Chapter 18 Chapter 18
Lola
The chair felt heavier than it should have; not uncomfortable, just weighted—like it carried the expectation that whoever sat in it would stay. Lola folded herself neatly at the table beside Enzo, spine straight, hands resting loosely in her lap. She didn’t reach for him this time. Didn’t need to. His presence anchored the space whether he touched her or not.
Screens glowed along the walls, maps layered with routes and timestamps, names flagged and circled in red. Voices overlapped in low, controlled tones—men who knew how to speak without wasting breath.
Marco’s name surfaced early, ports, delays, inventory that hadn’t vanished so much as drifted.
Lola listened, not passively, she tracked the rhythm of the conversation, the way one problem fed into the next. How each man brought a piece of the picture without seeing the full shape yet. She watched the routes tighten, the margins thin, the quiet escalation building beneath the language they were using to avoid naming it; pressure,testing, a long, deliberate squeeze. Her gaze moved from screen to screen, her mind already stitching threads together.
A slow war. Not loud. Not immediate. But inevitable.
The door opened.
Dottie came in without ceremony, like she belonged there—which she did. She carried a tray in one hand and a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. She didn’t look at the screens. Didn’t acknowledge the room at large. Her attention went straight to Lola. She set the tray down gently in front of her: a mug of tea, steam curling faintly, citrus and ginger warming the air, something grounding, something safe. Beside it, a small plate: toast with honey, sliced fruit, something soft and bland but enjoyable all the same.
Then Dottie reached into the bag.
One snack slipped into Lola’s pocket.
Then another.
Then a third, pressed in like insurance.
No words.
No explanation.
Just care.
Lola’s throat tightened before she could stop it. She wrapped her fingers around the mug, warmth seeping into her palms, and lifted it in a quiet acknowledgment; something from their life together before everything got turned sideways. Dottie’s gaze lingered only long enough to confirm she’d taken a sip. Satisfied, she turned and left.
The door closed and he room continued.
No one commented, no one questioned it. Dottie’s presence moved through the space the same way Enzo’s did—accepted, unquestioned, permanent.
Lola listened and sipped her tea while watching the conversation sharpen.
Someone suggested moving assets.
Someone else countered with timing.
Enzo spoke rarely, but when he did, the room adjusted around him. His questions didn’t demand answers, they revealed them. Each one narrowed the field, funneled intent, stripped the problem down to its bones.
And there it was, not sad but clear.
They weren’t planning defense.
They were preparing to strike.
Lola felt the realization settle in her chest with startling calm; this wasn’t about waiting Marco out, this was about ending him.
She didn’t react, didn’t interrupt, didn’t look at Enzo, she just understood.
She took another sip of tea, steady and slow, and waited until the conversation hit a natural pause, a breath between strategies, a recalibration point.
Then she leaned toward Enzo, close enough that only he could hear her, “I need to talk to Dottie,” she murmured.
Not an excuse.
Not a question.
Just a fact.
Enzo turned to her instantly, eyes searching her face, not alarmed, but attentive. He studied her for a beat, clocking the calm, the clarity, the absence of fear and nodded once.
“Take your time,” he said quietly and kissed her knuckles.
Lola stood smoothly, chair sliding back without sound. The meeting flowed on as if she’d never been there at all. Which, she realized, was exactly why it worked.
The door closed behind her.
And the war continued—without her.
Lola didn’t go far, Dottie was where she always was when she was waiting, near the window, cigarette already lit, smoke curling toward the ceiling like punctuation. The canvas bag rested beside her chair, heavy, deliberate. Packed by someone who never asked questions she didn’t want answers to. Dottie didn’t look up when Lola entered. “I knew you’d come eventually,” she said calmly.
Lola stopped just inside the room.
“They’re talking about a war,” she replied.
That got Dottie’s attention.
She turned then, eyes sharp but not alarmed, taking Lola in from head to toe like she was cataloging what she saw rather than reacting to what she heard. “Wars aren’t quick,” Lola added quietly. “They’re loud. They take time. And they don’t stay contained.”
Dottie nodded once. Not agreement—recognition.
