He doesn't walk toward me. He walks to the massive, stainless-steel refrigerator, opens it, and pulls out a white cardboard box. He sets it on the counter.
"I ordered from a place in the West Loop a few hours ago," he says, opening a drawer to pull out a plate. "I anticipated you would eventually realize human beings require food to function."
I stare at the box. "You bought me dinner?"
"I bought excess food," he corrects smoothly, transferring two large slices of pizza onto the plate. "It’s a logistical precaution."
"Pizza. You eat pizza." I lean against the counter, genuinely thrown. "I figured you only consumed raw steaks and the tears of your enemies."
Malcolm places the plate in the microwave. "I prefer the tears with a light vinaigrette, actually. The pizza is for you."
A laugh punches out of my throat before I can stop it. It’s a short, exhausted sound, but it echoes in the quiet kitchen.
Malcolm turns to look at me. The microwave hums quietly in the background, but the silence between us starts to feel very loud. He watches me with that same dark, calculating intensity he had in the bar, but there’s something else underneath it now. Something heavy.
I look away first, focusing on the digital timer on the microwave. "Thank you. For the food."
"Don't thank me for basic necessities, Audrey," he says quietly.
The microwave beeps. Malcolm pulls the plate out and slides it across the marble island toward the empty stool next to him. He doesn't tell me to sit, but the implication is clear.
I hesitate. Sitting next to him in the dark feels like crossing an invisible boundary. But the smell of melted cheese and basil hits my nose, and my stomach makes the decision for me.
I walk over, pull the stool out, and sit down.
Malcolm doesn't go back to his tablet. He leans against the counter, crossing his arms, and watches me eat.
It’s incredibly unnerving.
I take a bite. It’s easily the best pizza I’ve ever had, which only annoys me because of course Malcolm Vance’s leftover takeout is spectacular. I eat the first slice in embarrassing silence, trying not to look like a feral animal while a billionaire observes me.
"So," I say, wiping my mouth with a paper napkin to break the tension. "Transparency."
Malcolm tilts his head. "What about it?"
"You said we don't lie to each other in this apartment. Those are the rules." I pick up the second slice, resting my elbows on the counter. "I want to test the system."
"Go ahead."
I chew on the inside of my cheek for a second, organizing the question. "Why do you hate Simon so much? I understand why I want to destroy him. He stole my company. He humiliated me. But he’s your brother. Even if he’s a terrible person, families usually protect their own. Why are you handing me the matches?"
Malcolm doesn't answer right away. He looks down at the marble counter, his thumb tracing a faint vein in the stone.
For a moment, I think he’s going to refuse to answer. I think he’s going to pull rank, tell me it’s none of my business, and remind me that I’m just an employee in this revenge plot.
"My father," Malcolm begins, his voice lower than before, "believes that power is a zero-sum game. In order for you to have it, someone else must lose it. He raised Simon and me like dogs in a fighting pit."
I stop chewing. I put the pizza down.
"Simon learned very early that he didn't have the stomach for the actual violence," Malcolm continues, his eyes lifting to meet mine. They are entirely devoid of warmth. "So he learned to manipulate. He learned to steal. And whenever he made a mistake—whenever he ruined a deal, or wrecked a car, or destroyed a person—my father would send me to clean it up."
"You’re his fixer," I murmur, remembering what Vivian told me.
"I am the garbage man," Malcolm corrects, a bitter edge bleeding into his tone. "I bury the bodies so Simon can keep his handsclean. For a long time, I accepted it. It was the role I was built for."
He shifts his weight, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly under the crossed posture.
"But three years ago, Simon wanted a piece of commercial real estate in the South Side. The owner refused to sell. It was a family business. Simon didn't want to negotiate, so he forged the zoning permits and had the city condemn the building. The owner lost everything. He had a heart attack two weeks later."
