## Chapter 3
Three days passed. Ezra remained inside the secret apartment. The outside world believed the head of the Cross Syndicate was resting after a business trip. No one knew he had nearly died.
Miles sat down across from him. “I’ve got an idea. It’s insane, but it might work.” He drew in a breath. “Fake your death. Let the traitor believe you’ve fallen. Once they think they’re safe, they won’t need to be careful anymore. They’ll show their real face.”
Miles opened a file and placed three photographs on the table. Griffin Cross — the lawful heir under family rules, waiting for this chance his whole life. Victor Slade — knowing too many secrets, loyalty uncertain. Paige Harrington — with access to the family, and after Ezra’s death, a claim on Rosie’s custody.
“She’ll think her father’s really dead,” Ezra said, his voice barely a whisper.
“That’s the price,” Miles answered without softening it. “But if you really die the next time, she’ll lose her father forever. And the person who wants you dead — that’ll be the person who raises her.”
That sentence tore through every wall Ezra had built around himself. He closed his eyes and saw Rosie in Griffin’s arms, soothed by a false smile. Under Victor’s control, a piece on an old strategist’s board. Beside Paige, raised only to be used against the fortune.
No. It couldn’t be allowed to happen.
“Do it,” Ezra said. “If I have to make her cry for a few weeks to protect her for life, I’ll do it. If I have to become a ghost to expose the devils hiding in human skin, I’ll do it.”
The plan began. News of Ezra Cross’s death would be spread. A funeral would be held, casket closed, no one allowed to see the dead man’s face. And while all of Boston mourned or celebrated, Ezra would sit in the dark, watching every face through the camera system installed throughout the mansion.
The old church in the heart of Boston overflowed with white flowers and candlelight. Griffin rose to the lectern, dressed in black, face pale, eyes red as though he’d spent nights in tears.
“My brother,” Griffin began, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Ezra was the finest man I ever knew.” Paige collapsed forward, her shoulders shaking in waves, so real that many others couldn’t hold back their own tears.
Victor Slade stood silently in the corner, showing nothing at all. But no one noticed, because all eyes were on the tiny girl standing beside the casket.
Rosie wore the black dress Willa had prepared. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry. She didn’t understand why Daddy had gone away. Daddy had promised to read to her tonight.
“Willa,” she asked, her voice clear and fragile through the silence, “when’s Daddy coming home?”
Willa couldn’t answer. She bent down and pulled Rosie into her arms, holding her tightly.
Miles away, in a room black as night, Ezra sat before six screens. He watched Griffin’s tears, Paige’s collapse, Victor’s stillness. Who was acting? Who was sincere? Still impossible to know.
Then the camera showed Rosie’s question, and Ezra’s hand clamped down on the arm of his chair until the bones in his fingers turned white.
He wanted to burst out of that room, throw open the doors, pull his daughter into his arms. But if he showed himself now, the traitor would disappear back into the dark, and next time the bullet wouldn’t miss.
The funeral ended. Griffin stood beside the casket, wiped away his last tears, and turned to Victor to say something too quiet for the microphone to catch. Victor gave the smallest nod. Then Griffin turned his back on the casket, and for one brief moment, the corner of his mouth lifted.
The camera had captured it. Ezra had seen it.
“Every mask falls in the end,” he said, his voice cold as ice. “We just wait.”
