She thought I'd abandoned her. Thought the sex meant nothing. Thought I woke up, realized what we'd done, and decided silence was easier than facing her.
She didn't know I was locked in Brooklyn, learning how to kill, damning myself to keep her breathing.
I closed my eyes and saw her on that kitchen floor from the surveillance feed—broken glass, wine on the walls, crying alone because I couldn't tell her the truth.
My mother's voice echoed: You killed me by being born.
Maybe she'd been warning me all along.
This was always who I was meant to be.
Klaus's son.
Born from death. Destined for it.
But then another thought crept in.
Cold. Calculating. The kind of thought that came from years fighting in pits where the only rule was survive.
Klaus had men watching her. Men who could reach her anytime. Men who answered to him.
But Klaus was dying.
And when he died, someone would inherit. Someone would command those men. Someone would hold the leash on every gun pointed at everyone I loved.
The only way out was in.
I wouldn't just complete this hit and hope Klaus kept his word. Hope was for people who had options.
I would take his place.
I would take the surveillance teams that surrounded her. Make them answer to me. Me only.
I would command the gun.
So the gun would never—ever—have the fucking audacity to be pointed at her again.
The plan crystallized in my mind like ice forming on glass.
Earn Klaus's trust. Complete the hit. Prove I was his son in blood, not just genetics. Learn the organization from the inside—who commanded what, where the power sat, which men were loyal and which could be turned.
And when Klaus finally stopped breathing—when cancer finished what it started—I'd already be positioned to inherit. Or maybe, the cancer was too slow. Maybe I was faster.
Not because I wanted his empire.
Because I wanted to burn it to ash before anyone could use it against her.
I opened the folder again and started memorizing.
Exits. Timing. The quickest way to end a life I didn't want to take.
And I made a promise to myself:
I would become whatever monster he needed.
I would take his throne.
And then I would use every ounce of power he'd given me to make sure no one—not the Bratva, not his lieutenants, not death itself—could ever touch her again.
