-Rowan.
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The opera house looked like it had once mattered to someone. The kind of space built for gods and now left to rot in their absence. Marble veins cracked across the floor like dried-up bloodlines. The heavy velvet curtains sagged like wilted lungs. Even the silence inside felt arrogant. Still holding its breath, as if waiting for the final act.
I didn't knock. Didn't announce myself. Just walked in and let the cold bite my collarbones.
Sandro was exactly where I expected—front row center, one leg crossed over the other like this was a premiere he produced. His arms sprawled across the back of the chairs beside him, comfortable in his own fiction. The single working spotlight hung overhead, burning him in soft gold like a saint in a tragedy.
He didn't stand when I approached. Of course not. He smiled slowly, eyes dragging across me like he was calculating resale value.
"Prince Rowan," he said, with a sick sweetness. "Welcome to the graveyard."
I didn't give him the satisfaction of a greeting. Just kept walking down the center aisle, letting each footstep echo as if the walls themselves were listening.
"You've been busy," he continued, as if we were catching up at brunch. "Poor Vince. I had to visit him in the hospital. His face doesn't look like much anymore. Neither do his ribs."
"Then we're even," I said. "He was out of line."
"So are you. We had rules, Rowan. We talked about protocol. You're not allowed to run rogue and beat my men unconscious just because you're feeling territorial over a mouthy nobody. He followed orders. You used to know better than to act without clearance. What was it this time? Ego? Lust?"
I stopped at the edge of the orchestra pit, just a step below him, perfectly angled to look up into his smug rot. I didn't blink. "He kicked someone who didn't deserve it. You don't touch what's mine and expect me to keep writing reports."
Sandro's grin grew colder. "Funny. That's not how Emiliano told it. Last time I checked, you still answered to him."
That made me pause. Not from fear—Sandro never inspired fear. From calculation. The way he said Emiliano's name. Light. Dismissive. Pasted on like it wasn't worth anything anymore.
I looked at him fully then. "He's not dead."
Sandro tilted his head just enough to be insulting. "You're confident."
"Because you wouldn't be this calm if he was."
There was the briefest flicker in his jaw. A half-second glitch in his mask.
"Maybe I'm just at peace," he said finally. "You've always underestimated how far I'm willing to go."
"No," I replied. "I just overestimated how often you'd get away with it."
He stood now, slow, deliberate, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves. "You think this little rebellion of yours—these tantrums—will amount to anything? You used to know how the world worked, Rowan. You knew what was expected of you."
"And I stopped caring the moment you tried to drag him into it."
Sandro stepped closer, stopping only a foot away. I could smell the perfume—expensive, ancient, blood-slicked. "Reed. That's what this is about? You threw your position, your leverage, and your safety away for someone who probably still believes this is about money?"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
He scoffed, shaking his head. "You always were dramatic. Dressing it all up in loyalty and dignity when what you really are is soft. That boy? He's your leash. And sooner or later, we'll have to cut it."
That's when it happened.
I felt the heat first. That strange, targeted tingle at the center of my forehead. I didn't move—but my body knew. Red light. Small. Steady.
Laser sight.
Sandro didn't blink. Didn't even try to hide it.
"I'll count to five," he said. "And if you're still standing here, I'll have them shoot. Right between the eyes. One shot. Clean exit. You won't even feel it."
I didn't respond.
"One."
The red light stayed steady.
"Two."
I let my fingers curl slightly at my sides.
"Three."
That's when it came—the noise. Above us. The sharp scuff of boots against metal. A yell cut short. A scuffle. Something dropped. Metal on metal.
The laser blinked out.
Sandro's eyes darted upward. For the first time that night, he looked uncertain.
"You brought someone," he said, voice sharpened now. Less amused.
I adjusted my collar, straightened my posture. "You said we'd meet alone. But you broke your promise first."
A figure stepped into view on the upper balcony. CJ. Rifle still slung. Calm, composed, with two of my men flanking either side. Not dramatic—just efficient.
