-Lucien.
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From what I've heard, Sandro's been tearing up the city, asking all the wrong people all the right questions. Someone slipped past his guards, past his cameras, right into the soft underbelly of his pride—and he's unraveling by the thread.
And knowing him the way I do, I know where his mind will land.
He'll think of me.
He'll say my name before he says anyone else's. Not because he's sure, but because he's petty. Because he knows I'd do it. Because I've done worse. Because even when I'm not playing his game, I'm still the name that makes his hands itch.
So I've started thinking—not if, but when. When he stops throwing tantrums in expensive hallways and finally decides to act like the man he pretends to be. When the games end and something real begins.
But Sandro doesn't come for your head first. He comes for what you've quietly grown fond of. The things you tried not to name.
Which brings me to Reed.
Funny thing is—he was never supposed to be anything. Not to me.
One of a thousand ridiculous messages I had Daniel send out as part of a laundering pipeline disguised as a desperate prince in exile. The template was written in a castle. The wording was intentionally absurd. A last-ditch experiment to test how far sarcasm could stretch before someone took the bait.
I told myself it was just to observe. To entertain a curiosity. And when I saw him—half-wrecked and beautiful in a way that didn't try to be—I thought, yes, this one. This one will do.
He was supposed to be a buffer. A name on paper. A pretty thing to tuck between me and the mud. A joke that wouldn't laugh back.
But then he didn't just laugh—he started fixing things.
He questioned my systems. He adjusted my invoices. He noticed patterns in shell accounts I'd stopped looking at. He made it all better and more dangerous at the same time.
I told myself I was using him. That letting him stay close was strategic. That the way I hovered when he worked, the way I breathed easier when he was in the room—meant nothing.
But now?
Now he's the one they defer to when I'm gone. Now he's the one they rely on to organize meetings, correct statements, issue directives. They've tied his name to accounts I don't even touch anymore. He's in the spine of the operation now—woven through it in ways I didn't authorize, but didn't stop.
And the worst part? I think I'm relieved.
Because Reed is the only part of this mess that feels alive. And that makes him invaluable. It also makes him vulnerable.
If Sandro knew what Reed meant to me now—what he became to me, not in strategy but in feeling—he wouldn't attack our front. He'd go straight for the heart.
And Reed Mercer, the boy who replied to a fake prince with a joke, would become the very real casualty of a war he was never meant to enter.
The afternoon sun spilled across the office floor, unapologetic and warm, painting golden lines over the cold steel and sterile polish. I didn't bother adjusting the blinds. Let it in. Let it drench every cold surface, every silent, haunted corner. Maybe it could warm the places guilt couldn't reach.
A knock on the door.
Margo, holding her ever-present tablet like it was an extension of her arm.
"I come bearing a message," she said dryly, already unimpressed.
I raised an eyebrow. "From?"
She squinted slightly at the screen. "Just one word. 'Truce?'"
My expression flattened. "That's it?"
"That's all that was in the message," she confirmed, scrolling as if searching for a punchline. There wasn't one.
"And the sender?"
"Unknown," she said, then gave me a look. "But you and I both know who it is."
I sighed. "Damien."
The name we used outside the inner circle. Safer. Easier. The version of Sandro that wore better in civilian conversation.
"Yup," she replied with a nod that could've sliced glass.
I laughed—despite myself, despite everything. "Truce?" I laughed harder. "That's bullshit."
"That's exactly what I thought."
I rose from the chair, joints stiff from sitting in tension too long. "Where's Reed?"
"In his office. Should I ping him?"
"No need. I could use the walk."
I crossed the hall, the quiet thud of my footsteps somehow louder than they should be. When I reached his door, it was open a crack. I pushed it gently.
He was hunched forward, eyes glued to the screen, fingers flying across the keys. His brows were pinched, posture abysmal.
"Fix your posture, Reed."
He jerked up with a curse. "You scared the shit out of me, you piece of—"
"Exactly what I love to hear," I said, stepping in and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
He swatted at the air beside me, half-hearted. I took the seat across from him, watching the light catch on his cheekbones, on the rims of his glasses.
"I have a question," I said, fingers steepled.
He stretched his spine and leaned back. "Shoot."
"Say you had the chance to forgive the people who kidnapped you. Would you?"
His gaze drifted toward the window. He leaned further into the chair, thinking longer than I expected.
"I'd forgive them," he said eventually, "except for the guy who kicked me. That guy can rot."
A smile tugged at my mouth. Not a full one. Just a ghost of it.
"Why would you forgive the rest?"
He tilted his head. "I guess… When someone's desperate enough to get what they want, they don't act rationally. What they did isn't humane. Not even close. But…" He paused, tongue resting against the inside of his cheek. "I'm still here. They didn't actually try to kill me. And weirdly, it taught me something."
