Last time on L.A. Connections…

Riley begged Natalie for forgiveness only for her to shut him out, watching helplessly as she moved in next door with Steve. His fall continued when a video from his escort days surfaced online, costing him his job at Marigold Lane. Violet confessed to Brett and Heather that she took the drugs because she was tired of being the good girl. Brett unloaded his fury on an eerily unmoved Mickey for poisoning the streets. Mickey warned Seth to disappear for a while, crossed paths with Suzanne, then twisted the knife by taunting Brett about their explosive past affair before plotting with Nico to reclaim the family’s forgotten mansion in the hills. Stormy was granted bail but warned his fight was only beginning, Leilani questioned Kelly’s decision to invite Phoebe to stay with them. Kelly and Keaton tested the waters on a date, Brett confessed his feelings to a guarded Sharon, and Nico paid Alex a chilling visit—rekindling memories of their affair from when she was still married to James.

* * *

Giancarlo Bravetti was born in a small village in Sicily to a poor, hard-working family. He spent the first sixteen years of his life tending goats, hauling water, and helping raise his many brothers and sisters. Then he began to understand two things: Sicily was too small for his ambitions, and America was where men like him became legends.

When he arrived in New York, Giancarlo started going by Carlo. The city didn’t need another village boy with an old fashioned sounding name. Tall and slender, movie-star handsome with a Roman nose and olive skin, he wore the new name as easily as a tailored suit. 

Carlo learned fast about how money moved through channels, how favors were traded, how fear could be dressed up as respect. By his early twenties, he’d left New York behind for Los Angeles, where Hollywood was booming.

By the early seventies, Carlo Bravetti was no longer a nobody. He financed films no one wanted to touch, solved problems producers didn’t want traced back to them, and hosted dinners where politicians and studio heads drank his wine and pretended not to know exactly who he was.

In 1976, he married Destiny Vitale—beautiful, polished, and impeccably loyal. Destiny understood the arrangement. She wore diamonds, hosted charity galas, and never asked where the money came from. In return, she was treated like royalty.

Two years later, in 1978, she gave him a son they named Nicodemo. Nico was raised as the heir apparent—tailored suits by twelve, private tutors by fourteen, taught to fight before he learned algebra. Carlo adored him, molding him into a version of himself.

What Carlo didn’t know was that years earlier, in 1971, he had already fathered a child.

Her name was Deirdre Donovan. She was a brainy Irish woman, beautiful in a way that made men do stupid things. She’d loved Carlo once—enough to recognize that his world would destroy her.

When she realized she was pregnant, she disappeared.

Deirdre raised her son alone, naming him Michael Donovan. She called him Mickey. She never told Carlo the truth—not out of spite, but fear. Fear of his violence and of his power. Fear that a child born into Carlo Bravetti’s world would never truly be free.

It wasn’t until years later—long after Nico was born, long after Destiny had settled comfortably into her role—that the truth surfaced. And when Carlo learned he had a firstborn son, he did what he always did when fate surprised him. He corrected it.

Mickey was brought into the family quietly; a reminder of a past Carlo had never intended to revisit. Destiny never forgave it. Nico fared slightly better. And Mickey learned early that love in the Bravetti household came with conditions.

Two sons. Two mothers. One empire.

* * *

The house in the hills was alive again. Crews moved in and out—gardeners clearing overgrowth, electricians testing lines, workers hauling furniture through the front doors. The mansion looked less like a home than a kingdom being reclaimed.

At the edge of the drive, Mickey and Nico stood side by side. Behind them, Bruno and Dennis kept their distance, hands folded in front of them, eyes scanning the perimeter.

The black sedan passed through the gates, rolled up slowly and came to a stop. The driver stepped out and opened the rear door. Carlo Bravetti emerged like he had never left. He was older now—in his mid-seventies, but the authority he commanded was intact.

Nico moved first. “Papà.”

Carlo pulled him into a tight embrace, kissing both sides of his face. He held him back at arm’s length, studying him. “Look at you,” Carlo said with pride. “Out. Finally.”

Nico smiled faintly. “I’m home.”

Carlo turned to Mickey next, his expression warm and approving. They embraced just as firmly. “You did well, Mickey,” Carlo said. “Keeping operations running. You’ve done me proud.”

