"Define alone," Milo says carefully.
"I enter the suite alone. You can have the building, the street, whatever perimeter you want. But the room is mine."
Neither of them argues. They recognize the tone. Not negotiation but notification.
"Three minutes out," Gunner says.
Three minutes to figure out how to get Sera back from a man who thinks he owns everything he touches.
The Carlisle's doorman doesn't question men who walk like they own the building. The presidential suite occupies half the top floor, space that smells like leather and old cigars, old New York money preserved in amber. Cristian answers the door himself, which tells me he's confident. Men like him only answer their own doors when they think they've already won.
"Gabriel Delgado." He says my name like he's been expecting me. "The priest."
He's younger than I expected. Twenty-three, maybe twenty-four, wearing his authority like a suit that's still being tailored. Linen shirt, no tie, the studied casualness of new money trying to look established. Dark blond hair slicked back, eyes the blue of a frozen lake, and the gym-sharp body of a man who boxes for sport not survival. He has young money energy, all polish with no depth.
Behind him, my eyes track the exits first: main door, adjoining room, floor-to-ceiling windows that don't open. Cristian's cologne is too sharp for the space, marking him as the interloper here.
Sera sits in an armchair in the living area. Alive. Unharmed. Watching.
"Markovic." I don't use his first name. Let him think I'm according him respect. "We need to discuss terms."
He steps back, gesturing me in with the expansiveness of a man playing host. Two guards flank the adjoining door. The one on the left has scarred knuckles. A fighter. The right one's stance says ex-military. Both expensive, both problems if this goes wrong.
Cristian waves them off. "Give us the room."
They disappear through the adjoining door, closing it behind them. A show of confidence or stupidity. Maybe both.
The drive sits on the coffee table between two leather chairs. Just sitting there, like it's not thirty million dollars and evidence that could topple empires. Cristian takes one chair, I take the other. Sera hasn't moved, hasn't looked directly at me since I entered. She's reading us both.
"You've come to negotiate for your woman," Cristian says, settling back with the comfort of someone who thinks he's already won.
"I've come to negotiate for Delgado interests."
He smiles at that. "Of course. The family interests. Though I have to say, sending the priest to handle this seems…" he gestures vaguely, "desperate?"
I let him think that. Let him see what he expects. The son who fled to seminary, the man who chose God over money, playing at being a prince because there's no one else to send. He's already relaxing, body language opening up. He thinks I'm manageable.
"The vault contains transaction records that implicate my family," I say, keeping my voice formal, controlled. Playing the role he's cast me in. "Those records have value to you, but they're a liability to us. I'm here to discuss how we resolve that conflict."
"Simple." He leans forward, elbows on knees. "She opens the vault, transfers everything, then provides testimony to my uncle that Julian's insurance policy is dead. You get your family's exposure contained. I get what was stolen from us. Everyone wins."
His eyes slide to Sera when he says it, possessive, like she's part of the assets being discussed.
"And her?" I ask.
"The widow inherits everything, doesn't she? The assets, the obligations…" He lets the implication hang, smiling like we're sharing a secret. "Julian understood that. I'm sure you do too, Father."
He's still smiling, still relaxed, still completely misreading what's happening in this room.
"Though I have to say," he continues, eyes still on Sera, "Julian had excellent taste. Even in her current state, you can see what he saw. She’s stunning."
The words land exactly wrong. Not tactically wrong. Personally wrong. He's talking about her the way Julian talked about her. As inventory.
Something inside me goes very quiet.
The quiet isn't empty. It's full. Eight years of suppressed violence condensing into clarity.
I stand. Cross the room. My movements are deliberate, unhurried. This isn't passion overflowing. I know what that feels like. That's what happened with Elena, control gone, hands moving without thought. This is different. This is choice.
