-Lucien.
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"It unlocked," Rado's voice echoed from inside the server room, calm and mechanical. Like he was announcing a new weather pattern.
I didn't turn to look. But beside me, Sandro's entire face shifted—from rigid to smiling in a millisecond. The kind of smile that had no warmth behind it. Just programming.
"Well done, Lucien," he said. His voice was deep, the kind that was meant to sound like authority but always landed like theater.
"You didn't go soft like Emiliano said."
I let the silence stretch for half a second. Just enough to underline the insult.
"Emiliano likes to make sure his men are as capable as ever," I said smoothly. "And I do take breaks—on occasion. I'm not a machine. But it never affects my delivery. So let's not pretend there's a pattern here."
I looked directly at him now. "And I've said before—I'm not doing beatings anymore. My tasks have supposedly changed. So what the fuck is this?"
Sandro exhaled, leaning back like the chair owed him comfort. He took in air through his mouth like he was tired of being alive and even more tired of hearing me speak.
"I'm sure you know," he said slowly, "that we don't appreciate underlings complaining about what they're asked to do."
"Who said anything about complaining?" I smiled, cold. "I just wonder if there's been a shift in trust. That's all. And don't call me an underling, Sandro."
I leaned in slightly, voice calm as frost. "Watch your fucking mouth when you talk to me."
His smirk twitched, laced with something sour. Unimpressed. Petty. The way a man smirks when he knows the house is falling and he's still clinging to the last unburnt match.
"We'll see what Emiliano says about that," he said.
"Please do," I replied. "And while you're at it—remind him I'm expecting payment for the password job. Two days. No excuses."
I got up. Didn't wait for permission. I was done breathing the same air.
Sandro and I started out around the same time. He had a few months on me in the field—two years in age, though you'd think it was twenty with how he clung to seniority like a life raft. On one of our earlier tasks, he took a knife to the face. Split him from temple to jaw. Twenty-three stitches. I was there.
The scar never left. It bisected him in a way makeup couldn't erase—visible from every angle. Not that it made him less attractive, really. It almost gave him more edge, more story. But he hated it. Not because of the aesthetics, but because he never felt properly compensated. And in this business, when pain isn't profitable, it festers.
They gave him a bump in rank soon after. Handed him a few extra responsibilities and a bigger cut, called it fair. That was when I got shuffled under him—on paper, at least. And Sandro? He never let me forget it.
But then things changed. They decided to use me as the face. The charm. The illusion of legitimacy. Suddenly, I wasn't under anyone anymore. Especially not him. The bosses stopped routing tasks through him when they wanted results.
Occasionally, though, he tries. Assigns me nonsense to remind himself he once held power over me.
Ever the pathetic man. Still clawing for control in a game he already lost. And he knows it.
I drove in silence.
No music. No calls. Just the steady hum of tires slicing through city asphalt and the occasional flicker of streetlight catching on the windshield like it was trying to read my face.
The wheel felt cold beneath my fingers. Something to grip. Something I could control. Unlike everything else.
I didn't know why Sandro still got to me. Maybe it was the predictability of him—how every interaction felt like brushing up against old rust. You know it'll stain, but you still do it. Out of habit. Out of some warped sense of hierarchy we never managed to kill.
He should've faded into irrelevance years ago. But men like Sandro don't fade. They linger. They watch. They wait for weakness like it's a window.
And tonight, he looked at me like mine was already open.
It bothered me more than it should.
Because deep down, I knew he wasn't entirely wrong.
I had gone soft. Not in the way he meant—God, no—but in the way I carried things now. Slower. With more friction. The violence never stopped being easy. But the aftermath? That started to stick.
Used to be I could deliver a hit and sleep through the night. No guilt. No ghosts.
Now I wash my hands three times. And I sit in my car like this. With the engine running and a thousand things in my head I don't know how to file.
I rubbed the side of my jaw absently, like that would dull the pulse building behind my temple.
Reed didn't help.
Not because he was a problem. But because he wasn't.
He was a possibility. And I hadn't dealt with possibility in a long time. My world ran on structure. On calculations and caution and clean exits. Reed, with his sarcasm and his cracked voice and that stupid way he cared even when he didn't mean to—he was noise in a system I worked too hard to keep quiet.
And yet, I kissed him.
I blinked, realizing I'd driven past the office. I circled a block before pulling into the lot, parking beneath a broken light. My reflection in the window stared back, tired and still dressed too perfectly to look human.