Mickey nodded. “I did what needed to be done,” he said.  “How is grandfather?”

Carlo’s mouth curved into a smile. “Still alive,” he said. “A hundred years old and sharper than men half his age.”

Mickey laughed softly.

“He sits in his chair all day and watches everything,” Carlo went on. “Doesn’t miss a thing. Still asks questions. Still remembers names, dates, debts.” He shook his head in admiration. “He says time only dulls people who were never paying attention in the first place.”

Nico smirked. “Sounds like him.”

Carlo nodded. “He asked about you,” he added, glancing at Nico. “Said a Bravetti survives anything.”

Then his expression hardened just a fraction, business creeping back in.

“And now,” Carlo said, “it’s time we prove him right. Now we get to work.”

They looked at him, hanging on his every word. 

“James Blackthorne,” Carlo continued. “His family. His allies. Twenty-five years of silence does not erase what was taken from us.”

Nico’s jaw tightened. Mickey said nothing, but his eyes hardened.

Carlo placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “It’s time we reminded this town who we are and what we’re about.” 

“Yes, Papà,” Nico said dutifully. 

The house loomed behind them, busy with activity, alive once more.

The Bravettis were home.

* * *

In the library at the Blackthorne mansion, James stood near the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back. Alex sat rigidly on the cognac leather sofa, Stormy paced the floor, and Jane remained seated, one hand resting protectively over her stomach. Miranda and Eddie stood together near the window.

“Lara has agreed to enter a rehabilitation facility,” James said quietly. “In exchange, the D.A. is suspending charges for now.”

“Dad, no,” Miranda said with a somber shake of her head. 

“It was the only way to keep her out of jail,” James continued.

Jane nodded gently. “I’m sorry, James.”

He acknowledged it with a brief nod, then shifted. “But that’s not why I brought you all here.”

Stormy stopped and crossed his arms across his chest.

“The Bravettis are active again,” James said. “Carlo’s back in Los Angeles, and Nico’s out of prison. Mickey Donovan isn’t calling all the shots anymore.”

Jane frowned, looking from one face to the next. “The Bravettis?”

“Organized crime,” James said. “They had a long footprint in Hollywood.”

“How?” Jane asked.

“They strong-armed the studios until they wound up in control,” James replied. “They financed risky pictures, laundered money through productions, paid off unions, made scandals disappear.”

Stormy let out a breath. “Seth Orr works for them. He’s a drug runner.”

Jane’s face drained of color. 

Eddie spoke next. “We testified against Nico Bravetti when we were kids.”

Jane turned to him. “For what?”

“We saw him push a woman off a catwalk at Sunset Studios,” Eddie explained.

“She was a witness who threatened to go to the police about illegal activities during a movie shoot,” James explained.

Miranda exhaled. “We all knew exactly what we saw. Or at least,” she continued, her voice turning icy, “we did… until recently.”

Every head turned toward her.

“Twenty-five years is a long time,” she said, not looking at anyone in particular. “Long enough for people to suddenly decide they’re uncertain.”

Alex stiffened and James watched her carefully.

“Heather,” Stormy said.

“But you all testified that you did see him push her,” Alex said.  

“Well, according to Heather, I told everyone what to say,” Miranda replied, then looked at Stormy and Eddie. “So tell me the truth, do you think I did?” 

“No,” Stormy said adamantly.

Silence filled the room until Eddie cleared his throat. “There’s something else,” he said. “I think Brett’s involved with them somehow.”

Stormy dropped his hands to his sides in mock disbelief. “Oh, of course he is.” 

“What makes you say that, Eddie?” James asked.

“He came to me a few weeks ago,” Eddie said. “Asked if I could help locate Mickey Donovan’s yacht in Marina Del Rey. Slip numbers, schedules, that kind of thing.”

Miranda blinked. “Why would Brett be involved with Mickey Donovan?”

Eddie shook his head. “I don’t know. He said it was business. But he wouldn’t explain more than that.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?” James asked.

“I didn’t know what it meant,” Eddie said. “I do now.”

Stormy folded his arms. “I’ll go talk to him and get to the bottom of it.”

“Be careful, son,” James cautioned. “We don’t know how involved Brett is—or what side he’s on.”

