They expect black marble, chrome, and sharp angles. Something that looks like it could cut you if you leaned too close. Instead, my place looks lived in. Intentional. A bachelor’s home that doesn’t feel like a showroom or a threat.
I know the moment I step out of the elevator, I’m not alone. I reach over to my hallstand, open the drawer, and pull out my pistol. The caution is unwarranted when I spy Lucien, my brother, seated on the leather sectional, one ankle crossed overhis knee, jacket off, sleeves rolled. A glass of whiskey sits in his hand as if it’s an extra appendage to his body.
He smirks. “You’re late. More wrinkled than at the club.”
I tug at the knot of my tie, loosening it, then peel off my jacket and drape it over the back of a chair. “I had a good night.”
“So I can see.”
I roll my shoulders, tension still humming through me. It’s not from the club's crowded energy, but from the quiet, lingering adrenaline of the car ride after. Thoughts of Dallen’s mouth, her hands, return. The memory feels different—warmer, more personal. The fear that letting anyone close could threaten the careful life I’ve built, or theirs, sharpens it. Her gaze—the way she looked at me like I wasn’t just a name whispered in rooms after I’d walked out—sticks with me. It presses at something vulnerable I keep hidden, reminding me what I have to lose.
I pour myself a drink. “You been waiting long? Shouldn’t you be home with Briar?”
“She’s out with Stacy for a little while longer. I thought I’d come here and see what you’re up to since I lost track of you.” He pauses. “But I’ve been here long enough to finish one glass and convince myself you weren’t dead, merely having fun.” Lucien lifts his whiskey in a mock toast. “Congratulations, brother. Now… Who was the lay?”
I snort and pour myself a drink before joining him on the couch, sinking into the leather. It creaks softly beneath my weight, worn in all the right places. Comfortable, old, and well used.
A faint hum from the HVAC kicks on above us, the cool air drifting down and stirring the edge of a paper on the coffee table.
Lucien’s eyes flick to my glass, then back to my face. He’s smiling. Not the calculated, terrifying smile people fear. The real one. The one Briar put back on to his lips.
I change the subject. “Letting Briar out of your sight? You must be getting soft.”
His face softens. “Not soft. She’s safe and having fun. I’ll see her in a couple of hours. There’s nothing soft about me.”
I scoff and sip my whiskey. “You’re insufferable.”
He shrugs. “Yup. She was worth it.”
We both know what that means. Matteo Romero doesn’t breathe anymore. Lucien’s choice—love over restraint—echoes through us. He chooses Briar over law and order, over the right way to do things. The consequences reverberate, not just in the city, but in me. In that moment, anger, fear, and longing all collide. Our father never taught us to handle that. The decision shows me what’s really at stake: losing yourself for someone, or losing them by playing it safe.
And something tells me I would do the same if I were in love as much as my brother seems to be—a flicker of realization passing through me at the thought.
“The charity auction at the Met is coming up again. Committee wants confirmations this week.”
Lucien nods. “We’ll have them. The foundation already secured five major donors from last year alone.”
“Six. Dutch family confirmed. Same table, same donation.”
Lucien hums in approval. “Good. I want to break last year’s total.”
“That was seven figures.”
“I know.”
“That’s ambitious.” But not impossible. When it came to my brother and the connections our family had built up over the past ten years, he was capable of anything.
“So was surviving our childhood,” he says mildly. “And yet, here we are.”
I sip, steadying. “Security’s tighter, fewer unknowns. Should be a good night.”
“Briar wants to be more visible this year.”
My sister-in-law spent the past year working to distance herself from her murdered ex-husband. Now, she’s becoming the face of Moretti Global’s charity side. If the public ever learns Lucien Moretti rid the world of Matteo Romero, none of us would recover. We’d lose everything. “As she should be,” I say. “People trust her.”
“They adore her,” Lucien corrects. “And they should.”
I glance at his hand—a custom wedding ring. Understated. Lethal in value, if you knew what to look for. “I never thought I’d see you like this,” I admit. A small part of me wants what my brother has. The way he looks at Briar immortalizes her with every glance. I can’t help but be jealous of such love. A bond of unbreakable trust. “Happy?”
