Last time on L.A. Connections…

Mickey warned Brett to stay out of his relationship with Suzanne. Suzanne told James that Brett had tried to warn her about Mickey. Lara saw James and Suzanne in a friendly embrace; and later, Mickey turned on the charm in grand style by arranging a catered dinner at the penthouse Suzanne was considering buying. Phoebe’s unsettling obsession with the plane crash that killed Matthew left Kelly deeply rattled when Phoebe admitted she had been digging into every detail. Miranda faced trouble of her own when Siobahn abruptly canceled lunch and refused to say whether she planned to remain a client. At Rydell Productions, Jordan’s pointed questions about unusual activity sent Brett into a private panic that Mickey’s hidden influence might be exposed. Sadie was shaken to learn Blake had been investigating her cancer diagnosis and responded with a chilling warning to back off—one Blake boldly ignored. Sadie made a move that could change everything when she agreed to house-sit for Mrs. Tremond.

* * *

June 2021

Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Nico sat in a metal folding chair, his hands dangling between his legs. Across from him, Dr. Halpern studied him quietly while a prison guard stood at attention by the door.

“You’ve referred to yourself as The Beast in multiple sessions,” she said. “What does that name mean to you, Nico?”

Nico thought for a second, then said simply, “People don’t mess with a beast.”

“So it’s about fear.”

He shrugged. “It’s about respect.”

“When do you become The Beast? Is it when you feel like you’re not in control of a situation?”

He clenched his jaw. “I’m always in control.”

“The pattern suggests otherwise. You reach for The Beast when control slips.”

A few seconds of silence followed as Nico stared distantly at the floor.

“Tell me about the rec hall yesterday,” Dr. Halpern said. “What happened?”

A hint of amusement crossed his face. “The Beast beat that guy down,” Nico said. “It was time for Love Island and he didn’t want to give up the TV.”

“You didn’t beat up that man, Nico.”

He looked at her. “The Beast did.”

Dr. Halpern held his gaze. “You’re describing The Beast as if he’s separate from you,” she said. “Not a nickname or something you call yourself to intimidate people.”

Nico’s eyes drifted again, unfocused, like he was looking at something only he could see. “He is.”

“Then tell me about him,” she said gently.

Nico leaned back slightly in the chair, his hands still hanging between his knees. “He shows up when he needs to,” he said.

“And you don’t feel in control in those moments,” she replied.

He glared at her. “I told you. I’m always in control.”

Dr. Halpern didn’t argue. “You’re five-seven,” she said evenly. “Not a physically imposing man in a place like this. It would make sense if part of you needed something larger, something more feared, to compensate for that. Does he take over, or do you let him?”

Nico didn’t answer right away. “He handles things,” he said finally.

“And afterward? Do you remember what happens when he does?”

Nico hesitated briefly. “Sometimes.”

Dr. Halpern gave a small nod as if his answer fit neatly into something she already suspected. She reached beside her chair and picked up a remote control. “I want to show you something,” she said.

Nico’s eyes lifted to follow her as she pointed the remote toward a monitor mounted high on the wall. The screen popped to life, grainy black-and-white footage filling the frame. It was the rec hall—tables bolted down, inmates scattered throughout, the familiar boisterous chatter filling the space.

“Watch carefully,” she said.

Nico leaned back slightly, his gaze fixed on the screen as the footage began to play.

A man near the television argued with someone just out of frame. The tension built quickly, voices raised, bodies shifting. Then a large figure stepped into view—a broad-shouldered black man, easily the biggest person in the frame. The argument escalated in an instant. First a shove, then fists attacking mercilessly. The man was taken down hard, the fight unfolding with brutal speed and precision.

Dr. Halpern let the footage run for several seconds, then paused it. “Now,” she said evenly. She rewound slightly and froze the image again, this time pointing toward the far side of the room. “Look there.”

Across the rec hall, seated alone at a table, was Nico.

For the first time, something shifted in his expression. “That’s not—” he began, his voice cracking slightly.

“That is you, Nico,” she said calmly.

His eyes moved between the frozen image of himself and the man mid-strike on the other side of the screen, as if trying to force them to reconcile.

“No,” he said quietly. “No. The Beast—he—”

“There is no evidence of you being physically involved in that assault,” Dr. Halpern said. “None. You never left that table.”

Nico shook his head slowly, like the motion alone might make the memory fall back into place. “But I remember it,” he said.

“You remember claiming ownership of it,” she replied. “You remember the story attached to it. But what you’re seeing now is what actually happened.”

He stared at the screen, his breathing slowing as if he were trying to steady himself.

Dr. Halpern leaned forward slightly, closing the distance enough to keep him present. “Nico, if The Beast is something separate inside you—something you believe takes over—then why is he taking credit for things that clearly were not your actions?”