Sandro took a step back, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"So what now?" he asked. "You kill me here in front of the ghosts?"
I looked at him once more and finally allowed myself the smallest smile.
"I won't count to five," I said quietly. "I'll blink. And when I open my eyes, you better be gone. And if you're still standing here when my eyes open, I'll take that as permission—to remove your name from every contract we ever wrote. To take your men, your holdings, and your legacy—and bury them in the same pit you dumped your conscience."
We stared at each other, the silence expanding like a held breath.
And then I did it. I closed my eyes.
When I opened my eyes, the seats were empty.
The echo of his presence still hung in the air, like sulfur after lightning.
CJ gave me a nod from above before vanishing into shadow. I turned, walking back down the aisle with no sound behind me but my own footsteps and the faint hiss of power shifting.
Sandro thought he staged this meeting.
But now he knew. The act was over.
The reckoning had begun.
The moment I stepped out of the opera house, the air tasted colder.
CJ was already there, waiting in the shadows by the side steps with two others. No smiles. No celebration. Just that rare flicker in his eyes—satisfaction disguised as confirmation.
"It's done," he said, falling into step beside me.
I didn't look at him. Just kept walking toward the car. "The package?"
"Switched. Our decoy was received ten minutes ago. The real one's in your safe."
"And the handler?"
CJ paused. "Left confused. Exactly how we wanted. He'll report a clean drop, but the Reshnovs are about to open a ghost drive and wonder why Sandro thinks they're already in bed with the Kaskov network."
Good.
I didn't speak for a few moments. Let the satisfaction settle somewhere beneath my ribs where the anger used to sit.
"Any word from Emiliano?" I asked, casual enough to hide the edge.
CJ shook his head. "Still quiet."
Not surprising. But not concerning—yet.
I exhaled, sharp through my nose. "Double the encryption on the confession backup. I want three copies in three different vaults by morning."
CJ nodded. "Understood."
He glanced sideways at me once before opening the car door.
"You really think he'll come after you directly now?"
I didn't answer until I was seated. The city was yawning open before us, lights twitching like dying stars.
"He already did," I said finally. "He just didn't like the ending."
Let's make something clear, in case you've gotten swept up by chandeliers and dramatics:
This meeting—the velvet-draped theater, the laser sight, the drama—it was never about Vince. Or Reed. Or even me, not really.
It was about time.
Sandro thought he summoned me to rattle my cage. To remind me that he still had snipers in the rafters and pawns in every alley. What he didn't realize was that the moment I agreed to meet him, the real game had already started.
While he was rehearsing lines and practicing threats, I was rewriting the ending.
Earlier that evening, one of his couriers was scheduled to make a very quiet, very important drop—one he believed no one knew about. A sealed envelope and a flash drive, heading to the Reshnov syndicate. It contained:
-Financial summaries tying certain laundering streams together,
-A contact list of trusted collaborators,
-And a scanned ledger with Sandro's personal encryption—a move meant to prove his loyalty and competence to their circle.
Only, it never made it.
CJ and my team intercepted it. Smooth. Silent. The courier never even knew.
We replaced the real package with a decoy. One that looked identical, but told a very different story.
The flash drive? It now holds a copy of Rachel's confession—the one where she describes how Sandro murdered Nicolo and pinned it on Marlo. It's encrypted, timed, and when it opens, it will look like he sent it.
The contact list? Forged. It includes names affiliated with the Kaskov syndicate—Reshnov's enemies. So now Sandro appears as if he's playing both sides.
The ledger? Still marked with his signature. Still coded with his cipher. But the contents have been scrubbed clean—useless data dressed as proof.
To be clear: I didn't kill anyone. I didn't even raise my voice. I just rewrote what the Reshnovs believe.
And when they open that drive, they won't ask whether Sandro made a mistake.
They'll wonder when he started lying to them.
So while he was counting to five and aiming lasers at my skull, my men were already five steps ahead, planting seeds of doubt that will eat through the roots of his alliances.
