Felix doesn’t deny it. He stands there watching me with pale eyes that give away nothing while my entire foundation crumbles.
Ethan died because he asked the wrong questions. Because he traced money through shell corporations and maritime logistics and political channels that connected back to men who operate above consequences.
Felix—who’s been inside my apartment, who watched me sleep, who pulled me from that van with blood on his knuckles—knew it was going to happen and allowed it.
“Why?” The word barely makes it past the tightness in my throat. “Why didn’t you stop it?”
“Stopping it would have required going to war with Sartore over a journalist who wouldn’t have stopped digging even if we’d warned him.” His voice remains level, clinical. “Your brother made his choices. Those choices had consequences.”
The casual dismissal of Ethan’s life—reducing his death to consequences and choices—ignites something white-hot inside me. I cross the space between us and shove both hands against his chest, hard enough that he has to shift his stance.
“He was a person,” I spit out, shoving him again when he doesn’t move. “He had a family, a life, work that mattered—and you let them kill him because it was inconvenient to intervene.”
Felix catches my wrists before I can strike a third time, his grip firm but controlled. “Your brother was digging into operations he didn’t understand, threatening exposure that would have destabilized multiple territories. Sartore handled him. I didn’t stop it because the alternative was worse.”
“Worse than murder?” Tears are streaming now, hot and angry. “What could possibly be worse?”
“War.” He pulls me closer, our faces inches apart, his breath warm against my forehead. “Open conflict between Bratva and Sartore that would have killed dozens, destroyed carefully built protections, and ended with your brother dead anyway. At least this way the damage was contained.”
The logic is monstrous. I wrench against his hold, but his fingers tighten around my wrists.
“Let go of me.”
“Not until you stop trying to hurt yourself as much as me.” His voice drops lower, something shifting beneath the control. “You want to be angry? Be angry. You want to hate me? I’ll give you plenty of reasons. Destroying yourself to prove a point accomplishes nothing except making you easier to control.”
The energy between us shifts abruptly—anger bleeding into something more volatile and dangerous. We’re standing too close, breathing too hard, the heat from his body seeping through the thin fabric of my sweater. His eyes drop briefly to my mouth before snapping back up, and I feel the moment awareness crashes into both of us simultaneously.
This isn’t just anger. It’s something darker, more complicated, edged with the kind of tension that makes my pulse spike for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
His grip on my wrists loosens slightly, thumbs brushing against the inside of my forearms where my pulse hammers visibly. The touch is almost gentle, incongruous with everything else about this situation.
I should pull away. Should put distance between us before this tips into something I can’t take back.
I don’t move. Neither does he.
Our faces hover dangerously close, breath mingling in the shrinking space between us. I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the barely perceptible tension in the muscle there, the way his pupils have dilated despite the bright overhead lighting.
Neither of us initiates the kiss. Or at least, someone does, but I don’t know who.
The moment stretches, taut and unbearable, until Felix releases my wrists and steps back deliberately. The loss of contact feels abrupt, leaving my skin cold where his hands were.
“Eat something,” he says, his voice rougher than before. “I’ll have fresh food sent up.”
He turns and walks toward the door without waiting for a response, movements controlled but less fluid than usual. At the threshold he pauses, one hand braced against the frame.
“Your brother’s death wasn’t random,” he says without turning around. “It wasn’t painless, but it was quick. Sartore gave him that much, at least.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
I stand alone in the center of the room, tears drying on my cheeks, pulse still racing from proximity that should never have happened. My wrists ache faintly where he held them, a phantom pressure that lingers even after he’s gone.
Twenty minutes later, a new tray arrives. I stare at it for a long time before finally sitting down and forcing myself to eat.
Chapter Nine - Felix
The Neon Nights Club sits on the thirty-second floor of a building that’s hosted closed-door political negotiations since before I was born. Glass walls overlook the financial district, polished marble floors amplify every footstep into significance, and the guest list reads like a directory of people who shape policy from rooms the public will never see.
I arrive ten minutes late—calculated to avoid the initial networking chaos.