“And you don’t intend to sit still while one grows teeth,” she said.
Lola’s mouth curved faintly. “I intend to make sure it doesn’t come home.”
Dottie took a slow drag, exhaled through her nose. She didn’t ask where Lola was going, didn’t ask who. Instead, she reached down and nudged the canvas bag closer with her foot. “That elevator outside the war room?” she said casually. “It’s monitored, always.”
Lola’s gaze flicked up, sharp and focused.
Dottie stood, crossing the room with unhurried ease. “Service elevator’s at the far end of the west hall. Old freight line. No cameras inside—Enzo had them pulled years ago after a union dispute.” She paused, then added, softer, “It’s still tied into the building, though. So don’t dawdle.”
Lola exhaled slowly. Relief flickered—just once.
“Thank you,” she said.
Dottie stepped into her space then, close enough that only Lola could hear her next words. “You’re not sneaking,” she said firmly. “You’re stepping out. There’s a difference.”
Lola swallowed. “I won’t be long,” she said—not a promise, but an intention.
Dottie reached up and smoothed a hand over Lola’s hair, the way she had when Lola was younger and bleeding and too stubborn to admit it hurt. “Eat what I gave you,” she said. “And don’t rush.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at Lola’s mouth, “Always do.”
She leaned in, kissed Dottie’s cheek, quick, affectionate, and grounding, then turned away before anything else could be said. Because if she stayed, Dottie might say something that made it harder to leave.
The west hall was quiet.
Too quiet.
Lola moved through it without hurry, steps even, posture relaxed. Anyone watching would see a woman taking a moment. Anyone who mattered wouldn’t be looking. The service elevator door was exactly where Dottie said it would be. She slipped inside, pressed the button, and only then let herself breathe.
As the doors slid shut, Lola pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed.
Rafael answered on the first ring.
“I need a ride,” she said.
No greeting. No hesitation.
Lola pulled her hood up the moment the elevator doors slid open.
Not in a hurry, not like she was sneaking; just enough to let shadow soften the shape of her face as she stepped out into the service corridor and pushed through the side exit without breaking stride. The night hit her like a held breath finally released; cooler back here, sharper. The air smelled faintly of oil and concrete and rain that hadn’t fallen yet. The Strip pulsed somewhere nearby, distant music, bass reverberating through the bones of the city but the alley swallowed most of it whole.
She adjusted the strap of the canvas bag across her chest and walked.
Purpose had a rhythm, she matched it. No one looked at her twice. That was the trick. You didn’t move like someone hoping to disappear, you moved like you belonged exactly where you were, like the world had already made room for you.
Four minutes later, headlights cut across the mouth of the alley.
A dark sedan rolled to a smooth stop, engine quiet, timing precise enough to feel intentional rather than lucky. The passenger door opened before the car fully settled. Rafael leaned across the seat, one brow lifting as he took her in. “You’re late,” he said mildly.
“I’m early,” Lola replied, sliding in without ceremony.
The door shut behind her with a soft, final click. The car pulled out immediately, tires whispering over pavement like it had never stopped at all. For the first time since leaving the war room, she exhaled; not relief, not fear, just recalibration.
“Thank you,” she said, voice low and sincere.
Rafael glanced at her sideways. “That sounded expensive.”
“It is,” she said. Then, after a beat, “I need to borrow your plane.”
He barked a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he guided the car into traffic. “Of course you do. Only you would ask to borrow someone’s plane like it’s a sweater you forgot at their place.”
A corner of her mouth curved. “And only you would answer the phone.”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“You’re going to,” she said calmly.
He studied her for a moment, not searching her face for weakness, but reading the set of her shoulders, the stillness behind her eyes. Whatever he saw there must have satisfied him, because he huffed once, resigned and amused all at the same time.
“I hate when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Know me better than I know myself.”
She turned toward him then, the humor falling away just enough to let the truth show. “There’s something I need to take care of,urgently. Contained, if I move fast.”
Rafael nodded slowly, he didn’t ask why. He never did when it mattered. “Where?” he asked.
“Asia,” she said. “Coast.”
The car went quiet.