And the best part? He still doesn't know.
By the time I got home, the city had quieted. That rare kind of quiet—not silence exactly, but the absence of interruption. Like the world was holding its breath for something it didn't want to witness. CJ had left half an hour ago. Efficient as always. He said the courier team was sleeping in shifts and that our encryption protocols had held. No alerts. No leaks. No flags.
Not yet.
The opera house was behind me, and for once, so was the noise.
I made tea. Not because I wanted it—because I needed my hands to do something other than curl into fists. The scent of bergamot filled the kitchen. I stood barefoot on cold marble floors, sipping heat that didn't warm me.
There was no rush in my chest. No panic. No adrenaline.
I should have felt victorious. Or at least amused. But all I felt was space. A vast, stretched-out space between what I'd done… and what I hadn't yet.
I sat on the couch with the cup resting against my lip, eyes fixed on nothing.
There was still time.
Emiliano hadn't called, but that wasn't unusual. He operated like fog—slow to arrive, slow to leave. He watched first, acted later. If anything, his silence probably meant he was impressed.
He would call. He always did.
I leaned my head back, eyes drifting shut.
Maybe just an hour. Then I'd go back to war.
The tea had gone cold in my hands.
I hadn't moved in at least twenty minutes. My head was tilted against the back of the couch, neck stiff, fingers slack around the porcelain rim. The lights were off. The streetlamp outside cast a soft, fractured glow across the polished floor. Shadows moved like thoughts—slow, heavy, unwilling to leave.
I didn't hear the bedroom door open. Didn't notice the faint scuff of bare feet on carpet. I only realized I wasn't alone when the scent of Reed's shampoo—citrusy, too clean for this hour—reached me.
"You're not sleeping," he murmured.
I didn't open my eyes. "I was thinking."
"From the couch?"
"It's a very intellectual couch."
I felt the weight shift beside me, then a familiar dip as he climbed onto my lap with the kind of sleepy entitlement he only carried at ungodly hours. His body curled into mine without hesitation, limbs folding like muscle memory, arms looping loosely around my neck.
"You're freezing," he whispered, burying his face under my jaw.
"I forgot to turn the heat up."
"No, you forgot to come to bed." His lips brushed my skin with the accusation.
I exhaled through my nose. "Didn't want to wake you."
"You think I sleep better when you're not there?"
My throat tightened for reasons I couldn't label. I didn't reply.
We stayed like that for a while. His warmth seeped into me slowly, grounding me better than tea or silence ever could. His fingers brushed lazy lines down my spine, tugging at the edge of my shirt, then slipping under to rest against skin. Just weight. Just comfort.
Then, quietly, I felt it—the unmistakable shift in his posture. A subtle lean of his hips. The faint upward curve of his mouth against my neck.
"Do you… want help with that?" he asked, tone innocent in the way only Reed could fake.
I blinked once, then let a breath of laughter escape me. "It's fine. It'll go away."
"Mm," he hummed, not moving. "I've heard that before. Usually from men who are lying."
"I'm not lying. I'm just…" I looked down at him. "Resting. It's called restraint."
"You've been sitting here for how long? Two hours?" He shifted in my lap with slow intent. "I'm starting to think that's not restraint. That's suffering."
His hand moved. Playful. Gentle. Teasing at first—just fingertips skating across the front of my pants like a question he already knew the answer to.
I caught his wrist lightly, not to stop him, just to slow the descent.
"Reed," I warned, though it came out softer than it should have.
"Rowan," he echoed, smugly. "You're always thinking so much. Let me give your brain a break."
"Tempting," I said, eyes closing briefly as his lips grazed my collarbone, "but you'll be insufferable if I say yes."
"Oh, I'm already insufferable. Might as well enjoy it."
I let go of his wrist.
He didn't move right away. Just pressed his forehead to my jaw, holding there, breath warm against my skin. Then his hand slid lower, his voice dropping with it.
"Don't pretend I'm not your favorite distraction."
