He nods. A slow, grim nod.
"Go get changed," he says. "Wear something black. And bring the Beretta."
I turn to leave. I stop at the door.
"Killian."
He looks up.
"The knot work on your back," I say. "It's impressive."
He touches his shoulder, surprised. "It's the family crest. Deconstructed."
"It suits you."
I walk away before he can respond.
I go to my room. I strip off the shirt and trousers. I dress in black tactical gear—pants with reinforced knees, a fitted thermal shirt, heavy boots. I strap the holster to my waist. I check the load.
I look in the mirror.
The bruise on my neck is visible. A dark purple mark against the pale skin.
I trace it with my finger.
I don't cover it this time.
I walk out into the hall. Killian is waiting. He’s wearing black jeans and a dark hoodie, his leather jacket over it. He looks like a shadow.
We walk to the elevator.
We don't speak. We don't need to.
We are walking into a trap. We both know it. The invitation on the phone was too easy to find, the cipher too specific. Someone wants us at that smelting plant.
But for the first time, we are walking in together.
Side by side.
Into the dark.
Chapter Twelve
KILLIAN
Alessandroin a tactical vest is a problem I wasn't briefed on.
He walks out of the master bedroom carrying the vest draped over one arm like it’s a suit jacket he picked up from the dry cleaner. He is wearing a black t-shirt that fits him the way his suits fit him—precisely, intentionally, as if his body is a variable he's solved for. Except the suit hides things. The t-shirt doesn't. Without the armor of bespoke tailoring, the architecture of him is visible—lean, defined, the kind of musculature that doesn't announce itself but becomes apparent when the fabric moves. Shoulders broader than the suits suggest. Forearms corded with tendon.
He pulls the vest over his head. Adjusts the velcro straps at the sides. The sound—rrrip-snap—is loud in the quiet hallway. He slots the Beretta into a holster mounted on the front panel instead of his hip—a tactical configuration that tells me he's trained for this specific loadout and isn't improvising.
The turtleneck is gone. In its place, the black t-shirt exposes his throat, and the bruise I left there has faded to a faint yellow-green shadow that's barely visible unless you know where to look.
I know where to look. I can't stop looking.
"You own a tactical vest," I say.
"I own several." He checks the magazine on the Beretta. Ejects it. Checks the load. Seats it back with a solidclick. He racks the slide, chambering a round with that same fluid, practiced motion that rewired my understanding of him two nights ago. "The one Rocco prefers for me has ceramic plate inserts. Level IV protection. This one is Kevlar only. Lighter. Better for mobility."
