Audrey laughs, shaking her head as she walks toward the hallway to grab her coat.
I stand in the kitchen, watching her.
The silence in the penthouse is completely gone. It has been replaced by the sound of her voice, the rustle of her blueprints, and the heavy, undeniable reality of a future I never thought I would have.
I pull my phone out one last time. I open the secure email, type a single word in response to the Department of Defense, and hit send.
Acknowledged.
I slide the phone back into my pocket.
The Devil of Chicago is dead.
But the man who took his place is infinitely more dangerous. Because this time, I am not fighting to protect a legacy.
I am fighting to protect an empire I built myself.
CHAPTER 35
EPILOGUE
AUDREY
The penthouse is loud.
It isn't a chaotic, overwhelming noise. It is the steady, vibrant sound of a space that is actually being lived in. The massive floor-to-ceiling windows are open, letting the warm June breeze drift in from Lake Michigan. A playlist Vivian sent me is playing softly from the wireless speakers in the ceiling, the bass thumping a steady rhythm against the poured concrete floor.
I am sitting on the charcoal gray sofa, my legs tucked underneath me.
There are currently five throw pillows scattered across the cushions. Two of them are the obnoxious mustard yellow ones I bought the week after the courthouse wedding. The other three are a deep, geometric teal.
I rest my laptop on my knees, staring at the 3D rendering of a commercial high-rise in the West Loop.
Apex Architecture is officially fourteen months old. We have outgrown the temporary office space I leased last year. Grant is currently coordinating a move to a massive, open-concept loft three blocks away, complete with a reinforced security perimeter that Malcolm personally designed.
I highlight a structural column on the screen, adding a note for the engineering team, and hit save.
I close the laptop, setting it down on the black steel coffee table.
I stretch my arms over my head, letting out a long, satisfied exhale. The dull ache at the base of my neck is completely gone. I don't calculate the cost of martini olives anymore. I don't check my bank account to see if I can afford groceries. I don't look over my shoulder when I walk down the street.
The war is over.
Preston Vance is currently serving the first year of a twenty-year sentence in a federal penitentiary in Marion. Simon took the plea deal. He is in a minimum-security camp in Pennsylvania. The Vance holding company was dismantled, the assets liquidated to pay off the massive federal fines.
The media spent three months dissecting the fall of the empire. They tried to drag me into it. They tried to drag Malcolm into it.
But Malcolm’s new company—Vanguard Logistics—secured a massive, highly classified contract with the Department of Defense exactly one week after Preston was indicted. The federal government quietly, but very firmly, suggested to the press that the CEO of Vanguard was no longer a civilian target for gossip blogs.
The paparazzi vanished overnight.
I stand up from the sofa, my bare feet silent against the hardwood floor.
I walk toward the kitchen island. The marble counter is covered in a chaotic mix of my drafting pencils, Malcolm’s encrypted hard drives, and two empty coffee mugs from this morning.
I pick up the mugs, carrying them to the sink.
As I turn the water on, I hear the heavy, familiar sound of the private elevator chiming in the foyer.