Stormy nodded grimly.

Jane’s hand tightened over her stomach. “So what does that mean for us?”

James looked around the room—at his ex-wife, his children, the family he’d spent a lifetime trying to protect.

“It means,” he said quietly, “that whatever this family thinks it lost twenty-five years ago… it believes it’s time to collect.”

They all looked at one another, each of them aware that whatever came next would not spare anyone in that room.

* * *

That evening, Brett was halfway through a glass of scotch when the doorbell rang. He frowned, but he already knew who it was. Mickey was standing there when he opened the door.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” Mickey said easily, stepping inside.

“If this is about the book again—”

“It’s not,” Mickey said quickly, then grinned. “I don’t care about your sex life, Armstrong. Fuck your mother-in-law, fuck your daughter’s best friend, I really don’t care.” 

“And what are your intentions with Suzanne?”

“Don’t worry, that has nothing to do with our arrangement,” Mickey replied. “I simply thought she was charming. Obviously you did too at one time.”  

Brett sighed with aggravation. “So then what can I do for you, Mickey?” 

He glanced around the living room, taking it in. “I wanted to tell you I won’t be at the marina anymore, so in case you decided to show up in one of your ill-timed drop-ins you won’t be caught off guard and think I bailed. You’re not getting rid of me.” 

“Where are you going?”

“My family has a home in the hills,” he said dismissively, drifting toward the bar. “Now, as for Rydell Productions, we’re going to need to tighten things up. Cleaner paper trails, productions that lose just enough money to be believable.” He poured himself a drink without asking. “There’s a lot of money about to be coming in that we need to clean.”

Brett watched him carefully. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” he said, adjusting a cuff on his sleeve. “Suffice it to say I’m no longer a one-man operation. My father and brother have recently returned from a long absence.” 

Brett blinked. He didn’t know whether he should ask more questions or simply nod and move on. The latter was almost the safer option. The less he knew, the better. 

* * *

Riley waited in the dark of his apartment, the lights off, the silence pressing in on him. Every sound from the courtyard sent him racing to the window.

Suddenly, he detected the rattle of the gate, followed by voices—soft and intimate laughter. He moved before he could stop himself, bursting out into the courtyard just as Steve and Natalie stepped inside, Steve’s arm still around her waist. 

Natalie gasped. “Riley!”

Riley shoved Steve hard in the chest. “How could you fucking do it?”

Steve stumbled back, catching himself. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You put it online,” Riley snapped. “The video.”

Natalie grabbed Riley’s arm. “Stop it! Please, just stop!” 

Steve’s mouth curled into a grin. “Sorry to disappoint you, Ry, but that was not me.”

“You think this is a joke?” Riley asked. “I got fired from the Silverdale movie because of you.” 

Natalie was unable to hide the sorrow in her eyes as she stared at Riley, broken and alone.  

Steve laughed, sharp and cruel. “I wish I could take credit for that, man, because let’s face it, you kind of deserved it the way you’ve been strutting around here like a big shot lately.” His gaze zeroed in on Riley, relishing his predicament. “But as I said, it wasn’t me.”

“You’re lying,” Riley said.   

Steve stepped closer, lowering his voice. “How many husbands do you think would’ve loved to ruin you? How many angry men whose wives you slept with had a phone and a grudge?”

Riley froze.

Natalie looked between them, shaken. “Steve, enough.”

Steve shook her off gently and opened the apartment door. “We’re done here.” He glanced back at Riley. “Get help, man.”

The door closed behind them.

Riley stood alone in the courtyard, his fists clenched, his heart thudding in his chest.

* * *

Iris opened the door to the pool house, already fastening an earring while smiling happily.

“Hi. Are you ready?” Blake asked lightly. “Sheldon’s meeting us at the Rack & Tap.” 

Iris hesitated, then stepped aside. “Yes, give me two minutes.”

The living room smelled faintly of sage and something floral. Sadie lay stretched along the couch beneath a crocheted throw, the coffee table arranged with crystals, tincture bottles, and a burning candle. She looked deliberately fragile with her eyes closed, one hand resting over her ribs as if breathing took effort.

“Oh,” Sadie murmured when she sensed them. “Hi, Blake.”

