"Okay," Gio says. "We hit him from all sides. The legal angle, the press angle, and the program. We don't leave any ground for him to stand on."
"Exactly," I say. "We attack him."
"Then it's settled," Adrian says, his voice cutting through the heavy air.
He turns to Clara, offering his hand. She takes it, standing up, and the moment their fingers link, the rigid set of his shoulders softens. Declan reaches for Talia, pulling her up from the couch and into his side. She leans into him, her head fitting perfectly under his chin, the violence in his eyes settling into something protective.
"We move at dawn," Adrian says, looking at Gio. "Get some sleep. You're going to need it."
Adrian and Clara leave first, the front door clicking shut with finality. Declan follows, guiding Talia out with a hand at the small of her back. Dante and Cole don't move. They stand by the entrance, silent sentinels watching the room empty out.
Maya turns to go, but Dante shifts his weight, blocking the path just enough to make her pause.
"Stay," Dante says. It's a command.
Maya looks up at him, eyebrows raised. "Excuse me?"
"The Chronicle angle," Dante says, his voice flat. "Do it here. We have the bandwidth."
Cole glances at Dante, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he steps in. "He's right. The Wi-Fi here is encrypted. Use the den."
Maya stares at them, then at Genny. A slow, calculating smile spreads across her face.
"Fine. But if you get in my way, I'm burning the house down."
"Wouldn't expect anything less," Cole mutters.
They head toward the back hallway, Genny throwing a glance over her shoulder at Gio before disappearing. Dante and Cole watch them go, then turn back to Gio, offering a sharp, silent nod before retreating upstairs.
Then it's just us.
The living room feels huge without them, the silence rushing back in to fill the void. Gio exhales, a long, ragged sound that seems to deflate him. He runs a hand through his hair, ruining it even more.
"I thought..." He stops, shaking his head. "I thought they'd walk away."
"They're your team," I say. "That's how this works."
He looks at me, really looks at me, and the gratitude in his eyes is almost too much to bear. He steps forward, closing the distance between us, and wraps an arm around my shoulders. It's heavy, warm, and possessive. A claim made on instinct.
He pulls me into his side like the room might decide to take me from him next, like proximity is the only thing keeping his ribs from cracking open. His grip tightens once, deliberate, and my pulse answers like my body recognizes the language.
I stiffen for a split second, my body reacting to the contact before my brain catches up. Then I breathe him in—whiskey, sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline.
"You're coming with me," he mumbles against my neck.
"I'm driving you," I correct, pulling back slightly so I can see his face. "You're still drunk. And you smell like cheap vanilla and desperation."
He blinks, confused for a second, then the memory crashes into him. The blonde at the party. The distraction.
"Fuck," he says, his face twisting. "Zoë, that was—"
"A tactical error," I finish for him. "And a sensory violation. You're scrubbing that jacket before you wear it again."
He lets out a huff of laughter, the sound rusty and unused. "Yes, ma'am."
"Come on," I say, steering him toward the door. "Let's get you home before you do something else stupid."
He leans his weight on me as we walk out into the cold night air, his arm tightening around my shoulders like he's afraid I'll disappear.
