He takes it anyway. His grip is firm. Rough. His hand engulfs mine.
"Okay," he says. "Truce."
"Truce."
"Let’s find them," he says, his voice dropping to a growl. "And let’s kill them."
And for the first time since the wedding, I believe him.
Chapter Eight
KILLIAN
"Why wasthe coin on the teeth?"
The question sits between us on the cold marble of the kitchen island, precise and strange, like a scalpel left on a dinner table.
I stop breathing for a second. The glass of whiskey I poured—the Redbreast, twelve years old, smooth enough to make you forget why you're drinking it—is halfway to my mouth. I lower it slowly, setting it back down on the stone with a softclinkthat sounds too loud in the quiet penthouse.
Alessandro is watching me from the other side of the island. The city light cuts across his face, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw and the dark, unreadable intelligence in his eyes. He is wearing a black turtleneck that covers his throat—covers the mark I left there last night—and he looks composed, bloodless. He doesn't look angry. He looks like he’s waiting for the solution to a math problem he’s already solved.
"What?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.
"My driver," he says, his voice level. "Marco Vitelli. He was found this morning with a 1966 Irish pound in his mouth. Yourgrandfather's signature. But the coin was sitting on top of the teeth. Visible. Displayed." He leans forward, placing his hands flat on the cold marble. "Why would you put it there?"
"I wouldn't."
The answer comes out instantaneous, instinctive. It bypasses the part of my brain that’s still wary of him and goes straight to the part that protects my family’s history.
"Why?" he presses.
"Because the coin pays the toll," I say, my voice dropping. I step closer to the island, invading his space just enough to test his reaction. He doesn't flinch. "It goes under the tongue. Sublingual. If you put it on the teeth, the ferryman can't find it. It’s a ritual, Alessandro. It’s not a billboard."
Alessandro exhales. It’s a short, sharp sound, almost like satisfaction. The tension in his shoulders drops a fraction of an inch.
"Exactly," he says.
The atmosphere in the room shifts. It doesn't disappear—there is still a dead man between us, and a surveillance photo of my brother burning a hole in my pocket—but the angle of attack has changed. He isn't accusing me. He’s verifying his own deduction.
"You knew," I say, the realization hitting me like a physical weight. I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles ache. "You knew I didn't do it before I walked in the door."
"I knew the evidence was inconsistent with your profile," Alessandro corrects. He moves to the wall panel and taps it. The kitchen floods with soft, recessed light, banishing the shadows that had been hiding his face. In the sudden brightness, I seethe fatigue around his eyes, the tightness in his jaw. "Your grandfather's method is documented in the FBI files. Sublingual placement. The killer who murdered Marco didn't do the reading. They went for the theatrical instead of the ritual."
"So you were testing me."
"I was checking your reaction," Alessandro says, his voice flat. "A guilty man would have lied about the placement to cover his tracks. You corrected me."
I stare at him. Most men would have met me with a gun or a fist after finding their driver tortured to death with my calling card. Alessandro Falcone met me with a trick question about how my grandfather liked to position his victims.
It’s terrifyingly efficient.
"A coin on the teeth," I mutter, running a hand over my face. "It’s a costume. Someone dressed up a hit to look like a Kavanagh job."
"And they timed it to coincide with the photo you received," Alessandro adds. "Marco was killed during the night. The photo was sent this morning. It’s a coordinated destabilization campaign."
"The Russians."
"Almost certainly. They benefit most from a war between our families."
