This would be much easier if this were an enemy compound and I could just shoot anyone who says or does the wrong thing.
Jordan peers up at the house. “I’ll play nice. That way you don’t have to kill any of your friends. Okay? Unless there’s an annoying uncle you need me to set up? Busybody aunt? Creepy cousin you need an excuse to gank? Just point them out to me, and I’ll take care of them.” She smiles and bats her lashes.
A snort is torn from my lips, all my anxiety stripped away in an instant. She practically wriggles with joy at my reaction.
“None right now, but I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
She nods, her gaze fixed on the house. Her eyes hold no fear, just a kind of steady acceptance. Always surprising and more than I expect.
Way more than I deserve.
We climb the steps together, wide, cold stone, worn in the middle by generations of men like me. I place my hand at the small of her back, not to steer but to anchor. A line connecting us for all to see.
With my other hand, I swing open the reinforced steel and oak door that can stand up against bullets and battering rams. Inside, the foyer uncoils overhead. Jordan takes in the high ceilings and marble floors with awe in her eyes. Everything’s constructed to project power, demand respect, and instill fear.
Galaxy-like chandeliers burn above us. We walk over rugs that cost more than some cars. Security cameras hide where the unwary never notice, and light switches disguise panic buttons. Every inch is calculated, every piece about containment, control, and defense.
“Maybe I should get a place in town.” I hesitate. “Mine. Or it could be ours. If you want.”
She blinks, a flicker of surprise dancing across her face.
Strange, but good. The moment feels too big. Too exposed. “Your apartment’s a death trap. Street-facing windows. Locks akid could open. Neighbors who’d sleep through grenades going off.”
Her laugh ricochets through the marble and wood, stripping the space of its usual weight and remaking it brighter. “You’re such a romantic.” She bumps my shoulder with hers, carefree and warm.
I can picture a place in the city, not an address yet, just a set of details accumulating in my mind like evidence. Natural light for her yoga. Security I can vouch for. Enough room that we don’t drive each other insane. East-facing windows because she swears the morning sun matters. It’s all there, blueprints quietly assembling in the background, a plan for a future I never expected to want.
The cold knot that’s lived in my gut for years, iron-heavy and permanent, starts to shrink, creating a hollow I’m suddenly aware of, because warmth is moving in to take its place. The shift, unsteady but real, terrifies me.
I’ll have to ask her what she wants. What kind of space will make her happy. What sort of home the two of us could actually build.
The idea is so alien, my stomach twists and nerves spark. And beneath the fear is…not hope, exactly, but the raw material.
She’s watching me, half-smiling, like she can see every variable flickering across my face. “You’re thinking very loudly.”
Ten steps from the foyer, the ambush hits.
Valeria appears at the top of the main staircase.
She freezes just long enough for recognition to spark, then she’s in motion.
In a flash of heels and perfume and expertly blown-out hair, she careens toward us with the kind of energy that could shatter glass.
“Jordan Thorne!” Valeria’s voice cracks through the marble acoustics, ringing clear as a bell and sharp as a diamond. Sherushes right past me, almost through me, and gathers Jordan’s hands like they’re old friends reuniting at a wedding. “I’m Valeria. I’ve been dying to meet you!”
Thrown, I instinctively rear back. Valeria’s social performance is infamous, but this isn’t performative. There’s no calculation, just her bright, slightly reckless self.
Jordan answers instantly by squeezing Valeria’s hands, her own smile genuine and easy. Nothing like the brittle, professional version she wore at the gala. “How do you know my name?”
“Uncle Roman told everyone you were coming.” Valeria’s voice is bright as she slips her arm through Jordan’s and steers her down the hall. “But honestly, I’d know you anywhere. At least your voice. I listen toThe Thorne Identityevery single morning during my skincare routine.”
Jordan freezes—actually freezes—mid-step. Her whole body locks up like she’s been caught in the beam of a searchlight. “You…listen to my podcast?”
“You’re kidding, right? I’m obsessed!” The word snaps in Valeria’s mouth, her fingers flashing with freshly-done nails as she gestures. “That episode about energetic boundaries with toxic people? I made Max listen to it. He needed it after his last disaster of a relationship.”
Max? A relationship? He must have told her some story to cover up the real reason he was upset.
Max doesn’t do relationships. No one in the world could handle a man like Max. Not even Roman can fully contain him.
