I don’t know why I like it so much.
Maybe it’s the stillness.
Maybe it’s the way she looks peaceful only when she’s unconscious.
Or maybe it’s the selfish part of me that enjoys having her this close before the world interferes.
I don’t need the morning energy boost anymore. Not with her beside me. Since that evening at the piano, something shifted between us. We didn’t rush into anything. We didn’t explode. We just…found each other again.
Friends first.
Then lovers.
Now—something like a couple.
Something real.
We sleep together every night. We talk for hours. She laughs with me. I feel…lighter. Like torture has loosened its grip on my spine.
The knocking comes again—harder, more urgent. Reality slams back into me.
“Stay,” I whisper automatically, brushing a hand over her shoulder. She doesn’t stir. Deep sleeper. I envy her.
I slide out of bed and pull on my pants, barely managing to fasten them before I reach the door. My irritation is already rising—anyone who knocks like the world is ending better have a damn good reason.
I don’t bother asking who it is. I jerk the door open.
And the look on the person’s face tells me the morning I wanted is already gone.
It’s Sylvester.
His eyes are sharp, urgent, not even bothering with greetings. “One of the warehouses in Brooklyn…it’s gone. Blown to hell.”
My chest tightens. My mind instantly flashes through the list of everything stored there—goods, documents, tech, cash…lives depending on those assets.
“Same insignia,” he continues, voice low but cutting through the room like a blade. “Koval. They left a message. Says…‘Watch your back, Rusnak. We’re coming for you.’”
I feel my jaw lock. My stomach twists. I step out of the door, letting it swing shut behind me, and march to my study. “How much damage?” I demand.
“Substantial, but not irreparable,” Sylvester replies. His tone is measured, but I know the weight of his words. “No one was hurt, thanks to the night crew. But they hit us where it hurts. Strategically.”
I run my hands over my face. Rage simmers like a live wire in my veins. “They’re daring me,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “Trying to force me into a reaction…force me to show weakness.”
Sylvester watches me silently. I don’t care. My focus is sharp, coiled. “Get the cameras, all surveillance, everything from the warehouses. I want a complete reconstruction. Someone moved, and I want to know exactly who.”
“Already on it,” he says, stepping back.
I take a deep breath, trying to corral the storm inside me. And in the back of my mind, I think of Vivian—still asleep in my bed. My lips press together. No one touches her. No one. Not today. Not ever.
I turn sharply toward Sylvester. “Call Sebastian. Now. Get him on this before it gets worse.”
The words are a growl. A promise.
“And I want guards in front of the suite,” I snap. “If Vivian sneezes, I want to know. Her life is everyone’s top priority.”
“Yes, sir!” Sylvester hurries off, already dialing commands into his phone.
The study door clicks shut, and the silence that follows feels like the calm before a bomb detonates. The rest of the day evaporates in a blur of orders, strategy, and fury.
