He nods. “I’ll run point on the perimeter. You call when you want to move.”
When he leaves, I’m alone with the faint scrape of the chair under my weight. I pour a whiskey I don't need tonight because the motion steadies something inside me. The amber liquid trembles in the glass.
I think about what Giovanni said about family and loyalty. About how easy it is for men to swap sides when the wind changes.
I think about the men I trusted who turned when the scent of power shifted.
I think about my father handing chairs down, and about the way he taught me that mercy is a currency to be spent carefully.
I look down at my hands. They’re calloused and scarred, mapping a life written in bruises and debt. I flex my fingers. The small muscle in my jaw ticks. Losing the title doesn't change the hunger. It only sharpens it.
I set the glass down, stand, and walk to the door that leads to the stairs. For a moment, I pause, hearing nothing but the house settling and the distant sounds of the city breathing. I picture her—small, stubborn, and furious—and something like a promise slides into place inside my chest.
She stays close. I won’t let my brother find an opening.
I lock the office and let the dark fold around me.
Tomorrow, we move.
Tonight, I watch.
9
Sienna
Something warm presses against my back.
I think I’m dreaming at first. The way his breath hits my neck, and the weight of his arm heavy around my waist. His lips gently lap around the warm flesh at my neck while my brain takes a second to catch up.
He’s here.
My heart stutters, waking up before I do. My body goes rigid under the sheets, and my breath catches somewhere between a gasp and a whisper.
“Ben?” My voice comes out quiet and uncertain.
He doesn’t answer right away. He shifts slightly behind me, his chest pressing into my back, and his hand flattening against my stomach like he’s reminding me who he is.
“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, voice so deep that I feel it more than I hear it.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“Then don’t.”
He sounds tired, almost raw, but something else is buried under it. A familiar tension, the kind that coils between us no matter how hard I try to break it.
I roll halfway toward him, enough to see his face in the soft light slipping through the curtains. His hair’s a mess, his jaw is rough with stubble, and his eyes are shadowed and sharp even in the dark.
“What are you doing here?” My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to.
He studies me for a beat before answering. “Couldn’t sleep either.”
“So, you broke into my room?”
“Your door wasn’t locked.”
“That’s still not an invitation.”
He shrugs. “You never needed to invite me.”