Nico didn’t answer. His eyes stayed locked on the freeze frame of himself sitting across the room.

“When someone feels like they’re losing control, the mind can create something stronger. Something that doesn’t hesitate. Something that people fear, so you don’t have to feel powerless. You gave that something a name. You called it The Beast.”

Nico’s expression tightened, but he didn’t look away.

“And once that name exists,” she continued, “it becomes very easy for you and for everyone around you to attribute things to it. Even things that weren’t yours to begin with.”

He just kept staring at the screen—at the version of himself that hadn’t moved, hadn’t acted, hadn’t been The Beast at all—as the certainty he’d built around that name began, finally, to loosen.

* * *

Today

Carver stood at the edge of the desk, a spread of crime scene photos laid out in front of him. Morales leaned in beside him, arms crossed, studying the images under the harsh fluorescent light.

Zoanne’s living room looked even worse frozen in stills—blood spatter across the walls, sharp bursts radiating outward from the points of impact.

Carver tapped one of the photos. “Look at the height on this.”

Morales followed the line, visualizing it. “Shooter’s angle is slightly downward.”

“Exactly,” Carver said. “Which means the shooter was taller than the victims.”

Morales straightened slightly. “You’re thinking over six feet.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Carver said. “When you get that kind of downward trajectory it suggests someone with height.”

Morales nodded slowly, then reached for another photo. “What about this?”

Carver moved around the desk to look. On the floor, partially smeared but still visible, were two distinct impressions in the blood.

He frowned. “That’s not the same tread.”

Morales shook her head. “No. Different pattern and different size.”

Carver crossed his arms. “So what, we’re looking at two people?”

Morales didn’t answer right away. She laid the photos side by side, comparing angles and spacing. “One set’s closer to the body,” she said. “The other’s offset… like someone stepped in after the shots were fired.”

“Or there were two shooters,” Carver said.

Morales glanced up at him. “Possible. One fires, the other moves in. Or they’re both there the whole time.”

Carver looked back down at the photos, the pieces starting to shift. “Or somebody came in after the murders took place.”

* * *

“I just don’t understand why you would have volunteered to watch her house when you’re in your condition.”

Iris stood in the middle of the pool house, her arms crossed, concern written all over her face. Sadie sat curled on the chaise, wrapped in a robe, a mug of herbal tea gripped loosely in her hands.

“It’s really not that much trouble,” Sadie said. “She just needs someone to check in, water a few plants, bring in the mail. I won’t be running marathons up there.”

Iris frowned, unconvinced. “You shouldn’t be running anything right now.”

Sadie offered a soft, reassuring smile. “I won’t. I promise. I’ll take it slow. And honestly… it might be good for me to get out of here a little. Change the energy.”

Iris hesitated, her expression softening but still uncertain. “I just don’t want you overdoing it.”

“I won’t,” Sadie said again.

“Okay,” Iris finally said, though it didn’t sound like she felt entirely okay about it. She grabbed her bag from the counter. “I’m going out for a while.”

Sadie’s eyes lifted to her. “To see Blake?”

Iris shook her head with a frown. “No.”  She adjusted the strap on her bag. “I promised Mommy I’d send her some seashells, so I’m going down to the beach.”

Sadie tilted her head slightly. “Seashells?”

“Yeah,” Iris said with a small shrug. “Some craft project she’s working on.”

Sadie gave a faint smile, almost absent. “Interesting”

Iris studied her for just a second longer, then nodded. “I won’t be too long.”

“Take your time,” Sadie said softly.

The moment the latch clicked after Iris left, Sadie’s expression changed. The softness drained away, replaced with something more focused. She set the mug down, stood, and shucked her robe off onto to the sofa.

After waiting to hear Iris’s car pull away and disappear down the drive, Sadie stepped outside into the warm afternoon light and crossed toward her car. She lifted the trunk, the hinges creaking softly as it opened.

Inside, nestled beneath a folded blanket, was a heavy length of chain and a metal leg shackle new from the hardware store. She reached in, testing the weight of it, the metal clinking softly as she lifted it just enough to feel its heft.

When her phone rang, she paused, set the chain back into the trunk and reached into her pocket, glancing at the screen.

Sadie answered, her voice immediately soft again. “Mrs. Tremond, hello.”

“Oh, Sadie, dear,” Mrs. Tremond’s voice came through, faint and slightly distorted. “I’m so sorry to bother you all the way from Connecticut.”

“No bother at all,” Sadie said gently. “How is your sister?”

“Still the same, I’m afraid,” the woman sighed. “But I just realized something—there’s a package arriving at the house today. It requires a signature.”

