"Nice cage," he says. His voice is low and carries the rasp of the whiskey and something underneath it—an observation so precise it cuts.
I press the panel. The lock engages with a sound that is barely audible—a soft, mechanical click that carries the weight of finality.
We are alone.
I remove my jacket. Fold it. Place it over the back of the nearest chair. Each motion deliberate. Each motion a statement:This is my territory. These are my rituals. You are in my world now.
"The bedroom is down the hall," I say. "The guest room is the second door on the left. I trust you can find it."
His mouth curves. It is not a smile. It is the barest shift of muscle, a micro-expression that carries more threat than any bared teeth could.
"Guest room," he repeats. "In my own marriage."
"In my home."
The correction lands between us, and neither of us moves. The city glitters beyond the glass. The lock holds. And the war that both our fathers started settles into the architecture of this room—into the space between us, into the silence, into the fifteen feet of polished concrete that might as well be a no-man's-land, mined and impassable.
His eyes hold mine. The green burns.
I do not look away.
Chapter Five
ALESSANDRO
The car ride is silent.
It is a silence that has texture. Grit. We sit on opposite sides of the leather bench seat, the partition raised, the city blurring past the tinted windows in streaks of rain-slicked neon. Killian is pressed against the door, staring out at the darkness. His leg bounces—a rapid, erratic rhythm that vibrates through the chassis of the car.
He is radiating heat. The car smells of him—musk, sweat, alcohol. It’s suffocating. I crack the window an inch, letting the cold damp air of the city hiss into the cabin.
He turns his head.
"Too real for you?" he asks. His voice is rough, damaged by the whiskey.
"The air is stale."
"You’re stale." He shifts, sprawling his legs until his knee knocks against mine. He doesn't pull back. He leaves it there, a heavy,intrusive point of contact. "You sit there like you’re made of ice. Do you even bleed, Falcone? Or is it just hydraulic fluid inside?"
I look at his knee, then up at his face. "I bleed when it’s necessary. Tonight, I prefer to keep the upholstery clean."
He stares at me. His eyes drop to my mouth, then to my hands folded in my lap. He looks at me with a mix of hunger and revulsion that is more unsettling than the anger.
"We’ll see," he mutters.
The car stops. My building. The glass tower that has been my sanctuary for five years.
We walk through the lobby in silence. I ignore the night staff. I ignore the security cameras. I am focused entirely on the heavy, brooding presence following me.
The elevator ride is short. The doors open directly into the penthouse.
Killian steps inside. He stops in the center of the living room, turning in a slow circle. He takes in the floor-to-ceiling glass, the white leather furniture, the absolute, sterile order of my life.
"Nice cage," he says.
"It’s a home."
"It’s a museum." He walks to the window and looks down at the city sixty stories below. "Can’t even open a window, can you? Just hermetically sealed with your money."