Blake glanced at the scene. “Sadie,” he said dubiously. “You look wiped.”

Sadie managed a small, apologetic smile. “I haven’t been sleeping much. It’s hard to breathe when your chest feels tight.” She waved it off weakly. “It’s probably nothing. I’m sure chemo will be worse, so I’ll just have to power through. I just hate being dramatic.”

Blake’s eyebrows creased. “Your lung cancer seems to be progressing fast.”

Sadie opened her eyes, unfazed. “That’s what my doctor warned me about,” she said softly. “He said there could be days where things shift suddenly. Where I might feel fine one minute and… not the next.”

Iris reappeared from the bedroom, purse in hand. “What’s going on?”

Sadie looked at her sister, guilt flickering across her face. “I didn’t want to bother you. I know you have plans. I’ll be fine.” She paused, then added quietly, “I just get scared sometimes. You know, being alone when I can’t really count on being healthy anymore.”

Iris stopped cold.

Blake crossed his arms. “Did your doctor say you shouldn’t be alone?”

Sadie shrugged, careful. “But Iris, honey bunny, I want you to go out and have fun and don’t give your sister a second thought. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”  

After a few moments of silence, Iris turned to Blake, already resigned. “Look, I’m really sorry, but I think I should stay home.” 

Blake searched her face. “Iris—”

“My sister needs me,” she said firmly. “I just can’t leave her tonight.”

Sadie manufactured a few tears. “Honey, no. You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Iris said softly. “I want to.”

Blake nodded slowly, unconvinced. “Okay.” He forced a smile. At the door, he paused, glancing back at Sadie—at the crystals, the candle, the carefully measured weakness. “Hope you feel better,” he said.

Sadie smiled faintly. “Me too.”

Blake stepped outside to the pool deck, the door closing behind him. Iris stayed standing in the living room while Sadie lay back against the cushions, alone but not abandoned, exactly as she’d intended.

* * *

After Mickey left, Brett fixed a drink and wandered out onto the terrace. Shirtless and in a pair of gray joggers, he stood, elbows braced on the railing, and stared out at the dark waves rolling in. He lifted his glass, took a sip, then stopped when he heard a faint voice from behind. 

“Hi.”

He turned to see Sharon coming up the stairs from the beach, stopping a few feet from him as if forcing space between them. Her arms were folded tightly around herself, nerves written all over her posture.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t be here. I know it’s late.”

“No, I’m glad you came” he said, hope surging in his chest.

She let out a shaky breath. “I tried to talk myself out of it. I really did. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said earlier.”

“You should come inside,” Brett said after a few seconds of silence.

Sharon hesitated before shaking her head. “No, I can’t stay. There’s just something I have to tell you, and I didn’t want to say it over the phone.”  

“What is it?” he asked.

She looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers together, then back up at him. “The reason I’ve been so adamant about… about keeping things professional.” Her voice wavered despite her effort to control it. “It’s not because I don’t feel something too. I felt it the day you walked into my studio.”

Brett found himself hanging on her every word.

“It’s because I’m married,” she said quietly.

The words hit him like a truck and kept repeating in his mind over and over again.

“I didn’t plan for this,” Sharon went on. “I didn’t expect to meet you. I didn’t expect to feel… like this. I should have said something sooner, but… I liked feeling wanted for a change.” 

Brett stared at her, stunned, anger and disappointment tangling with something softer. “Married,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said. “And it’s complicated. Very complicated.”

He zeroed in on her hands.  “I never saw a ring, so I just assumed you weren’t.”

“I don’t wear it because it can get in the way with my work. Diamonds snag fabrics, they get caught on things… I hope you didn’t think I was leading you on.” 

The waves crashed a few yards away, relentless.  

“I shouldn’t have come,” she added, already retreating to the stairs. “I just wanted to explain.”

Brett didn’t stop her. He couldn’t. He just watched as she descended from the terrace, leaving him standing there with the realization that maybe for once there was someone he couldn’t have. 

* * *

Blake watched the lights over the bar at the Rack & Tap flicker as the bartender slid past with a tray of glasses.

“I’m sorry about Reverse L.A. being stalled,” he said to Sheldon.