Sadie’s gaze drifted back toward the open trunk. “I see,” she said.

“It’s a custom Italian marble birdbath. Hand-carved. It’s being shipped in three separate crates because of the weight and the detailing.”

”It sounds just beautiful.”

“It is. I had it commissioned months ago,” Mrs. Tremond continued. “The artist insisted the veining had to match perfectly across all three pieces. I simply can’t have it sent back.”

“Of course not,” Sadie said sweetly.

“I hate to ask,” Mrs. Tremond went on, “but would you be able to handle that for me?”

Sadie’s gaze dropped again to the chain in the trunk. “I think I can manage that,” she said.

“Oh, thank you, dear. That’s such a relief.”

“Of course,” Sadie replied.

She ended the call and stood there for a moment, then reached into the trunk again, lifting the chain and leg cuff with both hands this time, the metal shifting with a dull, heavy sound as she closed the trunk behind her.

With a smile, she headed up the path to Mrs. Tremond’s house, who had just handed her another golden opportunity. 

* * *

James eased his Rolls Royce up to the entrance of the Wilshire Country Club, the late morning sun reflecting off the polished hood. The valet was already stepping forward as James cut the engine.

“Afternoon, Mr. Blackthorne,” the valet said.

James handed over the keys with smile, slipping on his sunglasses as he stepped out. “Take care of her.”

“Yes, sir.”

James adjusted his jacket and headed toward the front doors, the murmur of conversation and clink of glasses drifting out from inside. He was halfway up the steps when two imposing men in suits moved into his path.

Bruno gave him a faint, almost polite smile. “Mr. Blackthorne.”

“Can I help you?” James asked, his gaze shifting between the two men.

Dennis spoke this time, his tone direct. “Carlo Bravetti would like a word.”

James let out a quiet breath through his nose, glancing past them toward the club entrance, then back again. “Would he?”

“It won’t take long,” Bruno added.

James studied them both for a beat. “Funny,” he said. “If Carlo wanted to talk to me, he could’ve picked up a phone.”

Bruno’s smile didn’t move. “He’d prefer this to be in person.”

“I’m sure he would.” James said, then gave a resigned nod. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s not keep him waiting then.”

Bruno stepped aside, gesturing toward the curb where a black sedan idled nearby.

James walked with them, his mind already working ahead. He slid into the back seat, Bruno taking one side while Dennis took the other. The doors shut almost simultaneously. 

As the car pulled away from the curb, James glanced out the window at the club growing smaller behind them.

“Hope this is worth missing a decent scotch,” he said lightly.

* * *

The host was just ahead of them, menus tucked under her arm as she led Mickey and Suzanne through the dining room.

“This way,” she said with a hospitable smile.

Suzanne walked beside Mickey, taking in the room with its bright, airy atmosphere. She leaned in slightly. “How did you get reservations here? They have a waiting list out to the Fourth of July.”

Mickey glanced at her with a smirk. “You sound surprised.” 

She smiled, and then someone bumped into her shoulder. Not hard, but enough to throw her off a step.

“Oh, sorry,” Suzanne said automatically, turning slightly.

The man stopped in front of her, his expression already irritated like she’d done something wrong. “You should watch where you’re going,” he said, his tone crisp.

Suzanne blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

He took a half step closer. “You heard me.”

The host froze a few feet ahead, unsure whether to intervene.

Mickey didn’t say anything. He didn’t step between them and didn’t raise his voice. He just looked at the man. But there was something in that look—something quiet and unmistakable—that shifted the moment.

The man’s posture faltered. For a second, he held Mickey’s gaze, and then something flickered across his face. His expression changed almost instantly, the edge gone, replaced with something more careful.

“Actually,” he said, taking a step back, “that’s my fault.”

Suzanne glanced between them, confused.

“Sorry,” the man added, already retreating, his tone subdued now. He turned and disappeared into the crowd without another word.

The tension dissolved just as quickly as it had appeared. The host cleared her throat softly. “Right this way,” she said, continuing on like nothing had happened.

Suzanne walked again, but slower now, her attention no longer on the room. She glanced sideways at Mickey. “Do you know him?” she asked quietly.

Mickey shook his head. “No.”

Suzanne studied him for a beat longer. “He looked at you like he knew you.”

Mickey didn’t respond as they arrived at their table and he pulled her chair out for her.

Suzanne sat, looking up at him curiously. Because whatever had just happened, it hadn’t felt like nothing.

* * *

The sauna was thick with heat, the air heavy and still, softened only slightly by the faint scent of eucalyptus. Alex sat on the upper bench with a towel wrapped securely around her body, her hair pinned up off her neck, her eyes closed as she tried to let the tension drain out of her shoulders. 