I rested my head against the steering wheel, forehead pressed to leather, and closed my eyes.
I stepped into the office and immediately felt it—something was off.
Too quiet. Too still. The kind of silence that isn't empty, just... loaded.
And then I saw him.
Sitting in the glass meeting room like he belonged to the building more than the drywall did.
My stomach dropped so fast I almost missed a step.
He was relaxed, legs crossed, suit perfect as always, posture easy—but that was the trick with Emiliano. He wore calm like a weapon. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't flinch. But when he smiled, someone's career—or spine—usually snapped.
Margo caught sight of me and moved fast, heels whispering across the tile like an emergency dressed in designer. She met me halfway.
"He's been here ten minutes," she whispered.
I didn't ask how she knew what I needed to know. Margo always knew.
"Did he talk to Reed?" I asked, voice low, strained.
She hesitated—barely, but I caught it.
Then nodded.
My jaw tensed. "Did Reed say anything?"
"I don't think he did," she answered softly. "I stayed close. Emiliano did most of the talking."
I didn't like that. Not even a little.
I looked past her, toward the glass room. Reed sat across from Emiliano, legs kicked up like this was all some minor inconvenience. He was slouched in the chair, hands clasped together, one foot bouncing with just enough attitude to make it look intentional.
And Emiliano—he was laughing.
Not loud. Just a short, clean laugh that showed too many teeth and none of his eyes.
I moved closer, each step too loud in my ears, the glass growing larger, thinner, as if the moment was stretching toward me.
Reed turned at the sound of the door clicking open.
He smiled. My smile—sharp, tired, defensive.
"Your uncle's here," he said, nodding toward Emiliano. "Guess you do have a family after all."
Then Reed stood, casual, like this was nothing more than an awkward dinner party with a plus-one who shouldn't be here.
"I'll leave you two to it," he added, already moving toward the exit.
I didn't stop him.
Couldn't.
Not with Emiliano still sitting there. Watching me.
The smile hadn't moved. And suddenly, I wasn't sure if Reed had said something…
Or if Emiliano had simply found something.
"What's with the horror on your face?" Emiliano asked, amusement curling at the edges of his voice like smoke.
I didn't answer right away. Just stared.
"What are you doing here?" I said, steadying my tone, trying to scrape the edge off my words.
He made a small show of dusting off his sleeve as if the question were a nuisance. "Sandro gave me a call. Said you barked at him a little too loud for his liking. Thought I'd stop by. Take your temperature. Make sure the heat in your blood hasn't gone cold."
He glanced toward the door Reed had just walked out of, a faint grin tugging at his mouth.
"And, well, while I was at it—why not meet the little toy you've been playing with?"
My jaw locked. "You mean Reed?"
"Yes. Him." Emiliano tilted his head. "What's the word... adorable? Cute? Really nice guy. Very polite. He really believed I'm your uncle, too. You've been training him well."
My stomach turned.
"Sandro's pushing it," I said tightly. "And I don't appreciate being handled like I'm still the new recruit from twelve years ago."
Emiliano waved that off like it was dust in the air. "Never mind Sandro." He stood, adjusting his cufflinks, taking his time. "You know he's jealous of you. You were always the favorite. Everything you touch turns to gold."
He crossed the space between us, unhurried. Then—like I was a child in a school play—he patted me twice on the cheek. Not affectionate. Not threatening. Just... reminding me.
"You're our golden goose, Lucien," he said softly. "And you know you're my favorite."
He leaned in slightly, eyes cool. "Just avoid pissing me off."
From the inside of his suit jacket, he pulled an envelope—cream-colored, unmarked, thick—and pressed it flat against my chest. His fingers lingered for a breath too long.
"Take care, Rowan."
Then he turned and walked out, shoes quiet on the tile, exit crisp and theatrical.
Only when the door clicked behind him did I realize I hadn't been breathing right.
It perplexed me how he said that name, how he still remembers it, and how it felt too foreign to me.
I exhaled, the pressure behind my eyes finally bleeding back into my limbs. My blood felt slow returning to circulation, like everything inside me had been paused while he was in the room.
I sat down, slowly.
He could've called. Could've summoned me like he always did. But no. He needed to show face. He needed me to see his. And—more than that—he needed to see something else.
A face. Reed's.
I tried to shake the thought. It didn't mean anything. It couldn't. This was Emiliano. He checks in. He watches. He probes. He reads you three moves before you've made one. Reed's face was just another file. Just another variable.
Right?