"You're not a distraction," I murmured.
He lifted his head.
I met his gaze.
"You're the reason I remember what calm feels like," I said.
His smile slipped into something softer. Eyes stormy-silver in the dark. He kissed me once—slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that settled deeper than the skin.
Then he said, "Still hard though."
And I laughed.
Because of course he would.
His laughter melted against my throat as he kissed there again—softer this time, lips lingering like he was tasting the idea of me. My hands slid down his sides, palms steady on his back, feeling the rhythm of his breath settle, then shift.
Then he moved.
Slow. Unhurried. Like he had nowhere else to be but right here, taking his time. He slid down off my lap, hands trailing across my chest, then my abdomen, until his knees pressed against the rug in front of me. The room was dim, quiet, everything cloaked in pre-dawn stillness—and yet the air had thickened, pulsed.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of my pants, not tugging yet. Just resting there.
I looked down at him, and the sight alone carved something loose in my chest. His dark hair mussed, eyes half-lidded but fully aware, lips parted in the shape of a threat I welcomed.
"You sure?" I asked, because I always did.
Reed didn't answer with words.
He leaned forward, kissed just below my navel, then up, featherlight. A touch of tongue. A drag of breath. His fingers moved now, to the button of my trousers, undoing it with a practiced flick, then the zipper—slow, with intent, like he knew the sound alone would twist something inside me.
And it did.
He pulled the fabric down enough to free me, fingers brushing over sensitive skin with infuriating delicacy. He looked up at me once, eyes gleaming with mischief and something else—something tender—and then he mouthed, low, almost to himself, "You're already trembling."
I wasn't. Not really.
But his voice made me feel like I was.
Then his hand wrapped around me, and I was.
He didn't rush. That was the part that undid me most. Reed was many things—impatient, chaotic, mouthy—but when it came to this, to me, he could slow time. He stroked me in deliberate, measured passes, his thumb circling the head, spreading the precum with maddening ease.
I let my head tip back slightly, a breath escaping. My hands gripped the edge of the couch—not him. Not yet. I didn't want to guide this. I wanted him to give it.
Then his mouth was on me.
Warm. Wet. Perfect.
He took me in shallow at first, letting his lips adjust around the shape, tongue flicking lightly, experimentally. My thighs tensed. His free hand braced on my knee, grounding himself as he gradually slid lower, deeper, his throat opening just a little more with each pass.
I looked down again.
The sight of him there—on his knees, mouth full of me, eyes fluttering closed in focus—was enough to make my breath catch.
I could feel his pride in the way he moved. In the way he kept a pace that teetered just between comfort and torment. He pulled back slowly, letting his tongue drag along the underside, then swallowed me again, deeper this time, lips slick and firm.
My voice broke in a quiet groan.
He hummed at the sound—actually hummed—and the vibration made my hips jerk before I could stop them.
"Reed," I warned, voice rough.
He smiled around me. I felt it.
He pulled off with a soft pop, thumb stroking my length while he caught his breath, lips swollen, eyes too pleased with himself.
"Still want it to go away?" he asked, head tilted.
I reached down and cradled his jaw, thumb brushing his flushed cheek. "You're insufferable."
"And you're leaking all over my hand."
He licked his palm with theatrical slowness, then returned to me without another word, mouth open, welcoming. This time he didn't tease. He sucked harder, deeper, more confident now—knowing I was close, knowing exactly what I liked.
I finally let one hand rest on his head, fingers threading through his hair as he bobbed slowly, deliberately. My thighs quivered. My abdomen tightened. I tried to hold back, to stretch it longer, but Reed didn't let me.
He wanted this.
Me.
Right here, coming apart in his mouth.
And I did.
With a low moan and a trembling exhale, I spilled against his tongue, my eyes clamped shut, every nerve lit. He took all of it—steady, calm, reverent—and only when I softened did he pull back, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand like it was nothing at all.
He looked up at me again.
Smiling. Quiet. Mine.