"I know tools." He almost smiled. "Different materials, same principles. You need a better burnisher, though. The one you've got is garbage."
"I know." I'd been meaning to upgrade. "Recommendations?"
He pulled out his phone and typed something. My pocket buzzed. "Guy in Portland makes them custom. Long waitlist, but worth it."
I checked my phone. The link was there, along with a note:Tell him I sent you. He'll bump you up.
It was the most Xion had ever given me, a sliver of connection built on shared understanding of craft. I knew better than to push through it too fast.
"Thank you," I said.
Xion shrugged. "You made Xander's bag. They won't shut up about it."
As if summoned, Xander swept past with a platter of salvaged crostini. The bag on their shoulder was red leather, structured and architectural, with brass hardware I'd sourced from Milan. It shouldn't have worked with their outfit—black leather pants and a vintage Westwood jacket. They made it work.
"Stop gossiping about me," they said without slowing. "Guests are arriving."
Xion snorted. "They hate when people talk about them."
"No, they don't."
"No," he agreed. "They don't."
Xander worked the incoming crowd, greeting guests with theatrical warmth, steering people toward drinks. They were good at this. Better than they knew.
"I should—" I started.
"You should stay here," Xion said. "Xander's got it."
I stayed.
The party swelled. Pentagon officials mingled with board members. Leo hovered near Xavier, wringing his hands. Ash had positioned himself with sightlines to both entrances. Boone had ended up in conversation with a general about fly-fishing.
And Algerone moved through it all, accepting congratulations, shaking hands, receiving tribute from an empire he was choosing to leave.
I watched him. I'd spent three decades watching him, studying his moods, anticipating his needs. But this was different. I wasn't calculating angles or scanning for threats. I was just looking at the way he held his whiskey, at the lines around his eyes when he laughed at something Webber said, at the way his weight shifted off his bad leg when he thought no one was paying attention.
Xavier approached the small stage Xander had set up. Someone dimmed the lights. Conversations faded.
"Thank you all for coming." Xavier's voice carried the authority of a man born to lead. "We're here to celebrate my father's retirement from Lucky Losers Incorporated."
Polite applause followed, along with a whistle from Xander.
"My father built this company from nothing." Xavier's gaze found Algerone. "He turned a vision into an empire. Something governments rely on and competitors fear. Now he's trusting me to carry it forward."
The applause swelled again, and Xavier waited for it to subside.
"What many of you don't know is that this transition has been years in the making. My father has spent the last three years preparing me for this role. He's taught me what it means to lead. What it means to build something worth protecting. And what it means to prioritize the things that matter most."
His eyes found his brothers in the crowd. Then, briefly, me.
"To my father." He raised his glass. "Thank you for building something worth inheriting. And for everything you've given us these past three years."
The room drank.
Algerone’s eyes found mine across the crowd. I raised my glass to him.
Later, when the crowd had thinned, and the caterers were packing, Algerone found me on the back porch. The lights Xion and Boone had strung cast soft gold across the darkness.
