I stare at him. My chest feels tight, like the air in the room is too thin to breathe.
"Predictable," I say. "You think that was predictable?"
"I think you are a man of limited coping mechanisms," he says calmly. "And violence is the only language you speak fluently."
The insult is precise. It cuts deep, finding the exact place where my self-loathing lives.
"I expected you to fight," I say. The words come out before I can stop them.
"And give you the satisfaction of a struggle?" He tilts his head slightly. "No. I don't fight battles I cannot win, Killian. I manage the outcome."
He turns the tablet around so I can see the screen. It’s a spreadsheet. A grid of times and dates.
"This is the schedule," he says. "Monday through Friday, we maintain separate operations. I work from here or the Falcone offices. You report to your family. We do two public appearances a month to satisfy the families."
I look at the screen. Colored blocks. Times. Dates. He has mapped out our life together like a corporate merger.
"You made a spreadsheet," I say.
"I made operational parameters." He points to a column. "Weekends are discretionary. The penthouse is shared space, but the master bedroom is mine. The guest room is yours. I will not enter your space without notice, and I expect the same courtesy."
Courtesy.
I almost laugh. It’s hysterical. He’s drawing lines on a map after I just nuked the territory.
"You think this fixes it?" I ask, my voice rising. I lean over the island, planting my hands on the cool marble. "You think a schedule wipes the slate clean? You think you can just laminate over what happened?"
"I think," he says, his voice dropping an octave, "that what happened last night revealed more about you than it did about me. And I think we both know it."
He holds my gaze. He doesn't blink.
The words are a blade, sliding effortlessly between my ribs. He knows. He knows I did it because I was weak. He knows I did it because I was terrified of the silence between us. And he isn't afraid of me. He pities me.
I look at him—at the turtleneck hiding the bruise, at the steady hands holding the coffee mug—and I realize that Rory was right. Alessandro Falcone isn't a victim. He’s a fortress. And I just threw myself against the walls and didn't even leave a scratch.
I am the one bleeding.
I push off the counter. "You're sick."
"I am efficient." He turns the tablet back to himself. "Your driver is waiting downstairs. I suggest you go. You look like you need to hit something, and I would prefer it not be my furniture."
I turn around and walk out.
I can't be in this room. I can't look at him. Every second I spend in his presence makes me feel smaller, dirtier.
I grab my leather jacket from the guest room. I don't pack the suit. I leave it there on the floor. Let the maid burn it.
I head for the elevator. My hand is shaking when I hit the button.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Rory.
I stare at the screen. I can't talk to him. Not now. Not when I feel like this. But if I don't answer, he’ll panic. He’s probably been up all night tracking my location.
I answer it as the elevator doors slide shut, sealing me in the steel box.
"Kill."