I folded my hands. "What's that?"
"Two things, actually." He held up his fingers like he was giving a lecture. "One: don't be sarcastic with your kidnappers. Apparently, they don't appreciate it. Two…" His voice dropped slightly. "I must really mean something to you."
I blinked.
Not because it surprised me. But because it hit harder hearing it from him—so simple, so bare.
"Okay…" I said slowly, cautiously.
He leaned forward now, arms on the desk, chin up and smirking. "You're probably not ready to say it out loud yet. But come on, Lucien. They kidnapped me, not Margo. And you came to save me. Personally. Not with instructions. Not with an excuse. You."
There it was. Proud. Smug. Undeniably pleased with himself.
"And that makes you happy?" I asked, raising a brow.
He shrugged, the grin widening. "A little."
"Just a little?"
"Shut up, Lucien. Eat shit."
I laughed. That's just Reed—flushed and flustered under his own boldness, hiding behind bite-sized insults like they're armor. I saw it all anyway.
And maybe I wasn't ready to say the words yet.
But I was starting to wonder if he'd already heard them, written quietly between every reckless thing I'd done.
Reed turned back to his screen, pretending to scroll through something important, but the color in his cheeks gave him away. That little flush that always followed his bravado. The part of him that still didn't know how to sit comfortably in sincerity.
I let the silence hang there for a beat longer than he probably liked.
Then, without saying anything, I reached across the desk.
My fingers brushed the edge of his hand. Not a grab, not a command—just a whisper of contact. Skin against skin. A single line drawn across the back of his knuckles with the tip of my index finger.
He stilled.
I watched his eyes flick to where I was touching him, then slowly drag upward to meet mine. I didn't pull away.
I just let my hand rest there, half-curled over his, thumb ghosting over his knuckle in a rhythm I didn't realize I was keeping.
"I don't know how to say it yet," I murmured.
His lips parted, like he wanted to interrupt—but he didn't.
"But I want you to know…" I looked down at our hands, then back up. "You're not just part of this anymore, Reed. You are it."
He blinked slowly. "Is this your way of saying I'm your favorite money-laundering intern?"
I smiled, quietly. "No. That was last week. Now you're promoted."
"To what?"
My thumb stilled on his hand.
"To the reason I'm still sitting in this room."
He swallowed—visibly. The smirk faltered, softened, cracked open just enough to show something real behind it.
Then, still staring at me, he turned his hand palm-up and laced his fingers through mine.
And that was it. Just our hands on a desk in a sunlit office—holding everything that hadn't been said, and all the things they were starting to believe anyway
The backroom of the abandoned nightclub smelled like alcohol, dust, and something sour that had died quietly in a corner and never been buried. The floor was sticky with a decade's worth of sins, and the flickering overhead light buzzed like it wanted to mimic epilepsy just for the drama.
I ducked beneath the warped doorframe, straight-backed in a crisp black coat, white shirt untouched beneath it—minimal, deliberate, pristine. I walked in like I didn't notice the grime clinging to the soles of my shoes. Like I wasn't stepping into a pit someone else thought I'd crawl out of.
Sandro was already there, slouched like royalty in a stained velvet armchair that once pretended to be regal. Now it looked like a throne made of mold and cigarette burns.
"So you snitched," he said, voice cutting the air before I'd even straightened fully.
I didn't answer right away—just lifted my hand and brushed the dust from my coat sleeve with surgical disdain. Like the place couldn't touch me. Like he couldn't either.
"It wasn't snitching," I said evenly. "It was de-escalation. If Emiliano hadn't intervened, I would've had to do something a lot more permanent to you."
His lips twisted into a grin that never reached his eyes.
"You're cute when you pretend you understand this world. Still a baby, clinging to your little bubble of 'ethics.' You think you're above us just because Emiliano lets you float on scams and shiny PDFs."
I took a slow, deliberate step forward, the sound of my shoe peeling slightly off the tacky floor. My voice didn't rise—but it didn't have to.
"I never set the rules, Sandro. Emiliano assigned the roles. If he wanted me in the mud, I'd be in the mud. Don't mistake strategy for favoritism."
His grin widened, teeth like a warning sign.
"Do you blow Emiliano in secret, or does he just like your soft hands that much?"
I closed the space between us in one smooth step, shadows slicing across my cheekbone as the light buzzed above.
"Watch your fucking mouth," I said, low and cold. "I've never killed anyone—but don't think for a second I'd hesitate if it were you, right here, right now. You're disposable, Sandro. Any man with a half-functioning brain and two working fists could fill your shoes."
He gave a low whistle, like he was impressed—but his posture shifted, just a little. The way predators do when they feel another one circling.
"Feisty. So what, you came here for a truce?"