I looked down at the envelope. Didn't open it. Just held it in my lap like it might bite.
My reflection in the black glass of the conference room window stared back at me—too polished. Too still.
Could it be...
That I am feeling like I'm doing something I shouldn't?
That maybe Reed is more than a pretty diversion with good timing?
That maybe... I've let something shift inside me, and Emiliano saw it before I did?
Because the look in his eyes when he mentioned Reed wasn't curiosity.
It was calculation.
And I— I was starting to feel like the one being played.
Reed entered the room again, and I swear—the air shifted.
It became lighter somehow. Easier to breathe.
What the hell was that?
"Did your uncle scold you or something?" he asked, feigning nonchalance with all the grace of someone actively dying to know. He moved like it was nothing, but his eyes were watching closely.
"No, no," I said, shaking my head. "He was just checking in."
Reed stepped closer, pulled the chair next to mine, and dropped into it like he'd always belonged there.
"Are you okay?" he asked, quiet now.
"Yes." I nodded. "How's the business?"
"Good—good," he said, a soft laugh escaping. "Clara keeps sending people. She really liked us, I guess."
There was something in the way he said us—like it was a natural state of being.
I couldn't help but smile back at him.
"What do you want the most at this very moment, Reed?"
He blinked. A little caught off guard. His gaze met mine, wide and confused and almost childlike in its honesty. Then he started thinking, brow furrowing with concentration.
"Hmmm… I want to see the sea."
I tilted my head. "Really? Just that?"
"Yeah," he said, nodding once, certain in a way I rarely ever was. "Just that."
"Okay," I replied, simply.
He smiled, then tilted his head to mirror mine. "What about you?"
I glanced at the table, then at him again.
"I'm not so sure what I want right now," I said truthfully. "Maybe… sushi."
Reed lit up like I'd suggested something revolutionary. "Let's order sushi!"
His excitement was so sincere it made my chest ache in the strangest, softest way.
I smiled, nodding.
"Text me your order," he said, already getting up.
And just like that, he turned to leave, as casually as he came in—like he hadn't just pulled me out of the fog Emiliano left behind.
I watched him go.
We'll have to go to the sea soon. He deserves that much. Maybe I do too.
Maybe I want that more than sushi. Maybe I want him.
But for now— Sushi will do.
The sushi arrived in two brown paper bags that steamed faintly at the edges, filled with things I didn't remember ordering and at least one thing Reed had definitely panic-texted at the last minute because it sounded "vaguely spicy and mysterious."
Margo joined us without being asked—though let's be honest, no one invites Margo anywhere. She arrives. Elegantly. With documents, authority, and an ability to sense free food like a shark smells blood.
She took the seat across from Reed like it had been assigned to her, and within five minutes, I realized something deeply concerning.
They were bickering. Like teenagers.
Reed nudged her chopsticks when she wasn't looking; she flicked a soy sauce packet at his wrist. He called her "Miss Spreadsheet." She called him "Intern." And it was somehow both ridiculous and—infuriatingly—endearing.
"Why do you hold your chopsticks like that?" Margo asked, raising one perfectly sculpted brow. "It's giving an arthritic squirrel."
Reed gasped, mock-offended, mouth full of salmon roll. "This is an advanced grip. You wouldn't understand."
"I understand you're one slipped tendon away from launching that tempura across the room."
"Maybe I'm trying to. You ever think of that?"
"Try it, and I'll staple your sleeve to the floor."
"You would, too," he muttered, popping another roll into his mouth. "You've definitely committed a felony before."
"I've covered up a few. There's a difference."
They exchanged a look—sharp, amused, familiar in a way that made my stomach twist slightly.
Not out of jealousy. Not exactly.
More out of... realization.
I watched them—Reed, in his oversized hoodie, leaning forward like every joke mattered; Margo, still composed but genuinely laughing now, her edges dulled slightly by wasabi and wine.
It was rare… to see either of them like this. Unguarded. Loose.
And it hit me then, quietly, that this—this messy, bickering, food-scattered table—was something I never let myself have.
I didn't interrupt. Didn't redirect. Just watched, one arm draped along the back of the chair, drink in hand, and allowed myself the rare luxury of being in the moment instead of above it.
The room felt warm. Lived in.
Reed caught me watching and blinked, mid-laugh. Then smiled at me—genuine, soft. No challenge, no armor.
Just... Reed.
I smiled back.
Maybe this was nothing.
Or just maybe, it was the beginning of something I hadn't realized I wanted.