"That’s... that’s my grandfather’s signature."
"I know."
"I didn't do it."
"I know."
He looks at me, surprised. "You believe me?"
"The coin was placed wrong," I say. "It was on the tongue, not under it. And the killer was left-handed."
Killian lets out a breath he’s been holding. "Fuck. Someone is trying to frame me."
"Someone is trying to start a war," I correct. "They killed my man to provoke a response. They want us at each other’s throats."
He reaches into his pocket. Pulls out his phone. He slides it across the counter toward me.
"Look at this."
I pick it up. It’s an image. A surveillance photo of Rory, walking down the street. Smiling. Unaware.
"I got this today," Killian says. His voice is tight. "From a burner number. No message. Just the picture."
I process this. The coin. The photo. The escalation. It’s a coordinated attack. Psychological warfare.
"They're targeting us," I say. "Both of us."
"They know Rory is my weakness. And they know your family will retaliate for the driver." Killian runs a hand through his hair. "If my father sees this photo, he’ll panic. If your brother finds out about the coin, he’ll come for me."
"Rocco already wants to kill you," I say. "I stopped him. For now."
Killian looks at me. "Why?"
"Because you didn't do it. And because if we fight each other, we lose."
I walk around the island until I am standing in front of him. The space between us is charged, but not with the same heat as last night. This is different. This is the cold clarity of survival.
"We have a problem, Killian," I say.
"Yeah. We do."
"If we don't find out who is doing this, we are both dead. The truce will shatter. The families will go to war. And Volkov will pick up the pieces."
Killian stares at me. I can see the gears turning in his head. He’s angry. He’s scared for his brother. But he’s listening.
"So what do we do?" he asks.
"We stop fighting each other," I say. "And we find the person who is trying to destroy us."
Killian looks at the photo of Rory on the counter. He looks at the bruise on my neck, barely visible above the collar of my sweater.
"You really think we can trust each other?" he asks.
"I think we don't have a choice."
I hold out my hand.
He looks at it. He remembers the last time we shook hands, at the altar. He remembers what happened after. The violence. The shame.
