Not many can recover from it without help."

The room was quiet for a moment. Then Nate nodded, a small motion, and drank.

"But that’s not why I’m here," Arianne said. "Angelika told me something. About Alex."

The room sharpened. Gilbert’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth. Julian leaned forward. Franz’s hand went still under hers.

"She said there was an old man. An investor in the Sinclair Corporation. She overheard him talking to her father, years ago. He said Alex’s death was from the pressure of Rochefort Group. That Alex couldn’t handle it. That it was bound to happen."

"Someone was spreading that narrative," Gilbert said. His voice was flat. "Before anyone had even asked questions."

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

"She couldn’t remember his name. She only met him once or twice. But he was someone her father was eager to please. An investor. An old man with inside information about Alex’s death—or at least, someone who wanted people to believe he had inside information."

Arianne turned to Nate. "I need a list of the Sinclair Corporation’s investors. Going back six, seven years. Names. Backgrounds. Who had access to the family."

Nate set his glass down. "That’s confidential information. Not publicly available. Shareholder lists for private corporations aren’t filed anywhere accessible."

"I know."

He held her gaze for a moment. Then he nodded. "People talk in my bars. They always have. Businessmen, investors, the wealthy and the foolish. They drink and they talk and they forget who’s listening."

"Can you find the investors?"

"It’ll take time. But yes. I’ll look into it."

Gilbert reached for his tablet.

"Since we’re sharing information," he said, "the PI sent an update."

He placed the tablet flat on the table. A map app was open—satellite view, the city and its surroundings rendered in greens and grays. Red pins dotted the landscape. A dozen of them. Maybe more. Each one was numbered.

"These are all the locations Alex and Layla visited in the months before their deaths. The PI cross-referenced Layla’s photographs with Alex’s travel notebook. Every trip they took. Every site they documented."

Arianne stared at the screen. The pins formed a pattern—not random, not scattered. Clustered around certain neighborhoods. Certain districts. Certain buildings.

"Each one of these locations has a shell company connected to the Blackwood Corporation," Gilbert continued. "The PI confirmed it. Alex and Layla were mapping the shells. Tracing the money. Following the structure. They knew what they were looking for."

"All of them," Julian said quietly. "Every trip they took."

"Every trip. They weren’t just investigating casually. This was systematic."

Arianne was silent. Her eyes moved from pin to pin. The pattern. The clusters. The gaps. Something was tugging at the edge of her attention. Something that didn’t fit.

Then she saw it.

"There’s a restaurant near each one."

The room went still.

She pointed at the screen. "Here. And here. And here." Her finger moved from pin to pin. "This restaurant. Same name. Same branding. It’s near every Blackwood shell on this map."

Nate leaned forward. Gilbert rotated the tablet toward himself. Franz looked over Arianne’s shoulder.

"She’s right," Julian said. "That franchise—I’ve seen it. It’s all over the city."

Arianne looked at Nate. "Who owns it?"

Nate was already pulling out his phone, scrolling. A minute passed. Then he shook his head. "Shell within shell. The franchise is registered under a holding company that’s registered under another holding company. The beneficial owner is buried. Someone worked very hard to hide it."

"Either Dominic owns it," Arianne said, "or someone close to him does. Someone who wanted eyes near every Blackwood shell. Someone who wanted to watch."

"You don’t believe in coincidence," Nate said.

"I don’t."

Gilbert was already typing on the tablet. "I’ll ask the PI to look into it. Follow the restaurant trail. Franchise ownership, property records, who manages each branch. If there’s a connection to Blackwood, they’ll find it."

"Tell them to look at the staff too," Franz said. His first words since the meeting began. Everyone turned. "Restaurants have managers. Servers. Delivery drivers. People who come and go. If someone wanted to watch those locations, they’d need eyes on the ground. The franchise could be a front for surveillance."

Gilbert nodded. Added the note.

Julian had been quiet through the exchange. Now he set his glass down.

"Your grandmother called me this morning."

Arianne looked at him.

"She wants another meeting. Private. Alone. She said she’s ready to continue the conversation you started."

The last meeting with Evelyn had been before everything. Before the club fight. Before the anniversary. Before the photoshoot and the portrait and the quiet morning in the tub. Arianne had walked into her grandmother’s study and learned that the woman who’d sent her away at thirteen had been trying to protect her. That the signatures on the trust documents had been coerced. That Evelyn had waited years for a window and used Alex’s investigation as cover to close the tap.

"Did she say what she wants to discuss?"

"No. Just that it was time."

Arianne was quiet. Franz didn’t speak. He’d be there before and after, the way he’d been last time—waiting in the dining room with Joyce and Yosef and Gio, letting her walk into the study alone because that was what she needed. She knew this without asking. She’d always known.

"I’ll meet her," Arianne said. "Soon. Before the quarterly assessments start. Before filming."

"When?" Julian asked.

"I’ll have Gio arrange it. Next week. Maybe sooner."

Franz’s knee pressed against hers under the table. Just enough to feel. She didn’t look at him, but her hand moved—covered his, briefly, then returned to her lap.

The meeting wound down.

Nate refilled his gin. Julian finished his bourbon. Gilbert folded the tablet cover closed, the map still glowing faintly beneath it, the red pins waiting. The restaurant lead. The investor list. The PI’s next steps. The meeting with Evelyn. The investigation was moving again, pieces connecting, patterns emerging from the chaos of the past months.

"One more thing," Arianne said. She looked at Nate. "The old man Angelika mentioned. When you find the investor list—look for anyone who had connections to the Conway family. Or to my father. Angelika said he spoke about Alex like he had inside information. That means he knew more than what was in the press."

"You think he’s connected to the trust," Nate said.

"I think he’s connected to everything. The siphon. The shells. The narrative about Alex’s death. Someone’s been managing this story for years. The old man is part of it."

Nate nodded. "I’ll look."

The chairs scraped back. The glasses were collected. The back room of Nate’s bar returned to its usual stillness—the cinderblock walls, the fluorescent hum, the locked door that had heard more secrets than any confessional.

Arianne walked out into the cool night air. Franz was beside her. The city was dark around them, the bar’s neon sign switched off, the street empty.

"You were quiet tonight," she said.

"I was listening." He opened the car door for her. "The restaurant lead is good. The old man is better. Your grandmother is—"

"Complicated."

"Always."

She got in the car. He closed the door. Drove them home. The map’s red pins glowed behind her eyes, the restaurant names repeating like a litany, the old man’s face still unknown. Somewhere out there, someone had been watching Alex and Layla. Someone had been watching her. The threads were finally pulling tight.