Page 36 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

And if they know about her, if the traitor has whispered her name to the wrong ears, then she’s already in danger.

And I’ll kill anyone who tries to use her against me.

A sharp knock at the door shatters my thoughts. I don’t bother looking up. “Come in.”

The door swings open, and Nico steps inside, his usual casualness coiled tight, wound like a spring ready to snap. But there’s something else beneath it.

It’s in the way he moves—the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens like he’s barely holding on.

He’s different now. And I know why. War changes men.

We lost too many at the docks. More than we ever have before. The echoes of their last screams, the gunfire cutting them down, the blood soaking into the concrete—it’s still there, lurking beneath the surface, poisoning the air we breathe. And Nico? He’s hardened now. We all are.

The Delgados didn’t just take our men that night. They started a war. One there’s no turning away from.

One we’ll end—no matter the cost.

“I came to see how you were doing,” He states, his eyes eying my torso where the bullet hit me, “Things didn’t go so well last week.”

I give him a small smile. He’s still a child. He isn’t supposed be here but being through things like he has forces you to be strong.

“Tell me about it,” I chuckle, “How’s everyone else doing?”

“Better. I mean we lost seven men but the rest… they’re better. Except Jayden,” he replies, anger lacing his words, “He’s still at the hospital.”

“Yeah… I talked to his doctor. Don’t worry he’ll be back soon and when he does… we’ll have our revenge,” I say. I don’t know who I’m trying to reassure – him or myself.

“We’ve got a mole, Dom,” he says suddenly. His voice is sharp, edged with certainty. “It’s the only explanation for the ambush.”

I exhale slowly, setting down the whiskey glass in my hand. “I know. But knowing it isn’t the same as proving it.”

Nico moves closer, his fingers tapping against his belt in that restless way of his when he knows something’s about to get ugly. “Charles mentioned tightening security, but I haven’t seen him today. Have you?”

That makes me pause. Charles missing? That doesn’t happen. But again, I’ve been on bed rest for the past week. He’s taking care of everything in my absence.

“No,” I say, my voice clipped. “Give him time. He’s quiet but he’s got feelings. He just deals with them by drinking himself to madness. As far as the rest of you are concerned, everyone needs motivation right now. Tell them about the mole and whoever finds him, with proof, will be given a reward.”

Our eyes meet for a beat, and I can see the silent question in his stare—Are we really about to turn everyone against each other?

“And when we find him?”

I take a sip of the whisky I had poured hours ago in my glass. “We put a bullet in him.”

It’s not an easy command to give, but in this world, trust is earned in blood.

When Nico leaves, the room feels heavier, the walls closing in. The storm outside wails against the glass, rattling the windows like a warning I can’t ignore.

I turn my gaze to the painting propped against the far wall—the one Isabella made, the one I took to Pier 12. It survived the bloodshed, but not untouched. My own blood stains the edges, soaked into the canvas like a cruel signature.

But it’s not just a painting. It’s a symbol.

The Delgados have always wanted it—not because of its value, but because of what it represents.

I exhale, leaning back into my chair, letting myself slip into the past—a memory I’ve kept buried for too long.

I was seven when my mother first told me about the painting. She showed me a faded picture of it.

It was late—past the time I was supposed to be asleep. The rain tapped against the window, soft and steady, a lullaby I had always found comforting. But that night, my mother’s voice was what held me still, her appearance grounding me in a way the rain never could.

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