The door opened, letting in a brief rush of cooler air before closing again. Alex didn’t react. People came and went. She stayed where she was, breathing slowly, letting the heat settle back over her.

She heard footsteps move across the tile, then felt the bench shift slightly as someone sat down beside her. It barely registered at first until, without warning, warm lips brushed against her shoulder.

Alex’s eyes flew open and she jerked upright. “What the—”  She turned sharply and froze.

Nico leaned back slightly, completely at ease, a towel tied around his waist, his chest slicked with sweat. There was no apology in his expression, no hesitation, just that familiar calm confidence that infuriated her.

Across the room, two other women stared openly, clearly unsure what they were supposed to do. One of them gave a tight, polite smile meant to avoid involvement before standing and gathering her things. The other followed quickly. Within seconds, they were gone, leaving Alex and Nico alone in the sauna.

Alex looked back at him, disbelief sharpening her voice. “What are you doing? This is the women’s sauna.”

“I know,” he said simply.

“That means you’re not supposed to be in here.”

He gave a shrug, like the distinction didn’t carry much weight. “Didn’t seem like a problem.”

“It is a problem,” she said, though the edge in her voice wavered just slightly as her awareness of him shifted. Up close, she couldn’t ignore the way he carried himself with his lean, defined torso, completely at ease in his own skin in a way that drew attention whether she wanted it to or not.

Nico studied her for a moment, his gaze slow and familiar. “I was thinking about you.”

Alex folded her arms tighter across her chest. “That sounds like a you problem.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “About how good it used to be.”

She shook her head immediately. “No.”

“The hot tub,” he said, leaning closer and lowering his voice. “You remember.”

“I don’t,” she said quickly.

He shifted slightly behind her, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. “You’re tense,” he murmured.

“I’m fine.”

His fingers pressed in anyway, working into the tightness at the base of her neck. 

Alex inhaled sharply despite herself, her shoulders tightening before betraying her and easing under his hands. “Stop,” she said, but the word came out less forceful than she intended.

His breath was warm against her skin. “Is that really what you want?”

Her eyes closed for a brief moment as his hands moved, her breathing changing. She felt the shift happening and knew exactly what it meant, even as she told herself to pull away. 

“Stop,” she said again, but she didn’t move.

Nico leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. For a brief moment, she let it happen, the familiarity of it catching her off guard, pulling her into something she hadn’t meant to revisit.

Then she broke away, standing quickly and putting space between them, her pulse racing now for a completely different reason.

“No,” she said, firmer this time. “No. You need to leave.”

Nico didn’t argue. “Alright,” he said easily. He stood and stepped closer, lowering his voice, his eyes lingering on her like he wasn’t done with the moment, just postponing it. “Then hopefully I’ll see you soon,” he said, then added, almost as an afterthought, “My new club’s opening next Thursday. You should come. The old Stardust place.”

Alex didn’t respond.

He held her gaze for a second longer, as if expecting her to reconsider, then gave the faintest hint of a smile. “I’ll make sure you’re on the list.”

Before she could say anything, he turned and walked out, pushing open the door and disappearing into the cooler air beyond. Alex remained where she was, her heart still racing as she stared at the space he had just occupied, fully aware of how close she had come to stepping back into past mistakes, and how easily he still assumed she would.

* * *

James stepped out of the car as the gates of the Bravetti estate closed quietly behind him, sealing off the winding road that disappeared into the hills below. The house rose ahead with pale stone, wrought iron balconies, and tall arched windows.

The front doors opened before he reached them, the Bravetti’s handsome latino butler welcoming him with a polite smile. “Mr. Blackthorne,” he said. “Mr. Bravetti is expecting you.”

James gave a small nod as he stepped inside. “So I hear.”

The interior was unmistakably Italian in its decor, with marble floors, fresco-like detailing along the ceilings, and antique pieces that looked imported.

The butler led him down a long corridor lined with oil paintings and bronze sculptures. They arrived at a set of double doors and stepped into a library of sorts with shelves filled with leather bound books. 

Carlo Bravetti stood near the hearth, one hand resting on the back of a chair. Mickey was nearby, leaning casually against the edge of the desk.

Carlo’s face broke into a smile as James entered. “James,” he said, stepping forward.

“Carlo.”

They met in the center of the room and shook hands, firm and familiar.

Carlo gestured toward Mickey. “Do you know my son?”

James turned, offering a polite nod before extending his hand. “Only by reputation.”

Carlo watched the exchange with a smile as he said to Mickey: “James and I go back a long time.”

“We do,” James agreed.

Carlo tilted his head slightly. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

James didn’t hesitate. “Jonas Lamont and Lola Marlowe’s wedding.”

Carlo’s eyes narrowed just a touch as he searched his memory. “Nineteen seventy-nine?”