"I came to end this childish shit." My voice stayed sharp. Steady. Measured. "You crossed a line when you went after Reed. That was a backstab, not a power move."
Sandro tilted his head back against the filthy cushion, eyes slitted with amusement.
"Fine. I won't touch your boy again. In return, I want a favor."
"You won't touch my boy. Period. If I grant you a favor, it'll be out of the kindness of my heart—not because I'm afraid. I don't need to strike deals to protect Reed. I can do that all on my own." I leaned in then, voice coiled and intimate. "And you know damn well, even in this twisted little ecosystem we call an organization, that what you did? Goes against protocol. You don't touch what belongs to others."
That flicker in his expression—brief but telling. A twinge of surprise. A twitch in his mouth like something sour had crept in.
"Huh," he said slowly. "You didn't say that when I got to Rachel."
My jaw tightened.
"Don't twist that. Rachel chose her path. She knew what she was getting into. Reed didn't. Don't you dare paint this with the same brush. It's not even close."
Sandro shifted in his throne of rot and bitterness.
"Alright, Lucien. Then here's the favor—" He smiled, slow and venomous. "You marry Inessa. Viktor Reshnov's niece. Symbolic. Ceremonial. Just for show. She likes royalty. Emiliano won't mind you giving the family a little PR boost. And it'll keep me from being mad long enough for you to get your next payday."
I blinked once. Then tilted my head back and laughed.
Not a polite laugh. Not a performance.
A full, echoing, unhinged laugh that bounced off the stained walls and made the buzzing light flicker like it was afraid to stay on.
"Oh, Sandro. Why don't you marry her?" I said, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. "I'm sure Viktor's niece would love a man who solves every problem with a brick and a grunt."
He sneered, but I saw the crack—the half-second delay in his reply.
"She likes princes. And your face—" he gestured loosely. "—it sells better. They want someone charming. And if she ends up pregnant, better to have the kid come out looking like you than me."
I tilted my head, voice dipped in saccharine venom.
"Don't be so hard on yourself. Some women are into bald men with facial scars and unresolved rage. It's… niche. But passionate."
His grin twitched. That flicker again. Something coiled and dark flared in his eyes, just for a second.
"Careful, pretty boy. I might start thinking you're flirting."
"And I might start thinking you're compensating."
We stood in that silence, sharp and electrified, the kind of tension that makes glass hum before it shatters. Even the air between us felt volatile—like breath could detonate it.
I stepped closer, just enough to make the contact hypothetical.
"This thing between us—it's not a rivalry. It's not a game. You pulled a knife. I pulled the leash. Don't mistake mercy for weakness, Sandro."
His voice dropped colder than before.
"You're lucky Emiliano still sees you as his little prince. But princes get replaced too."
I smiled, slowly. "Then let's hope you remember that before you end up a frog." I paused. Let it sink in. Then— "Oh, and by the way—who's that fucker of yours who kicked the boy?"
Sandro's grin returned, slow and deliberate.
"I'm not a snitch, Rowan."
I met his gaze and grinned right back.
"That's fine. I'll figure it out on my own."
The door groaned shut behind me, sealing off the decay and venom inside like a crypt locking down a confession. Outside, the night was thick—muggy, like the air itself was holding its breath, as if even the city didn't dare speak too loud after what had just been said.
The pavement still shimmered faintly from the heat, slick with humidity, and everything smelled like the inside of a dying throat—exhaust, asphalt, and the bitter ghost of old club perfume.
I paused on the curb.
Not because I needed to. Because I wanted the world to slow for a second. To feel me not walking away, but calculating.
I reached for my coat. Buttoned it with care—not for warmth, but for control. Each button, one by one, locked into place like punctuation in a vow I hadn't spoken aloud.
The driver stepped forward and opened the door without a word. Polished manners, clean shoes, his eyes respectfully averted.
But I didn't get in.
Instead, I lit a cigarette. The tip sparked against the breeze, catching in the quiet like a small defiance. Smoke curled upward, pale and slow, blurring the distant city lights.
Marry a brat with a fondness for crowns and chaos?
No.
Sandro thought this was about pride. Thought I was too delicate for blood deals and forced unions. Thought I'd flinch if Emiliano tightened the leash, thought I was still floating somewhere above the dirt with my shiny suits and paperwork.
But it was never about that. It was about principle. Territory. Precision.
You don't touch what's mine. You don't drag me into someone else's bloodline to humiliate me. And you don't get to bury me in marriage just to prove you can reach me.
I took another drag, slow and measured.
Let Sandro play his little games with alliances and surnames. Let him chase thrones made of glass and borrowed muscle.
I built mine from scratch. With hands he swears are too soft. He'll learn soon enough—those are the ones that break the hardest when they close.
Let him try to steal my crown.
But if he does—he better know what it means to bleed for something he never earned.