This is what Logan meant to tell me about. The news I was going to get.
I feel relief.
I also feel sick to my stomach.
Lucian did this for me, which makes him both the safest man I know…and the most dangerous.
And speaking of danger, he risked his life to end that of the head of theCosa Nostra. He did it for me. Forus.
I’m under no illusions. The Maddox family is powerful. Sure, Remo would rage against the hitman who didn’t do his job, but he wouldn’t touch the Maddox family. The fallout would not be worth it for him. No, Lucian killed Remo because he promised me he’d keep me safe.
What if he had gotten hurt? My throat tightens painfully at the thought. What if a bullet found him first? What if he bled out alone, in some dark alley or foreign street, fighting battles that were never really his to fight? What if the next call I got was a funeral notice?
I picture him—my Lucian—lying still, those storm-dark eyes closed, his mouth slack, his hands cold. A man who would’ve killed, bled, and died for me. And I realize with horrifying clarity?—
I can’t lose Lucian.
Not because of some old sins he thinks he has to atone for. Not because he’s too stubborn to believe he deserves a future. Not because I was too afraid to take a risk.
But because…I love him.
Messy. Terrible. Beautiful.
I love every jagged, broken piece of him—and if I leave now, if I let him push me away in the name of protecting myself, I’ll regret it.
For the rest of my life.
I take a breath that feels like ripping off old skin.
I make my decision.
I take an Uber to Chelsea. Soon, I find myself standing outside a sleek, glass-and-steel building that doesn’t belong to this world so much as it towers above it.
There’s no front desk. No call button. No doorman. No keyhole. No keypad. No way to buzz for access.
I spot a discreet silver panel by the door. I flip it open and find a single thumbprint pad embedded beneath the cover.
You either belong…or you don’t.
I take a chance and put my thumb against the pad. The door opens.
I belong.
The elevator glides silently to the penthouse.
No buttons to press. No choices. Just up.
When the doors open, he’s waiting, hands in his pockets.
He looks like he’s been carved out of the shadows—still, tense, watching me like I might vanish if he breathes wrong.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then I do, stepping out of the elevator. The doors close behind me with a softswish. I walk to him, and he meets me halfway, reaching out like he can’t help it.
His hand brushes my arm, light, hesitant.
“You’re here.” His voice is rougher than I’ve ever heard it.