James shook his head. “Eighty-one.”

A small pause. “Yes,” he said. “That’s right. Eighty-one.” He gave a quiet, appreciative nod. “And then the following year… Destiny and I attended your wedding.”

“Alex probably still remembers what your wife wore to it,” James said dryly.

Carlo chuckled softly. “It was a beautiful event.”

He turned slightly toward Mickey. “Your mother and I always admired James’ taste. And his instincts.” He gestured lightly toward him. “He bought Hotel Terranova from us. Did very well with it, as did his daughter, Miranda.”

Mickey’s gaze shifted to James, studying him.

Carlo continued, his tone almost reflective. “Our paths have crossed so many times over the years.”

James let out a quiet breath, glancing once around the room before looking back at him. “Right,” he said evenly. “Back when my studio started doubling as one of your operations.”

Suddenly, the air in the room shifted.

“Now why don’t you tell me what I’m doing here, Carlo,” James demanded.

* * *

When Alex got home, she stepped into the foyer and handed her purse to the butler who approached with a smile. She had barely taken a few steps when she heard movement in Jordan’s study.

“Hey,” he said when she entered. “Good morning at the spa?”

Alex paused in the doorway, then slowly grinned. “Yeah,” she said, her tone lighter than it had been in days. “It was.”

Jordan studied her for a second, catching the shift immediately. “You seem… different.”

She walked toward him, that same smile lingering. “Just relaxed, I guess.”

He raised a brow, intrigued. “Well, that’s a good thing. You’ve been so stressed lately. A day at the spa must have been just what you needed.” 

“I can think of something else that would relax me,” she said, stopping just in front of him and tilting her head seductively.

Jordan blinked, caught off guard, and then clearly thrilled. “Oh, really?” he asked, a grin spreading across his face. “Wow. What brought this on?”

Alex gave a casual shrug, though her eyes stayed on him. “I just had a lot of time to think about how wonderful my husband is.”

Jordan let out a soft laugh. “Well, I’m not going to argue that.”

Before she could say anything else, he stood, slipped an arm around her, and lifted her effortlessly.

Alex laughed, instinctively wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Jordan—”

“Don’t worry,” he said, already heading toward the stairs. “I’m fully on board with this new spa routine.”

She shook her head, smiling as he carried her up the stairs, her fingers tightening slightly against his shoulders as her mind rewound back to the heat of the sauna and the feel of Nico’s hands.

* * *

Miranda and Eddie had stopped by moments before Michael Larrabee called to say he was coming over. Jane began obsessively cleaning up the living room until Miranda took over and instructed her to sit. Stormy waited at the window until he saw the attorney drive up. Quickly, he went to the door and pulled it open. 

“What’s going on?” Stormy asked him. “Do you have news?” 

Larrabee flipped through a file with practiced efficiency. “We have a trial date.”

Stormy didn’t move. “When?”

“June 4th.”

Jane exhaled slowly, her hand coming to rest on the back of the couch. “That’s… soon.”

“It’s within a standard window,” the lawyer replied. “The court isn’t dragging this out.”

Stormy gave a nod of his head, more to himself than anyone else. “Okay.”

Miranda leaned forward slightly. “What are we looking at, realistically?”

The lawyer closed the file halfway, considering. “It depends on how aggressive the D.A. office wants to be. Right now, they’re holding firm on felony assault. That means they believe they have enough to convict.”

Eddie shifted. “Do they?”

“They think they do,” the lawyer said. “That’s what matters.”

A silence settled over the room.

From the corner, R.J. had been sitting quietly, watching the adults talk. He got up and moved closer. “Dad, are you going to have to go to jail?”

Stormy turned immediately, his expression softening as he crossed the room. “Hey,” he said, pulling R.J. into a quick side hug. “Don’t worry, buddy. It’s going to be okay.”

R.J. looked at him, still unsure. “You promise?”

Stormy held his gaze for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. I promise.”

Miranda watched the exchange carefully, her expression dimming slightly while Eddie looked away, choking back emotions. 

Jane stepped closer, resting a hand on Stormy’s shoulder as if to steady both of them.

The lawyer cleared his throat, bringing the room back. “We have time to prepare,” he said. “But we need to be smart about how we handle this. No surprises, no unnecessary risks.”

Stormy nodded, the severity of the moment settling back in. “Alright,” he said.

But as he glanced around the room—at Jane, at R.J., at his sister and his best friend—it was clear this wasn’t just about the case anymore. It was about everything that could come after June 4th.

* * *

Carlo didn’t flinch at James’s remark. If anything, his expression softened into something almost amused. “I always thought of it as a mutual business relationship,” he said evenly.

