I reach around and grab his throat. I squeeze.
"Look at me," I demand.
He turns his head. His face is flushed, sweaty. His eyes are wild.
I kiss him. Hard. Messy. Our tongues tangle.
I feel the edge approaching.
"Alessandro," I roar.
I drive into him one last time, hitting deep inside. I come with a force that shakes my whole body. I pour myself into him, emptying everything—the hate, the fear, the pain.
He comes too, his seed spilling onto the table, a white mess on the dark wood.
I collapse against his back. I hold him. I listen to his heart racing.
We stay there for a long time. The studio is silent except for our breathing.
Eventually, I pull out. I help him stand. I pull his pants up.
I turn him around. I cup his face.
"You are the only truth I have left," I say.
He leans his forehead against mine.
"Then we protect it," he whispers. "We protect each other. And we burn the rest down."
I look at him.
"Thirty-six hours," I say.
"We bring the document," he says. "We bring the evidence."
"And we walk in as the new leadership."
"Us," he says. "On our terms."
I kiss him again. Gentle this time.
We are going to destroy our fathers. We are going to face Volkov.
And we are going to do it together.
Side by side.
Chapter Twenty-Three
ALESSANDRO
The plan hasseven moving parts.
I need all seven to fire in sequence, with zero margin for deviation, in a penthouse that was designed as a cage and is about to become a kill box.
I lay it out on Rory's drafting table. The surface is scarred wood, stained with ink and the memory of what happened here three hours ago. Killian braces his palms against the edge, his weight forward, his jaw tight. He is watching me map out the destruction of everything he has ever known.
"Seamus is the fulcrum," I say. "He is the bridge between our fathers' old arrangement and Volkov's current operation. He was supposed to manage the Russian relationship—keep it contained, keep it useful. He failed. Or Volkov outmaneuvered him."