“Well, with Lara in rehab, who knows when or if her production company will happen,” Sheldon replied with a sigh of resignation. “I hope it does, especially since she was so excited about it. I can’t understand what happened to make her fall off the wagon. I mean, after ten years.”

Blake nodded. “It’s sad,” he said, then grew into a thoughtful daze.

Sheldon studied his face and touched his hand. “You’re thinking about Iris, aren’t you?”

“I keep replaying it,” Blake said. “The timing, I mean. Iris finally has enough and suddenly Sadie’s fragile. Sick and afraid to be alone.”

Sheldon tilted his head. “You think she planned it.”

“I think she uses things,” Blake replied. “Emotions, guilt, fear. Iris has always been her safety net. The second that net threatened to disappear, Sadie found a reason to dig in.”

Sheldon took a sip, eyes narrowing. “Cancer’s a hell of a card to play.”

“Exactly,” Blake said, drumming his fingers on the table. “No one questions it. You can’t. The moment you do, you’re the monster. But I’ve been around people with real diagnoses. There’s an order to it—tests, referrals, specialists. Sadie’s story is all talk and no structure.”

“She didn’t name a doctor?” Sheldon asked. “Or a treatment plan?”

“She keeps it vague,” Blake said. “But it’s enough to scare Iris.”

Sheldon nodded slowly. “So what’s your move?”

“I’m not confronting her,” Blake said immediately. “That would just make her try to turn Iris against me. I’m going to see if there’s a paper trail. Because if there isn’t—”

“—then Iris deserves to know,” Sheldon finished.

Blake’s jaw clenched. “Before she gives up her life for a lie. Ever since the accident she hasn’t left Sadie’s side. She hasn’t made a move to get her career back on track. Nothing.”

The bartender dropped the check. Blake glanced at it, then slid his card across the table.

Sheldon leaned back, the tension finally easing into something lighter. “You can pull threads tomorrow,” he said. “Tonight, we go back to my place, get high, and fuck like bunnies.”

Blake laughed, nodding his head. “I’ll take that.”

Sheldon’s eyebrows lifted. “Good.”

Blake stood, pocketing his phone. “But tomorrow—I’m pulling the thread.”

Sheldon clapped him on the shoulder as they headed for the door, the jukebox thumping behind them.

* * *

The building—a relic from another era— sat high in the hills. It was mid-morning when Nico pulled the car beneath the old porte cochère, the curved concrete still intact, still elegant in a way that suggested money had once flowed freely here. Carlo stepped out slowly, taking it in.

Inside, the space was vast and theatrical. A long bar ran the length of one wall. Beyond it was a polished dance floor beneath a ceiling designed for light rigs. Along the perimeter were curved leather booths, swanky and intimate. The kitchen in back was surprisingly intact. 

Carlo walked the room in silence.

“It used to be a restaurant,” Nico said, hands in his pockets. “Been empty for years. No one wants to deal with the permits.”

Carlo stopped near the bar. “Nicodemo, why show me this?”

Nico smiled. “I want to buy it.”

Carlo turned. “For what?”

“A nightclub,” Nico said. “High-end. Exclusive. A place people come to be seen.” He gestured around them. “A base of operations, Papà”

Carlo studied him. “You’re forgetting, you have a record. You can’t apply for a liquor license.”

Nico didn’t blink. “I know. That’s where you come in. You own it. I run it.”

Carlo’s expression tightened. “But, Nicodemo, you just got out. There’s so much else we have to do. How can you focus on the family when you’re running a nightclub?”

Nico smiled and spread his arms to take in the open space—the bar, the dance floor, the booths waiting to be filled.

“The nightclub is the family business,” he said. “It’s visibility. A place where deals are made.” He paused for effect. “Everyone comes to places like this—celebrities, studio heads, politicians. This isn’t a distraction. It’s a nerve center.”

Carlo studied him, then the room again, imagining it alive with music pulsing, bodies pressed together, secrets exchanged under dim lights. Slowly, he nodded and continued walking.

Behind him, Nico’s confidence slipped and something darker crept in. 

“Papà,” he said, quieter. “Why didn’t you call in your favors?”

Carlo didn’t stop. He ran a hand along the edge of the bar, testing the wood. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“At the trial,” Nico said. “You let them send me to prison for half my life.” He clenched his jaw. “Other people did worse. You made it all disappear for them. Judges. Witnesses. Deals. Why not me?”