James let out a quiet laugh. “Did that include your son hanging around my sets playing fixer?”

Mickey didn’t react, but his eyes shifted slightly, watching his father.

Carlo folded his hands in front of him. “I had investments to protect,” he said. “Nico was doing what I asked of him.”

James held his gaze. “Is that what you call it?”

Carlo tilted his head, studying him. “Let’s not pretend you didn’t benefit from it as well,” he said calmly. “You used Nico to your advantage too. Surely you remember that.”

James’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture shifted just slightly. He didn’t respond, and for a moment, the room sat in silence with old history pressing up between them.

Then James shrugged it off, as if deciding that road wasn’t worth going down. He turned his attention to Mickey. “I hear that you’re acquainted with my former son-in-law. Brett Armstrong.”

Mickey’s expression stayed easy. “I might’ve met him once or twice.”

James nodded slowly, not quite buying it. “I’m sure you have.”

Carlo watched the exchange with quiet interest, then stepped forward, redirecting the moment. “The reason I asked you here,” he said, his tone smoothing out again, “was something else entirely.” He reached to the table and picked up a heavy envelope, extending it toward James. “Nico is opening a new club. It’s called Corso. The grand opening is next Thursday.”

James took the envelope, glancing down at it briefly before looking back up.

“I’d like you to be there,” Carlo continued. “Consider it an opportunity for a truce. A new beginning between the Bravetti and Blackthorne dynasties.”

James studied him for a long moment, weighing the words, the tone, and the intent behind them.  “A new beginning,” he repeated.

Carlo met his gaze. “If you’re willing.”

James gave a faint, skeptical smile, but after a beat, he extended his hand again. “We’ll see,” he said.

Carlo shook his hand. “I look forward to it,” he said, then gestured to the door. “Sergio will show you out.”

As if on cue, the door opened and the butler stepped back into the room. “This way, Mr. Blackthorne,” he said.

James gave one last look between Carlo and Mickey before turning and following the butler out, the weight of the invitation and everything behind it settling in as he left the room.

* * *

The UPS driver made his way up the front walk, guiding a dolly with a long, narrow crate strapped upright against it. The wheels bumped softly over the stone as he maneuvered it toward the front door.

He set the dolly in place, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the handheld scanner.

Ding-dong.

He waited, shifting his weight, glancing once at the address on the label to make sure he had the right house.

Nothing.

He pressed the bell again, longer this time.

Still nothing.

The driver frowned, stepped closer, and knocked firmly against the wood. “UPS! I have a delivery for a…Muffy Tremond!”

Silence.

He waited another beat, then knocked again, louder. “Delivery for Muffy Tremond!”

When no one came, he let out a quiet sigh, lowering the scanner. He looked at the crate, then back at the door, already resigned. He turned, wheeled the dolly back down the path, and guided it toward his truck, the crate rattling slightly as it rolled over the uneven stone.

Inside the house, behind a sliver of curtain, Sadie watched with a smile.

* * *

Nico ordered a prostitute and had her meet him at a hotel in Bel Air where he fucked her on the bed in the missionary position. As she moaned with pleasure, his dick drilling inside of her with feverish intensity, his gaze kept drifting past the edge of the bed to the mirror above the dresser across the room. He watched himself. The angle of his body, the position of his jaw, the way he looked in motion and in control. His eyes stayed fixed on that reflection, studying it like it mattered more than anything happening beneath him.

The woman followed his line of sight once, then back to his face, a curious smile forming. Slowly, she lifted a hand and placed it along his cheek, turning his face back down toward her.

“Hey,” she said softly, a hint of teasing in her voice. “Don’t I have your attention?”

Nico didn’t answer as he continued fucking her. His eyes slipped past her and back to the mirror again.

She let out an amused breath, though there was something slightly sharper underneath it now. “Or do you just get off watching yourself in action?”

“I’m not watching myself,” he said quietly as he thrusted his hips.

She raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Then what are you doing?”

He grunted. “Making sure.”

“Making sure of what?” she asked.

His eyes flicked back to hers, and just for a second, there was something colder there. “That he’s there.”

She let out a laugh, brushing it off. “Okay…”

Nico’s mouth curved faintly as he emptied himself inside of her, groaning with pleasure as his body jolted from the intense orgasm. 

“Relax,” he said when he’d caught his breath. “You’re overthinking it.”

But even as he said it, his gaze slipped back to the mirror again.

* * *

After James left, Mickey moved toward a cluster of crystal decanters and poured a drink for himself and his father. 

Carlo didn’t take it right away. “How is it going with Double Strike Studios?”

Mickey lifted his glass slightly, watching the light catch the amber liquid. “Slow,” he said. “They’re being… resistant. Not exactly eager to cooperate.”

