“Copy that.”
I end the call and let my head fall back against the leather seat.
“Anything you need from me?” Kon reaches out and bumps a light fist against my shoulder. “All you have to do is give the word. I know how to get information too.”
I nod. Kon’s specialty is death. “I might have to take you up on that. Let’s put a pin in it for now. Good? Let Luca do some snooping so we know what we are working with.”
“Fair enough.”
The car is moving now, sliding through Chicago's streets toward Redthorne Holdings, and I watch the lights blur past the window like scattered stars.
Katriana Bellrose.
I can still smell her. Vanilla and cotton, something simple and clean that cut through the cloying perfume of Scarlet Thorn like a blade through silk. I can still feel the softness of her arms when I steadied her, the delicate bones of her shoulder beneath my palm. I can still see the way her glasses slipped down her nose when she collided with me, the way her eyes went wide with recognition and something that might have been fear.
She knew who I was. I saw it in her face, the moment the pieces clicked into place. Jonah's older brother. The silver-haired devil who watched from the edges of family dinners, never quite part of the festivities but always present. She remembers me.
And I remember her. Every goddamn moment I've spent in her presence is etched into my memory like scripture burned into stone.
The car pulls up to Redthorne Holdings, and I step out into the night air. Scaffolding clings to the east facade, and there are sections of the upper floors still being rebuilt. Magnus Sterling tried to burn my world to the ground. He failed.
But the scars remain.
The building still shows signs of repair inside and out from the explosions that happened a year ago. Rafael doesn’t trust anyone and every person that comes into the building is scrutinized so hard they end up quitting. At this rate, it might take another year to get the place fixed.
“I’ll be up in a bit. Gotta check in with Rowan.” Kon and I grip hands and bump shoulders.
“Head on a swivel.”
“You too, Brother.”
I leave Kon to go his way and I take the private elevator to the executive floor, watching the numbers climb in silence. My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored walls. Forty-six years old, silver-haired, built like a dock worker despite the expensive suit. I look tired tonight. I feel tired.
The doors open and I step out into the hushed efficiency of Redthorne after hours. Damaris has already gone home, her desk neat and organized, ready for tomorrow's chaos. But the light in Sienna's office is still on, and I catch a glimpse of her through the glass, her dark hair falling across her face as she studies something on her computer screen.
Good worker, Sienna Cole. Rafael's secondary executive secretary, handling the overflow while Damaris manages the truly sensitive matters. She's been with us for two years, polished and professional, never asking questions she shouldn't ask. I make a mental note to check in with her tomorrow and make sure she's not burning out.
I'm halfway to my office when I hear it. A sound that stops me in my tracks and sends something sharp and painful through my chest.
Laughter.
Not just any laughter. Rafael's laugh, deep and warm, the kind of sound I haven't heard from him in years. And underneath it comes a softer laugh that I recognize immediately.
Persia.
I follow the sound without meaning to, my feet carrying me toward Rafael's office. The door is open, warm light spilling into the hallway, and I stop in the doorway to watch a scene that makes my chest ache with something I don't want to name.
Rafael is standing by the window, his daughter cradled against his chest. Sofia Elena is four months old. She’s tiny and perfect all wrapped up in a blanket the color of fresh cream. Persia is beside him, one hand on his arm, the other reaching up to brush a strand of violet hair from her face. The way they lean into each other, the way their bodies curve together like two halves of the same whole, speaks of intimacy so profound it makes my throat tight.
This is what they have. This warmth. This belonging. This certainty that someone in the world sees them, knows them, chooses them above all others.
I want this.
The admission hits me like a fist to the chest, stealing my breath. I've spent forty-six years building an empire, crushing enemies, making men twice my size flinch with a look. I've accumulated wealth and power beyond anything my mother could have imagined when she was scrubbing floors at three in the morning to keep her boys fed.
But I've never had this.
I've never had someone look at me the way Persia looks at Rafael. I've never held a child who carries my blood, my legacy, my mother's eyes in a new generation. I've never come home to warmth instead of silence, to soft skin and softer laughter instead of an empty penthouse that echoes with the footsteps of a man walking alone.
