Page 201 of The Final Cut

Homer meows at him.

Ever looks at me. “He argued with me.”

“He’s a Hart.”

Delia wipes her face with the heel of her hand. “Unfortunately accurate.”

Lunch cools on the plates. The documents wait in Marisol’s folder. Inside the house, men with rosary tattoos and lowered eyes are learning how it feels to take orders from a woman who has no interest in kneeling for them. Outside, on the terrace, three women who were made strangers by the same monster sit together and practice staying.

Delia releases my hand first. The moment ends gently.

Her face smooths again, though some softness remains near the edges. “We have to talk about the house.”

“The ugly one or the criminal empire one?” Sonny asks.

Delia glances at her. “Both.”

“I was afraid of that.”

Marisol opens the folder.

Just like that, the table shifts from almost-family into something sharper.

“The main accounts are already frozen from the inside,” Marisol says. “Teresa and Ana Luisa moved faster than I expected. Celeste has control of the charitable arm, at least temporarily. The punishment rooms are closed.”

“Burn them.”

Everyone looks at me.

I lift my chin. “You said closed. I said burn them.”

Delia studies me, then nods once. “Agreed.”

Marisol writes something down. “The girls housed at St. Agnes?”

“Moved by tonight,” Delia says. “Not to another La Rosa property. Somewhere clean.”

Nash steps onto the terrace now because this part belongs to him too, whether I like it or not. “I have places.”

Delia’s gaze shifts to him. “I assumed.”

“They’ll have documents, protection, and options.”

“Options,” Marisol repeats softly.

The word feels more radical than bullets.

Deacon remains by the doorway, arms crossed, face shadowed. Ever stands near the terrace steps with Homer’s leash wrapped loosely around his hand because the cat has apparently decided he respects men with boundary issues. Shiloh leans against the doorframe, quiet for once.

Delia sits straighter in the chair Isabel used to own.

“I’m not keeping the old structure.”

“No,” Nash agrees.

“I’m not inheriting trafficking routes.”

“No.”