Carlo finally turned. “Because,” Carlo said evenly, “it was not possible.”

Nico flinched. “But why? Was it worth me rotting in prison?”

“My son, there were five witnesses who all walked away breathing.”

Nico frowned. “They lied.”

Carlo held up a hand. “It doesn’t matter.” He turned back to the room. “I could have buried one witness. Maybe two. But not all of them. Not without exposing ourselves.”

“So you sacrificed me,” Nico said.

Carlo’s voice hardened. “I protected the family.”

There were a few moments of silence.

“Prison made you mythic,” Carlo went on. “Untouchable and dangerous. It kept eyes off me. Off Mickey. Off everything else we were building.”

Nico swallowed. “You let me rot.”

“I let you survive,” Carlo said. “And now you’re here. Alive. Free.” He met Nico’s gaze. “If I had pulled you out then, you’d be dead now. Or worse.”

Nico looked away, anger and understanding colliding.

Carlo’s expression softened a fraction. “What you lost matters,” he said evenly. “But what you brought back with you matters more.”

Nico’s eyes burned. “I want them to suffer,” he said. “Those kids lied. They stole my life. I want them to pay for it with their lives.”

“Nico—”

“I had twenty-five years to sit and think about this, papà,” Nico cut in. “Twenty-five years to plan. They took everything from me. And now I’ll take everything from them. One by one. Painfully. Mercilessly.”

The slap came fast and precise.

For a moment, Nico stood stunned, his cheek stinging. Then something familiar settled in—an old, deeply ingrained understanding. Carlo never raised his voice to make a point. He didn’t need to. His lessons were physical.

“Enough,” Carlo said quietly.

Nico said nothing.

Carlo stepped closer. “You think small,” he continued. “Like a man who has been locked in a box for too long. You want personal revenge. That is understandable. But it is also useless.”

He gestured to the empty room, the future club, the city beyond it. “This isn’t about five people who testified. This is about an entire family that set those events into motion.”

Nico looked up.

“The Blackthornes,” Carlo said. “Their allies, their friends, their protectors. The people who watched what happened to you and had no regrets. Our response does not end lives one at a time. It reshapes the landscape.”

Nico’s breathing slowed.

Carlo placed a hand firmly on his shoulder. “Forget your personal vendettas. Forget your fantasies. What we do now will be larger than your pain. Our revenge will be so much bigger than what happened to you.”

Nico stared into the open space again. Slowly, the anger sharpened into something colder. “Then show me,” he said.

* * *

The restaurant overlooked the ocean with white linen tablecloths stirring in the breeze, the murmur of other diners softened by the sound of the ocean below. Sunlight gleamed across the water, making Suzanne squint as she sipped her drink.

She studied Mickey over the rim of her wineglass. “I have to admit,” she said, half-smiling, “I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or mildly alarmed that you got my number from my agent.”

Mickey chuckled. “Personally, I’d go with flattered. I asked, he resisted, I asked again.” He shrugged. “I can be persistent.”

“That’s one word for it,” she said, amused despite herself.

They ordered grilled fish, oysters, and a salad, and for a moment just watched the waves roll in beneath the patio.

“So,” Suzanne said, turning back to him. “What do you do, Mickey Donovan?”

He hesitated just a beat too long, then smiled. “I’m in logistics.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s… vague.”

“Private investments,” he explained. “Mostly behind the scenes.”

She let it go, sensing the boundary without needing it spelled out. “Fair enough.”

He looked at her then, curious in a way that felt genuine. “And you? What’s next now that the book tour’s over?”

Suzanne exhaled with relief. “Nothing, for once. I’m staying with my daughter. Thinking about buying a place here.” She glanced toward the ocean. “I’m tired of hotels. Tired of living out of a suitcase.”

Mickey nodded. “Travel wears you down.”

“It does,” she agreed. “I want to sleep in the same bed every night, drink coffee out of the same mug.”

There was a comfortable pause. 

“I’m glad you said yes,” Mickey said quietly.

Suzanne met his eyes, surprised by the softness there. “So am I,” she admitted.

