Above us, the lights flicker—once, twice—then steady again, casting jagged shadows over the wreckage. The staccato thunder of rotors fades into the night, leaving a silence that presses down like a weight. My ears ring with the echo of gunfire, with the ghost of what could have been.
I lift my head just enough to scan the shatteredkitchen. No muzzle flash. No movement. No second wave. They hit fast and left faster. A warning.
I seize Zara’s face in my hands, forcing her gaze to mine. “Look at me. Are you hurt?”
Her head shakes quickly, tears trembling on her lashes. “No. Are you?”
“Not a scratch,” I grind out, brushing my thumb over her cheek before pressing a hard, grounding kiss to her forehead. I linger there, breathing her in, a prayer of thanks searing through every vein. “Stay right here. Don’t move until I tell you.”
She nods, trembling, and I push off the floor in a crouch, gun steady in my grip. Glass crunches beneath my slippers as I sweep toward the balcony, every shadow a potential threat. The air tastes like smoke, sharp and metallic, crawling against the back of my throat.
The elevator opens, and the thundering of boots pounds across the floor. My men flood in, weapons raised, dark suits and grim faces cutting through the destruction.
“Boss!” Luca’s voice slices through the chaos. He’s first through the door, followed by Rafe and three more soldiers. Their formation is perfect, every angle covered, every barrel trained on the breach.
“Clear the perimeter!” I bark, my voice a whip-crack. “I want eyes in the sky, I want every camera pulled, every second of footage locked. Whoever the fuck thought they could do this to us is not walking away.”
“Yes, Don!” echoes around me as they scatter, efficient, lethal, the way I trained them to be.
Still crouched, I pivot back, gun never lowering until I’m beside Zara again. She hasn’t moved, her body curled small against the wreckage, eyes fixed on me like I’m the only tether she has left. I lay the gun beside me on the floor, pulling her into me, shielding her again as my men secure the house. Our world has been turned upside down, but as long as she’s in my arms, no one touches her.
The chaos fades into a fragile silence—broken glass settling,boots crunching across the floor, the distant bark of orders as my men sweep the perimeter. I breathe her in once, grounding myself, but then something catches at the edge of my vision. A glint, sharp against the debris.
Lying in the middle of the floor, just past the jagged remains of the doorframe, half-buried in shards of glass and wood splinters—something small. Not a weapon. Not debris. It’s…a velvet box.
My stomach tightens. “Stay back,” I tell Zara, my voice sharp. She nods again, still crouched behind the island, shaken but alert. I kneel cautiously and reach for the box, turning it over.
When I open it, I already know it won’t be good.
Inside, nestled in black satin, is a delicate gold band.
Not just any ring—herring. The wedding band Falco’s father commissioned. I recognize the design. I’d seen it once in an intel photo, buried in the details of a dossier I’d skimmed and ignored. Because back then, I didn’t know I’d ever need to remember.
Beneath it is a folded slip of paper, off-white and lined like it came from an overpriced stationery set.
I unfold it with careful fingers.
In neat, slanted handwriting, the words stare back at me.
Enjoy her while you can.
The rage that surges through my blood is instant. Blinding.
Falco.
Only he would be arrogant enough to throw a fucking wedding band into our home. My hand clenches the note until it crumples, and I look over at Zara—still in the same spot, arms wrapped around herself, eyes locked on me like she already knows what I’ve found.
“He’s staking a claim,” I say, voice like gravel. “Sending a message.”
Her lips part, her voice hoarse. “Falco?”
I nod once, sharp and cold. “That wasn’t just a warning shot. That was him marking territory.”
I don’t say what I’m thinking, but she sees it on my face. Hethinks he still owns her. He thinks he can shake me with theatrics and sniper fire. But what he doesn’t know—what he’s about to learn—is that bringing this to our home was the wrong move.
He will die for this.
My hands are still shaking when I reach for my phone. Glass crunches beneath my shoes as I step over the wreckage, jaw clenched so tight it aches. The penthouse, my goddamn home, smells like gunpowder and violence.