Carlo gave a faint, knowing smile. “Of course they aren’t.”

Mickey took a sip, then set Carlo’s glass down within reach. “We don’t have the luxury of time,” he added. “There’s a shipment coming in at the end of the month. Bigger than anything we’ve moved in years. We’re talking eight figures. Maybe more.”

Carlo’s eyes shifted to him, interest sharpening.  “And no place to put it.”

“We can accomplish what we need through Rydell Productions,” Mickey told him. “I told Armstrong to approve invoices within twenty-four hours. We’ll get it done.”

“I still want inside Double Strike.” 

“How?”

“Remind them of the alternatives,” Carlo said calmly, finally turning toward him. “And give them one more chance before you send Bruno and Dennis. People tend to make better decisions when they believe they still have one.”

Mickey nodded, understanding the implication. “What about Sunset Studios?”

For a moment, Carlo didn’t answer. “That,” he said finally, “is the grand prize. Controlling Sunset Studios again is something I’ve thought about for a very long time.”

Mickey watched him, saying nothing.

Carlo’s expression hardened just slightly. “And when we do,” he said, “we’ll settle old accounts. For what they did to Nico.”

Mickey leaned back against the desk, arms folding loosely. “James Blackthorne probably wouldn’t let that happen again.”

Carlo’s mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Good thing James Blackthorne isn’t in charge anymore,” he said.

* * *

The house had quieted down by the time evening settled in, the earlier tension giving way to something softer and more intimate. Stormy sat at the end of the couch with Jane’s legs draped across his lap, his hands working slowly over her feet, easing the tension out of them.

Jane leaned back against the cushions, eyes half-closed, letting herself relax for the first time all day.

Stormy glanced up at her, an almost disbelieving smile softening his face. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “Four months from now, we’re going to have a brand new addition to our family.”

Jane let out a light laugh, resting a hand over her stomach. “I don’t know if I can handle another four months of this,” she teased. “Morning sickness, swollen ankles, bathroom breaks every fifteen minutes… I don’t know how I’m going to survive it.”

Stormy chuckled, pressing his thumbs more firmly into her feet. “Well, I’ll be here for all of it,” he said. “Holding your hair back, massaging your feet—whatever you need.”

Jane smiled faintly, but when she looked at him, she caught something else in his expression—something heavier, just beneath the surface. Her smile softened.

“You’re going to be here for it,” she said gently. “To see him or her. I know it. How could they send a brand new father to jail?”

Stormy’s hands slowed, his gaze dropping for a second before he looked back up at her. “I don’t know if they care about that,” he said quietly. “New father, old father… doesn’t make a difference in a courtroom.”

Jane shifted slightly, pushing herself up on her elbows so she could look at him more directly. “Well, it should,” she said. 

Stormy let out a deep breath, something between a sigh and a quiet laugh. “Happens all the time.”

She shook her head, more certain than he was. “Not to you.”

He looked away so she couldn’t see the despair in his eyes. 

Jane reached forward, her hand coming to rest lightly against his arm. “We need you,” she said, her voice steady. “I need you. R.J. needs you.  And so does our baby.”

Stormy looked at her, something shifting behind his eyes again.

“Our protector,” she added softly.

Finally, a faint smile broke through despite everything. He squeezed her foot gently, like grounding himself in the moment. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

And for a second, sitting there with her, it almost felt like that could be enough.

* * *

Sadie stood in the conservatory beneath one of the exposed support beams, her hands working carefully as she secured the heavy chain into place with a padlock. The metal clinked softly as she tested it, pulling once, then again, making sure it held. Her movements were precise and methodical.

She stepped back slightly, studying the length of the chain, carrying it toward the door to make sure it didn’t reach. It didn’t.  Then she carried it to the window, and again, it didn’t reach. 

Then she dragged it toward the center of the room. It stretched farther than she wanted—far enough to reach the piano.

Sadie frowned. “That won’t do,” she murmured under her breath.

She walked to the piano, placing both hands against its smooth surface, and pushed. At first, it didn’t budge. She exhaled, tightening her grip, then leaned her weight into it. The legs scraped faintly against the floor, the sound low but grating in the otherwise silent room. Inch by inch, she forced it back, her breath growing heavier with the effort.

“Come on…” she whispered.

Finally, it shifted enough. Sadie brushed a strand of hair back from her face, her chest rising and falling from exertion. She looked from the piano to the chain again, measuring the distance. The chain no longer reached.

“Sadie?” called a voice from somewhere in the house.

Sadie froze.

“Sadie?” the voice came again, closer now, echoing faintly down the hallway. “Are you here?”

In an instant, Sadie moved. She gathered herself quickly, crossed the room and slipped through the heavy doors, pulling them shut behind her just as Iris’s footsteps approached.

