Rip paused near the entry, glancing back toward the door. “Why isn’t Viper here with Titus?”
“He is,” Law said. “Just upstairs. Penthouse apartment.”
Boston made a beeline for the couch until Rip pointed at the floor.
“You’re serious,” Boston said.
“Very,” Rip replied.
Boston muttered something obscene and made a nest out of a throw blanket anyway.
Sage paused at the doorway. “Night,” he said quietly.
Law slowed in the hallway as the others disappeared, his gaze catching on Sage. “Night.” His eyes lingered a second longer than necessary before Sage slipped inside and the door clicked shut.
The quiet settled over the condo like a weighted sheet. Law checked his phone again. Still nothing. He set it on the nightstand, screen up, volume maxed. Whatever was coming could wait a few hours longer.
The city hummed beyond the windows. Somewhere, a siren rose and faded. Law lay back, eyes open in the dark, listening and waiting.
Viper woke to a void that shouldn’t have been there. The sheets were twisted around his legs, pillow half on the floor, the bed still carrying the wreckage of last night—rumpled cotton, displaced blankets, the faint drag of bodies that had fought for space and then refused to let go of it.
And the right side of the bed was empty—not neatly, not carefully made, just absence where Titus had been, a hollow in the mattress already cooling.
Viper checked his watch.
5:02 a.m.
The penthouse was quiet. Too quiet. No footfalls. No shower. No movement beyond the bedroom—just the muted hush of Manhattan through thick glass, the city kept at a distance by money and height.
The faint scent of coffee drifted down the hall, telling him Titus had been up, had moved through this place, less than an hour ago.
Nothing was obviously wrong—and that was the problem.
Titus hadn’t wandered. He’d left with purpose. Viper recognized the pattern not in a glance, but in the quiet itself—the kind that didn’t feel accidental. The kind that meant a decision had already been made and put into motion. He’d seen it on men right before doors came apart and plans turned terminal, right before a target stopped being a possibility and became a conclusion.
This wasn’t flight. It was hunt.
Reaching for his phone, he swung his legs out of bed.
“I was just going to call you. Vale hasn’t checked in since a little before two,” Law said when he answered.
“Titus is MIA,” Viper said. “I suspect he met Vale back at the estate.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Get up here within thirty minutes. We’ll figure that out then.” He ended the call.
In the bathroom, the shower hissed to life. Viper stared at his reflection, water beginning to fog the mirror.
“Why the hell did you leave without saying goodbye?” he said to the empty room.
Forty-five minutes later, the kitchen was lit but unused—clean counters, untouched cups, the smell of coffee still hanging in the air like a timestamp.
Viper stood at the island as the city’s gray light crept in through the glass beyond the living room.
Boston perched on a stool near the sink, arms folded, leg bouncing—contained but vibrating. Rip leaned against the counter across from him, solid and silent, watching without comment. Law stood closest to Viper, already in work mode, jacket on, focus locked.
Sage stood at the counter with his laptop open, green eyes sharp as they skimmed the data, then slid to Law for half a beat—measuring—before he spoke. “Vale’s last ping was inside the estate perimeter—service-level access, not guest areas.”