“Oh,” he murmured after a second. “You’re going to visit Marco.”
She didn’t correct him. Didn’t need to.
Rafael’s fingers tightened briefly on the steering wheel before relaxing again. “You know,” he said, tone conversational, “most people would at least pretend this was a terrible idea.”
Lola smiled — not sharp, not reckless. Just certain.
“Most people don’t live with the consequences if I don’t go.”
Neon bled back into the windows as they merged toward the Strip, reflections sliding across the glass like water. The city was alive tonight, drunk on itself, utterly oblivious to the quiet calculus happening in the passager seat.
Rafael sighed once. “Plane’s fueled. Crew’s light. We can be airborne in twenty.”
“We?” she asked, gaze forward.
He shrugged. “I'm not busy and you seem to always find yourself in fun situations.”
She let out a breath that might have been a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“True,” he agreed. “But that's what makes us such good friends.”
Lola leaned her head back against the seat, eyes closing, not from exhaustion, but focus. Her mind was already sorting routes, timelines, variables. Ports. Schedules. Who talked too much when they felt safe. Who disappeared when the tide turned.
The hangar sat at the edge of the strip, all concrete and shadow, its wide steel mouth open to the night. No signage, no spectacle; just restraint humming beneath the surface. Lola stepped out of the car and pulled her hood up as she moved, the fabric settling around her face without thought. The air carried fuel and dust and that faint electrical tang that always lived near planes. She breathed it in once and followed Rafael inside. He moved ahead of her easily, unhurried, like this was just another late-night favor. He didn’t look back, didn't need to. The plane waited under low lights, sleek and private, crew already in motion; efficient, silent, ready. Rafael gestured toward the stairs with a half-smile. “You really do have a talent for last-minute decisions.”
“Only the important ones,” Lola said.
“That’s what worries me.”
She shot him a look, brief, sharp, then climbed the steps with him. Inside, the cabin was dim and calm, arranged for long hours. Lola took the window seat and set her bag at her feet, its weight familiar, pockets still packed by Dottie’s quiet insistence. Rafael settled across from her, loosening his jacket, already in flight mode. The door sealed with a muted hiss. Somewhere beneath them, engines began their low, steady build.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Lola watched the hangar lights slide past the window as the plane taxied forward. She felt… fine. Tired, yes, wound tight beneath the skin in a way she didn’t have words for but steady. A flicker low in her abdomen made her shift slightly in her seat, a fleeting awareness—like her body checking in with itself before takeoff; pre-flight jitters she declared and let it go. Outside, the sky deepened, the plane leveling into its long arc east.
Lola shifted, tucking her legs beneath her, and let her eyes drift shut. The engines settled into a steady rhythm, a sound she’d always found oddly comforting.
She’d made her plan. Now she just needed the time to let it finish forming.
And sixteen hours, she thought as sleep finally crept in, would be more than enough
Lola woke before the cabin lights shifted, not fully, not abruptly; just enough to surface into awareness—the steady hum of the engines, the faint pressure change in her ears, the quiet weight of having slept without dreaming. The window beside her was dark, ocean stretching endlessly below them, broken only by the occasional scatter of lights far in the distance. Dawn hadn’t reached them yet. It would, eventually, everything did. She shifted, rolling her neck once, testing herself. Tired, but not sluggish. Focused in that way she only ever got when a decision had already been made somewhere deeper than thought.
Across from her, Rafael was awake.
Of course he was. He’d shed his jacket at some point, sleeves rolled, tablet resting loosely in one hand. He looked up when she moved, mouth curving like he’d been waiting for her to surface.
“Morning,” he said lightly. “Or whatever time we’re pretending it is.”
She exhaled a quiet huff and sat up, reaching for the bag at her feet. “How long until descent?”
“Couple hours,” he said. “Plenty of time to regret your life choices.”
“Shame,” she replied. “I was hoping to skip that part.”
She dug into the bag and came up with one of Dottie’s protein bars, eyeing it like a necessary evil. She took a bite anyway, chewing slowly, deliberately. Food first, always.
Rafael watched her with mild amusement. “You always eat like you’re fueling up for something unpleasant.”