* * *

As soon as Sam buzzed him in, Stormy walked straight into Brett’s office, sunglasses still on, jaw clenched.  Brett looked up from his desk, already bracing for a fight.

“Well,” Brett said mildly, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

Stormy shut the door. “Save it. How are you connected to Mickey Donovan?”

Brett didn’t hesitate. “I’m not.”

Stormy scoffed. “So you asked Eddie to locate him for—what—a recipe swap?”

Brett stood, straightening his jacket. “I was looking for him because I was asked to.”

“By who?”

“By an insurance underwriter,” Brett said smoothly. “A carrier tied to a slate of productions shooting near the marina. Donovan’s yacht was flagged as a risk exposure—dock congestion, security issues. I was asked to locate him and make contact.”

Stormy narrowed his eyes. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t care what you believe,” Brett replied evenly. “I did a professional courtesy. I made an introduction. That’s it.”

Stormy stepped closer. “Forgive me, but I’ve known you for the better part of twenty-years, and you don’t do professional courtesies, Brett.” 

Brett met his stare. “Some people change.” 

“Some people do, yes,” Stormy said, “but not you.”

Brett closed a script and placed it into his briefcase. “Are we done here?”

Stormy studied him, searching for cracks, but finding none to speak of. Maybe he was telling the truth for once. “Yeah,” he said finally. “We’re done.”

Brett walked to the door and opened it.  “Good. What’s got you so bent out of shape about this guy anyway?”

“Just that he’s connected to some bad people,” Stormy said. 

“Bad like how?” 

Putting his sunglasses back on, Stormy backed up out of the door.  “Bad enough to make me come over here to make sure you weren’t mixed up with them.”

With that, he turned and breezed past Sam. Brett closed the door behind him and stood still, heart pounding.

* * *

Miranda brought lunch over for Jane, but after an hour, it had gone mostly untouched. She sat across from her, her phone lighting up beside her plate. She glanced at the screen, then turned it face-down with a heavy sigh. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

Jane looked up. “Clients?”

“Always,” Miranda said. “And I usually love that. Today I just… can’t focus.”

Jane studied her. “Are you still upset about Heather?”

“Among other things.” She slid her chair back and rubbed her sore neck. “I just hate that we’re back in this situation again twenty-five years later. Nico, the trial, that family… I thought we’d left it behind us.”

Jane let a beat pass. “What is this Nico guy like? I mean, did you know him other than from the trial?”

Miranda hesitated. “Yes,” she said finally. “I did.”

Jane waited.

“It seemed like he was around a lot,” Miranda went on, choosing her words carefully. “The house, the studio—but not in a way anyone ever explained to us.”

Jane frowned. “Did he work for Sunset Studios?”

“Not exactly,” Miranda replied. “He was just… there. Always smug. Always cocky. He liked being admired, especially by people who were young enough to put him on a pedestal.” She paused. “And we were kids. I was Tiger’s age. Sneaking around a movie studio felt glamorous and exciting.”

Jane watched her closely. “And then what changed?”

Miranda looked down at her hands. “Someone died. Everything after that gets rewritten in your head.”

Jane leaned back. “Do you think that’s why this is coming back so hard now?”

Miranda nodded once. “Because it’s not just the trial. It’s realizing that the version of him I thought I knew—however naïve that was—never really existed. And now he’s back, and I don’t know which version is real.”

Jane reached across the table, resting her hand over Miranda’s. “That would rattle anyone.”

Miranda squeezed her fingers, then pulled away. “I just wish Heather hadn’t said what she said,” she murmured. “Because doubt has a way of opening doors you thought were locked forever.”

The phone buzzed again on the table. This time, Miranda didn’t look at it at all.

* * *

Riley knew that Steve always worked the mid-shift at the club on Thursdays, so he waited until he heard him leave before stepping out into the courtyard. He knocked on the neighboring door and waited. Moments later, Natalie opened the door only a few inches.

“Nat,” he said quickly. “I just want to talk. That’s it. Please.”

She hesitated, then stepped back just enough to let him inside. Her face was calm in a way that scared him more than her anger ever had.

“Will you please just let me explain?” he said, feeling like a broken record. “If you just understood why I did what I did—why I downloaded that stupid app in the first place…”

“I watched the video,” she said.