Iris appeared at the far end of the corridor, pausing when she saw her. “There you are. I was calling for you.”

Sadie forced an easy expression, though her breathing hadn’t quite settled. “Sorry,” she said lightly. “I was just… making sure everything’s secure. You know how forgetful Mrs. Tremond is.”

Iris glanced past her toward the closed doors. “What’s in there?”

Sadie shrugged, deliberately dismissive. “Just some storage room. Nothing exciting.”

Iris stepped a little closer, curiosity blooming. “I want to take a look.”

Sadie shifted subtly, angling her body to block the door without making it obvious. “It’s honestly not worth it,” she said with a faint smile. “A lot of it’s just old furniture and dust.”

Iris studied her for a second, then reached for the handle anyway. “Still—”

Sadie’s hand came up quickly, catching her wrist—not forceful, but enough to stop her. “Iris, wait.”

Iris blinked, surprised. “What?”

Sadie let out a breath, leaning back slightly as if suddenly drained. “I… I think I overdid it,” she said, her voice softening. “Walking all the way up here… moving around like that… it just hit me.” The color had genuinely faded from her face now, her breathing still uneven from the effort.

Iris’s expression changed immediately, concern replacing curiosity. “Oh my god, Sadie—”

“I’m okay,” Sadie said quickly, though she swayed just slightly, enough to make it believable. “I just… I think I need to lie down.”

Iris forgot the door instantly. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Let’s get you back.”

Sadie nodded, letting Iris take her arm. “Oh, I forgot to mention,” she said as they walked. “There was a delivery for Mrs. Tremond that needed a signature. I promised her I would sign for it, but I didn’t hear the doorbell when I was upstairs. Do you think you could go pick it up tomorrow? It’s all the way in Carson—tons of traffic on the 405, but—I’d hate to disappoint her.”  

Iris nodded dismissively. “Yes, now relax and let me get you back to the sofa.”  

Sadie nodded, smiling as they made their way down the path. 

* * *

Suzanne was eager to get into her new penthouse, and even though not all of her furniture had been moved in from storage, and she didn’t have a stocked kitchen, she decided to spend the night anyway. After another romantic dinner out with Mickey, they came back and spent hours making love. Her bed, luckily, had been on the first truck.

Amazed at what a virile and tender lover he was, she began to find herself more uninhibited than she’d ever been. She couldn’t help comparing him to others. Jordan had always been a bit predictable in bed, though she suspected he got more adventurous after their marriage when he started cycling through Hollywood starlets like they were sports cars. 

With Brett, the passion had been fueled by the intensity of their circumstances—the secrecy, the risk, the adrenaline of it all. It created a kind of built-in chemistry, where even if he hadn’t been exceptional, it still would have felt like more than enough. The way he made love to her, however, always seemed a bit selfish, like he was more concerned with his own needs than hers. 

Mickey, however, made her feel like the only woman he’d ever been with. When they were together, whether in bed or otherwise, he was focused only on her. He rarely took his eyes off of her, his hand always reaching for hers. She felt safe with him, despite what others had tried to warn her about him. No man had ever made her feel that way. 

It was late when they finally collapsed onto the bed, tangled in the sheets. Suzanne lay curled against him, her head resting lightly on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing as it began to slow.  Before long, her eyes drifted shut.

Sometime later, a faint buzzing cut through the stillness.

Suzanne stirred slightly, not fully awake at first, the sound pulling at her slowly. It came again. She blinked her eyes open just enough to see the soft glow of Mickey’s phone lighting up on the nightstand.

Beside her, Mickey shifted. Carefully, he eased himself out from under her, the mattress dipping slightly as he stood. He reached for the phone and, without a word, walked into the bathroom, closing the door most of the way behind him.

Suzanne lay still for a moment, listening.

His voice came through so faintly that she couldn’t make out the words. Curiosity nudged her awake. Quietly, she slipped out of bed and moved toward the bathroom. The door wasn’t fully shut. She stopped just outside it, careful not to make a sound.

Inside, his voice dropped even lower, but one line came through clearly.

“This was their last chance… now handle it.” Then after a pause. “I don’t care how.” 

Suzanne froze.

There was a brief pause, then the sound of movement as he ended the call.

Quickly, she turned and slipped back to the bed, pulling the covers around her just as the bathroom door opened. She closed her eyes, forcing her breathing to slow, to even out, willing herself to look asleep.

Mickey returned to the bed, the mattress shifting again as he settled back beside her.

Suzanne didn’t move. But behind her closed eyes, her thoughts raced. She had no idea who he’d been talking about. Or what “handling it” meant.

And for the second time that day, a thin thread of unease worked its way in.