“Because I usually am.”
“Comforting.”
She swallowed, took another bite. Her stomach settled—not hungry, exactly, but steadier for it. She leaned back, bar resting loosely in her fingers.
“So,” Rafael said, setting the tablet aside. “What’s the play?”
There it was.
Not pressed, not dramatic; just curiosity wrapped in confidence, like he assumed he’d be part of whatever came next simply by proximity.
Lola didn’t answer right away.
She watched the dark outside the window, the endless water, the way the horizon didn’t care who won or lost or disappeared. Her thumb brushed absently over the edge of the wrapper. “I haven’t decided yet,” she said finally.
Rafael’s brow lifted. “That’s new.”
She glanced at him. “Is it?”
He smiled. “You usually know exactly what you’re doing by now.”
“I know what needs to be done,” she corrected. “That’s not the same thing.”
Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but alert. Rafael studied her openly now, the way he did when he thought there was something to learn.
“You’re weighing variables,” he said. “That look means someone ends up surprised.”
“Usually,” she agreed.
“And you’re deciding whether I’m useful or in the way.”
A corner of her mouth curved. “You say that like they’re mutually exclusive.”
He laughed softly, conceding the point. “Fair.”
She finished the bar, folded the wrapper neatly, and set it aside. Her body felt ready now. Anchored. The plane hummed around them, steady and indifferent. “I can handle Marco alone,” she said, calm and factual. “Cleaner. Faster. Fewer moving pieces.”
Rafael nodded slowly. “And?”
“And,” she continued, eyes still on the window, “having someone with me changes the shape of it. Adds risk. Adds witnesses.”
“Also adds backup,” he countered. “Extraction. Contingencies.”
She turned then, meeting his gaze fully. “I don’t need extraction.”
Something flickered in his eyes at that; not fear, interest.
“No,” he said. “You don’t.”
They sat there, suspended between altitude and intent, the decision hovering unspoken but present. Rafael leaned back in his seat, arms crossing loosely. “So,” he said, tone almost casual. “Do I get off the plane with you… or do I wait somewhere very safe and very bored?”
Lola held his gaze.
This was the moment.
The fork in the road.
Lola held his gaze for a long moment.
Long enough for him to think she was calculating logistics.
Long enough for him to think he was part of the equation.
“You’re right,” she said finally. “It does change the shape of it.”
Rafael’s smile returned, slow and satisfied. “I knew you’d see it that way.”
She nodded once, small and precise. “I don’t want to move alone. Too many variables once we land.”
“Smart,” he said, already settling into the assumption. “We’ll—”
“We,” she corrected gently, “will arrive together.”
The wording was deliberate.
Rafael caught it and missed it all at once.
He leaned back, arms folding loosely. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Lola didn’t contradict him.
She turned back toward the window, watching the sky lighten by degrees, the dark thinning into a muted gray-blue. Somewhere beneath them, coastlines waited, ports, concrete. Men who thought they were still in control.
Rafael spoke again, lighter now, comfortable, “You always were better with company anyway.”
Her mouth curved faintly.
If he noticed the lack of humor, he didn’t comment on it.
The cabin lights shifted a shade brighter, a subtle cue, morning was catching up to them.
Lola adjusted her seat, crossing her ankles, posture calm. She felt settled in a way that surprised her—not numb, not reckless, only clarity. She reached into the canvas bag once more, fingers brushing the familiar shapes Dottie had packed without explanation, anchors, insurance, care disguised as snacks.
Good.
Rafael glanced at her again. “You want to walk me through what you’re thinking? Or keep it close until we’re on the ground?”
She considered him. This man who collected secrets like currency. Who thought proximity equaled protection. Who believed loyalty was something he could outmaneuver instead of earn.
“Once we land,” she said. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
It was true.
Just not in the way he thought.
Rafael nodded, satisfied. “Fair enough.”
The engines adjusted, a subtle change in pitch as the plane began its gradual descent. The horizon brightened, water giving way to the faint outline of land. Lola closed her eyes—not to rest, but to center herself.
Marco first.
When she opened them again, the future felt already written.
And far below them, the ground rose to meet its dead.