Riley swallowed. “I can explain.”

“I don’t need an explanation to know what was going on,” Natalie replied. “I saw you with that woman. The way you looked. The way you touched her.” She shook her head. “I can’t unsee that.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he said desperately. “It was work. It was a job.”

“Yeah, well you looked like you were enjoying yourself to me.” 

“I was only trying to—”

“To pay the rent?” she cut in. “To chase the same dream you always chased while I waited at home?”

He reached for her, then stopped himself. “I did it for us.”

She laughed softly, without humor. “You did it because you wanted to. And now it’s everywhere.” She met his eyes. “I can never look at you the same way again.”

“And the fact that you slept with Steve and then moved in with him is no big deal, is that it?” Riley asked angrily. “You think I don’t keep picturing you with him? His naked body next to yours?” 

“Stop it,” Natalie said as she opened the door.  

“How was it, Nat? Did you like it? Is he better in bed than me? Is his dick bigger than mine?” 

“Enough!” 

Riley shook his head. “All I’m saying is that you went from being pissed at me to moving in with him overnight. I get the feeling this is what you’ve wanted ever since you slept with him. Well I have to hand it to you—you got what you wanted.”

“I need you to go,” she said angrily.

He stepped into the courtyard, the door closing behind him with a finality that felt absolute.

* * *

James showed up at Alex and Jordan’s house without calling, as if their history still gave him that privilege. Alex opened the door and stepped aside, already bracing herself.

“Well, this can’t be good,” she said dryly. “Is there anything we didn’t cover at the little family meeting you called last night? Or is there another mortal enemy returning to town I should know about?”

“Just checking on you,” James replied as he walked in. “I know I’m a little on edge with the Bravettis back in town.”

Alex closed the door behind him. “I’m managing.”

He gave her a faint, familiar look. “You always do.”

She folded her arms. “Thank you for keeping my secret. For not telling the family about me and Nico’s…”

“Affair,” James said quietly. “I saw no reason to.”

Alex followed him into the living room. “Still, I imagine it brings up some painful memories knowing he’s back.”

“For both of us,” James said.

She went to the bar and poured him a brandy, pressing a glass into his hand. “It was a foolish mistake,” she said. “One I regret. Ethan had just moved to town and into the mansion, Miranda was a terror, Stormy was always getting into fights… they all needed you. You were good at handling that. Turning to a younger man was—” She gave a small, rueful smile. “My way of coping.”

“Which opened the door to my affair with Leigh Purcell,” James said, “and then—”

“The slow, steady collapse of our marriage,” Alex finished, injecting a touch of humor the moment didn’t quite deserve.

James took a long drink. “I didn’t come here to rehash all of that,” he said. “I really just wanted to make sure you’re holding up. Especially if you were to run into him.”

“I already did,” Alex said.

James’s head snapped up. “What?”

“He came by the other day,” she added calmly.

Frowning now, James set his glass down. “What did he want?”

Alex shrugged. “He said Miranda lied on the stand. That she didn’t see him push Patty Ruiz.”

“That’s not true,” James said immediately. “Stormy and Eddie saw it too.”

“But Heather doesn’t remember it that way,” Alex said.

James sighed. “Nothing against Heather, but she’s never been the most reliable witness. Look at what she’d already been through—the car accident, Troy’s murder, Suzanne disappearing, Jordan sending Benji off to boarding school. Anyone would be confused after all that.”

“Right,” Alex said softly.

Her eyes unfocused, the past crowding in again—memories stirring that refused to stay buried.

* * *

All eyes were on Sharon Dyer as she entered the restaurant from the lobby of Chateau Marmont. She looked exquisite in black silk, understated jewelry, her long blond hair perfectly undone. As she crossed the room, more heads turned.

At a table tucked along the banquette, Mickey and Carlo stood.  Mickey smiled when he saw her, genuine and unguarded, and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you,” Sharon replied softly.

Then Carlo took her by the shoulders, drew her into a warm, possessive embrace, then kissed her softly on the lips.  

“Ahhh,” Carlo said with satisfaction. “My beautiful wife.”

“I’m so happy to see you, Carlo,” Sharon said with a sweet smile. 

He pulled out her chair and waited until she was seated before he and Mickey sat themselves.