Crossroads.

AUBURN DISTRICT, KINGSTOWN ESTATE; LUTTRELLSTOWN CASTLE RESORT; CLARE IN IRELAND...(Madden's Study) 2 AM.

The study was a masterpiece of taste and dominance.

Warmth and opulence bled from every surface, echoing Madden Banks' authority and astronomical wealth. Dark, lustrous wood panels cloaked the walls like armor. A rich, cream-colored carpet stretched across the floor, its texture plush beneath the soles of any who dared walk in uninvited.

At the heart of the room stood a handcrafted mahogany desk, regal in design and flawless in finish. On its surface rested an antique inkwell, a relic from another century, alongside a few meticulously arranged photographs,him and Tyra, frozen in happier times, smiling as if untouched by the sins of their world.

Behind the desk loomed a high-backed black leather chair, built for command and comfort. Before it, a configuration of plush grey sofas and armchairs formed a welcoming arc, their arrangement speaking to power and taste.

Books,leather-bound and rare,lined the towering bookcases that stretched from floor to ceiling. A ladder on gleaming rails offered access to the higher shelves, a quiet nod to Madden's obsession with knowledge and control.

In one corner, an antique globe rested on an elegant black stand, whispering tales of forgotten empires. In another, a crystal decanter and matching glass set gleamed beneath the ambient lighting...waiting, always, for company or confrontation.

The air was thick with the scent of rich leather and polished mahogany, layered with something darker… quieter… like buried secrets. The lighting, warm and low, came from scattered lamps and the roaring fire in the hearth. Shadows danced across the room like memories, glowing gold and dark amber, wrapping the space in a cocoon of refined authority.

Madden sat behind the desk, tablet in hand, his gaze locked on a digital document that had just landed in his inbox. On the screen, words glared back at him,useless, obvious, infuriating.

He was on a conference call. Alvin and three private investigators buzzed through the speaker, their voices disembodied.

Madden's jaw clenched as he skimmed the report. Then,he snapped.

"What is this?" he hissed, the words sharp, venomous.

His voice climbed to a dangerous pitch. "This shit you sent to me is what I can easily see on Google. Did you really investigate anything, or you just copied Google and pasted it to me as information?!"

The line crackled with silence before one of the investigators responded, clearly rattled.

"That was all we could come up with for now. Someone in that country is trying to hide away all useful information. There's nothing more we can do."

Alvin, loyal but weary, gave a slow nod on the video feed. "Yes. I noticed that. I haven't been able to get any useful information out of that country since I started investigating."

Madden's chestnut brown hair was ruffled by his own fingers as he shoved them through in frustration. The pressure built behind his eyes, his temples throbbed. His mind raced.

Something had to be done. Something fast. Something brutal.

And then,clarity.

He stilled, eyes narrowing as a slow, sly smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. It was the kind of smile that meant trouble for someone. The kind that preceded bloodshed or brilliance.

"You all are going to Italy," he said, his voice now calm… too calm.

The men on the call blinked. Silence stretched,then, in unison:

"Okay, sir."

No questions. No hesitations. They knew better.

Because questioning Madden Banks never ended well.

---

GALWAY DISTRICT; THE QUAY STREET KITCHEN; GALWAY IN IRELAND…

6:00 PM

The last wisps of spring's breath had vanished, swept away by summer's sultry arrival.

The Emerald Isle basked beneath a honey-colored sky. Sunlight poured over the hills, igniting every patch of green into gold-flecked glory. Wildflowers twirled in the breeze, their petals pirouetting like tiny ballerinas. The scent of heather, sweet and wild, mingled with the earthy perfume of freshly cut grass.

As dusk melted into evening, the sky burned with hues of pink and molten orange. The air cooled just enough to stir the trees and carry with it the echoes of old Irish myths, whispered by ghosts hiding in stone and soil.

And into that breathtaking stillness stepped a vision.

Tyra.

She descended from her pink-hued Aston Martin DB6 like a goddess dropped into a folk tale. Her beauty was quiet yet impossible to ignore,something born, not manufactured.

Golden honey-blonde hair spilled in waves down her back, catching the light like liquid sunset. Her complexion glowed, and those sapphire-blue eyes sparkled with something mischievous beneath the elegance. Her high cheekbones, petite nose, and full, naturally pink lips formed a portrait of polished perfection.

She reached into her Chanel bag and slipped on a pair of black shades. A shield. A signal. She knew she'd be recognized,she always was. But today wasn't for drama. She came to eat. Alone. In peace.

The soft chirping of crickets and scent of fresh flowers clung to the air as she made her way toward the restaurant. String lights and candles flickered from the patio, casting amber halos across the entrance and over her sculpted features.

Inside, her silhouette glided forward with the easy grace of someone used to being watched. Her hips moved like music,subtle, natural. Her dress, a creamy flowing number made from pale, iridescent fabric, shimmered with every step. The thin straps revealed toned shoulders, sun-kissed and smooth.

As she passed, heads turned.

Of course they did.

Whispers followed her like perfume.

She moved toward the elevator with calm confidence, the perfect picture of a starlet trying to escape attention,and failing, beautifully.

Just as she reached for the button, she heard them.

"Wait, isn't that Tyra Banks?"

"Which Tyra Banks?"

"The Tyra Banks. The actress."

Her heart stuttered. Shit.

This wasn't what she wanted. Not tonight. She just wanted to have a peaceful candlelight dinner after her more annoying than hectic day on set today.

She pressed the button quickly, praying for the elevator to arrive before the gossip bloomed into chaos. The doors slid open, and she stepped inside. Relief flushed her system.

But fate had other plans.

Just before the doors sealed, a man slipped in.

Her heart dropped. She didn't turn right away, but she felt him. The energy. The weirdness.

He was wearing a hood. A mask. In summer. Who the hell wore a hoodie and a mask in Ireland during summer?

A stalker, that's who.

She slowly glanced at him. Her smile was practiced. Polished. Designed for creeps.

He looked up at her...and smiled.

Then he dropped the hood. Removed the mask.

Time stopped.

Tyra's skin went cold. Her heart hit the brakes. All the blood in her body evaporated.

She knew that face.

"Hey, beautiful," he said, a soft chuckle riding the words. "Not happy to see me?"

Her voice barely worked.

"R… Ryan?"