"And you're not drinking enough." I take another pull, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I slam the bottle down on the marble island. "You need a clear head? I need to forget what Marco Vitelli’s face looked like."
"Forgetting won't help us find who did it."
"I don't want to find them right now. I want to kill them. There's a difference."
Alessandro walks around the island. He stops three feet from me. He smells of rain and expensive soap and gun oil—a confusing, heady mix that shouldn't work but does. He reaches out, his hand hovering near the bottle.
"Put it down, Killian."
"Don't." I step back, gripping the neck of the bottle like a club. "Don't manage me. Don't handle me. I am not one of your assets."
"I am not trying to manage you. I am trying to keep you functional." His voice drops, hardening. "We are in the middle of an active threat. We are being hunted. If you drink yourself into a stupor, you are useless to me. You are useless to your brother."
The mention of Rory hits me like a slap.
"Don't you talk about him," I snarl. "You don't get to say his name. You’re the reason he’s in this. If I hadn't married you, if I hadn't signed your fucking contract, he would be safe."
"If you hadn't signed the contract, the Bratva would have swallowed your territory six months ago and Rory would be dead in a ditch." Alessandro’s eyes flash. "Do not rewrite history to suit your guilt. You made a choice. Live with it."
The truth of it cuts deep. It finds the soft rot of shame in my chest and tears it open.
I hate him for it. I hate him for being right. I hate him for standing there, beautiful and cold and untouchable, telling me that my guilt is a luxury I can't afford.
"You think you’re so superior," I whisper. I set the bottle down. My hands are empty now. My hands are shaking. "You sit in your tower and move pieces around a board. You don't bleed. You don't feel."
"I feel plenty," he says quietly. "I just don't let it control me."
"Is that right?"
I move.
It’s not a conscious decision. It’s a reflex. A need to break something.
I close the distance between us in two strides. I grab the front of his turtleneck, fisting the expensive wool, and I shove him backward.
He hits the edge of the counter hard. The impact jars a breath out of him, but he doesn't fight. He doesn't struggle. He grips my wrists, his fingers digging in, anchoring himself.
"You want to see control?" I growl, my face inches from his. "I could snap your neck right now. I could crush your windpipewith one hand. And all your money, all your strategy, all your fucking discipline wouldn't stop me."
"Then do it."
The challenge hangs in the air between us.
He isn't afraid. That’s the thing that drives me mad. He looks up at me with those dark, depthless eyes, and he isn't afraid. He’s waiting. He’s curious.
"You won't," he whispers.
"Why? Because of the truce? Because of the contract?"
"Because you aren't a monster, Killian. You just want everyone to think you are."
I let go of his shirt.
My hand sweeps across the counter. It finds the knife block.
I pull the chef's knife. Eight inches of German steel. The blade sings as it leaves the wood block.
I slam it down.
