Volkov sits in his chair, bruised and restrained, delivering a prophecy.
Killian’s hand finds the small of my back. The touch is light. Steady.
I'm here.
I look at Volkov. At the grey eyes that have seen the architecture we haven't encountered yet.
"Then we'll be ready," I say.
Volkov’s mouth curves. Not a smile. Recognition.
"Perhaps you will," he says. "Perhaps."
The word hangs in the basement like smoke. Dissipating slowly. Carrying the residue of everything that comes next.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
KILLIAN
The penthouse is ours.
Not Falcone's. Not the cage that was assigned to the political marriage. Ours. The word has changed meaning so many times in the past nine days that it should be exhausted. But standing in the foyer with the city burning beyond the glass—our city, our skyline—the word feels like it's just waking up.
Alessandro walks to the bar. His stride carries the authority of the boardroom—the new Don, the Prince who stopped pretending. But his hands, when they reach for the bottle, carry a tremor. Barely visible. The aftershock of a man who forced his father into exile three hours ago and hasn't stopped moving since.
He pulls a bottle from the back. Macallan 25. The seal is unbroken.
He cracks the seal. Pours two measures. Slides one across the bar to me.
I take it. The crystal is heavy. The liquid is deep amber, the color of the floodlights in the shipyard.
"To the new order," Alessandro says.
"To us."
The glasses touch. A single, clean note. We drink. The scotch is warm, smooth, complex. This is what victory tastes like. Not clean satisfaction, but a layered thing, sweet and sharp, with a burn that lingers.
Alessandro sets his glass down. He looks at me. The dark eyes are carrying everything the tremor in his hands suggested—the weight, the cost, the exhaustion of a man who has been operating at maximum capacity for nine days and is now standing in the quiet aftermath.
"You're shaking," I say.
"I'm aware."
"Come here."
He rounds the bar. I catch him, my hands on his waist, pulling him into me. His forehead drops to my shoulder. The weight of him—the man who outmaneuvered three patriarchs—settles against me. I bear it. It’s the only weight I've ever wanted to carry.
His breathing slows against my neck. His hands find my back, palms flat, holding on like a man holding a fixed point in a current.
He lifts his head. His eyes are different. The tremor is gone. The Prince is gone. The man underneath wants something the empire can't provide.
"Bedroom," he says.
The word is a command. Quiet. Absolute.
My body responds before my mind can. Compliance. Obedience. The combination sends a current through my nervous system that settles, hot and heavy, at the base of my spine.
The bedroom. The same bed. The sheets have been changed. The space has been cleaned. The evidence of our first night has been erased.
