I let my gaze sweep across the assembled men, making sure they understand the gravity of what I’m saying.
“Our enemies might think this is their golden opportunity. They’ll try to exploit our grief. They’ll assume we’re unstable, vulnerable, and they’ll test us to see if we’ll crumble without Afrim’s leadership.” I pause, letting the silence settle over the room again, then do my best to look each man in the eye. “But we’re not going to let them use our grief as a tool to destroy our empire. To destroy my father’s empire. Are we?”
“No!” they answer in unison, voices loud and resolute.
“Good,” I say with a single, firm nod. “Dismissed.”
They begin to filter out, speaking in hushed murmurs among themselves, their footsteps heavy as if the weight ofAtë’s death is physically pressing down on them. The same suffocating weight I’ve been carrying since yesterday.
Dhimitër approaches me as the room thins out, studying my face like I might spontaneously combust. “You good?”
I shrug noncommittally. “Are the cars ready?”
We’d been in the middle of discussing how I would get to Maximo and Elira’s penthouse today when he informed me he’d taken Katie to thefrigoriferlast night—a conversation that had nearly ended in violence. But we’d already discussed vehicle arrangement and which men would accompany me before that explosive revelation.
“Yes, they are. Everyone’s waiting for you in the garage.” Then he hesitates, eyeing me warily. “What happened last night between you and her?”
My jaw tightens. I don’t need to ask who he’s talking about. Katie. The woman pretending to be the innocent maid Mia Jorge, who right now is probably still lying tangled in my sheets. I know what he’s worried about. I know I can’t do this with her. But I don’t need him breathing down my neck about it like I’m some reckless teenager.
“I need to go see Elira,” I say flatly, my tone making it clear the subject is closed.
His lips thin into a disapproving line, but he doesn’t try to push for an answer. He knows better. He nods in acquiescence, but the way he continues watching me makes it clear he’s not done thinking about it. We’ll most likely revisit this conversation later, whether I want to or not.
I don’t say another word as I walk out of the hall and exit the mansion, heading for the garage where, sure enough, two black armored SUVs are waiting, engines already running. One is filled with the men I personally picked last night—except for Vance, who opens the back door of mine for me.
I slide in, and he closes it, then circles around to climb into the passenger seat up front. Leaning my head back against the leather headrest, I let my eyes shut briefly as I try to center myself for what’s coming.
We pull out of the garage and drive in a slow procession towards the main gate, drawing a few curious stares, but I don’t care. There’s only one person occupying my mind right now: Elira, and how to tactfully tell her she’s become an orphan.
The drive there is quiet. The men don’t speak unless they need to, and I’m grateful for that—I don’t think I could carry much conversation right now. Each minute winds my throat a little tighter, like an invisible hand is slowly closing around it. So I keep my gaze fixed on the window, watching the city pass by in muted streaks of color.
As the penthouse comes into view, my stomach knots hard enough to make me nauseous. I don’t know how she’s going to take this news—whether she’ll scream or go silent, whether she’ll break down or hold it together. I just know I need to be the one to tell her, face to face.
We pull into the underground lot where Maximo’s men watch us with cautious, assessing eyes. I leave my men with them and take the elevator alone. The ride up feels too shortand too long at the same time. When the doors slide open, I hear her laugh before I even move, and my heart squeezes painfully, knowing I’m about to destroy that joy completely.
Lorenzo—Maximo’s right-hand man—opens the door for me, and I step inside to see her barefoot, cradling little Luca in one arm and bouncing him gently. Her red hair is twisted into a messy bun, a few strands falling loose around her face. The instant she spots me, her whole being lights up.
“Roan!” she exclaims, grinning. “This is such a lovely surprise!”
No, Lira. No, it's not.
She crosses the room with ease, even with the baby, and wraps her free arm around me in an enthusiastic side hug. I let her do it, hugging her back, just for a few precious seconds. Needing it more than I expected.
Then I glance past her and meet Maximo’s eyes. He’s standing in the background, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, face unreadable. But when our gazes lock, he gives me a slow, somber nod.
He knows why I’m here—I texted him during the drive, gave him a heads-up so he could prepare for the fallout.
Elira pulls back and shifts Luca in her arms. “Say hi to your uncle,” she coos, then holds him out towards me. “Here. You haven’t held him in ages.”
I take him silently, careful with how I’m supporting his head and neck properly. He’s heavier than the last time I held him. His weight is warm and solid against my chest. His stubby little hands curl near my collar, his dark eyes staring up at me with an intensity that seems far too knowing for an infant.
He looks so much like Maximo—same dark eyes, dark hair—it’s uncanny. As I watch him, something in my chest loosens. Just a little. Just enough to let me breathe a little easier.
Then Maximo steps forward. “You two should talk,” he says quietly but firmly. He doesn’t frame it as a suggestion—morelike an instruction as he takes Luca from my arms and heads towards another room deeper in the penthouse.
Elira frowns as she watches him disappear with their son, but she doesn’t argue. She turns back to me, brushing a hand down her hip, already slipping into hostess mode even as I see the realization dawn in her eyes that something is wrong.
“Do you want something to drink? Or are you hungry? I can make you something?—”
