“Oh shit, I forgot about that. Well, The League doesn’t own the hotel with Carter. Not technically, at least. Just Sebastian Renaud.” Izzy couldn’t shake the shock from her voice any better than I could get rid of my disdain for Carter, even if he didn’t deserve it from me.

My father had once been a member of The League’s Italian division before moving to the States. It was vigilantism on steroids. Given Carter’s background, it made sense for Carter and Sebastian to join forces.

It was all just becoming too much with my son and Juliette in the mix.

“I didn’t reach out to Sebastian,” she told me after a quiet moment, “but to Emilia and Sean McGregor instead. They’re back in Dublin again working from there, but it’s late in Ireland, so they’ll call me tomorrow when they have something.”

Emilia’s not in Italy anymore? That was news to me. Just last year, my brothers and I went to The League—specifically, the McGregors and Sebastian—for help dealing with a situation involving Alessandro’s wife, Callie. They’d pulled through for us, and that op in Rome had resulted in a shitstorm of life-changing events, including my worst enemy showing his face again, ultimately leading to my revenge.

I looked down at the scars on my arm, unsure why his death hadn’t healed the internal wounds he’d caused like I’d hoped getting justice would do.

It took me a minute to realize I’d never verbalized my question. “So, Emilia gave up her leadership role in Italy again? What is that now, the second or third time?” I forced a laugh, but it came out more like a groan of pain, and I had to rub my chest.

“Emilia and Sebastian are a pair, the both of them. In power. Then out again. Then back in again, but like, times ten. They can’t help themselves,” Izzy answered, her tone lighter that time. “Don’t tell me you’re not just like Emilia and wouldn’t step back in if you think things are being mismanaged.”

“Well, I’m sure whoever Emilia appointed to take over in her place loves her constantly stepping back in and micromanaging.”

“Ohhhh absolutely. Wouldn’t you?” she teased. “Mr. Type A Personality?”

I faked a laugh in mock offense. “The difference between Emilia and I is⁠—”

“You’d never turn the reins over in the first place and watch from the sidelines,” she correctly called it.

One of my many flaws, I supposed. “You didn’t mention Colin’s my son, right?”

“No, of course not,” she remarked, quickly shutting down my concerns. “But they have their finger on the pulse of criminal activity there, so it would have been irresponsible not to reach out. If anyone can help get us answers quickly, it’s them.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” I grumbled.