-Rowan.
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I placed the files calmly in front of him—no grand opening, no introduction, no dramatics. Just paper. Stacked. Tidy. Surgical.
Emiliano glanced down at the folder, then back up at me, his brow lifting with that familiar mix of condescension and curiosity. He was never one to hide the fact that he found most things beneath his intelligence—especially anything involving morality.
"What's that?" he asked, squinting as though the answer might be printed in invisible ink across my expression.
"You have every reason now to take him out of here," I said simply.
His mouth tilted, just slightly. "Who are you talking about?"
"Sandro." I looked him dead in the eye. "There's also a voice recording inside the file. On a CD. You'll want to hear it before you sleep tonight—if you can sleep after that."
He flipped the folder open lazily, skimming the first few lines with mild interest. "You've gone a little overboard with your paperwork knowledge, Rowan," he said, chuckling under his breath, tapping a knuckle against the table. "Been brushing up on legal formatting in your spare time?"
I didn't blink. "Call it whatever you want. I'm giving you a reason. Leverage. A way. You can dress it up however suits your narrative. You can call it justice or protocol or political cleanup. Doesn't matter to me."
I leaned forward slightly—just enough.
"But let me be clear. I have high expectations this time. And I hope—truly—that for once, you act like you're on my side. I'm respecting you until the very end, Emiliano. But that doesn't mean I've forgotten how to defend myself."
His smile faltered. Only slightly. The air shifted—just a degree cooler.
He exhaled through his nose and folded his hands on the desk. "Listen, Rowan… I don't like how you're framing this. Like if I don't do what you want, you'll cause havoc. You're right, I will do what I want with it. Even if I wanted to shred it to pieces and forget this conversation happened."
He paused.
"So I need you to be mindful of what you're implying."
I laughed. Quiet. Flat. "Expected," I said, nodding. "But I didn't come here to posture. I didn't say that to sound like a threat. I said it to inform you."
I met his gaze, cold and unwavering. "If you don't act, I will. I've done your bidding for long enough. Covered the blood, smoothed the surface. But if you choose loyalty to chaos again, then I'll tear this structure down myself—brick by brick."
He leaned back slowly in his chair, that same unreadable smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. "Suits me fine," he said.
I nodded.
Smiled once, just to salt the wound.
And then I turned around and walked out, my footsteps quiet but sure across the marble floor—like a man who finally stopped asking for permission.
I was back at the office.
The silence there was different—not peaceful, but taut. Like the room itself was waiting for something to crack.
I didn't know what I'd end up doing to Sandro if Emiliano didn't act. That was the part that scared me, not because I lacked imagination, but because I had too much of it. Because revenge without shape becomes something messy, and I couldn't afford mess right now.
Whatever I did—it had to be structured. Measured. Calculated. The kind of move that couldn't be walked back. I'd need people. Not one or two. A full circle of men. Trained, loyal, quiet. The kind who asked questions only after the work was done, and only if it involved extra pay.
The clock on the wall ticked past 3 a.m., steady as a drumbeat.
The door opened.
Margo stepped in, her presence immediate and anchoring. She looked like she'd run through the night, but her face was unreadable, hair pulled back into a knot that screamed efficiency even at this hour.
"So it didn't go well," she said flatly, dropping her backpack on the table, unzipping it like she'd done this a hundred times. She pulled a chair next to me, sat down, and pulled out a water bottle with practiced calm.
"I don't know," I said, fingers steepled beneath my chin. "I've never seen Emiliano that… uncooperative. He kept control, but not in the usual way. It felt performative."
"Do you think Sandro got to his head?"
I shook my head. "No. Emiliano's not impressed by Sandro. If anything, he hates his theatrics. This is something else. He's hesitating."
"Hesitating?" Margo raised an eyebrow.
"He's calculating," I clarified. "Trying to see if Sandro's fall is worth the fallout. Whether the loss of one snake destabilizes the entire pit."
Margo nodded, her eyes scanning mine. "So what's our next move?"
"I need CJ," I said. "And his people."
She was already pulling out her phone. "I'll call CJ."
"I need him on standby," I continued. "No noise. No motion. Just watching. If Emiliano does nothing, we'll need a real exit strategy—and an entry."
"And the backup?" Margo asked, typing fast.
"There's another option," I said, leaning back. "You remember Calder? Real name's Amos Calderon. Same rank as Emiliano. Never speaks unless he needs to. They keep him for balance. Rarely seen, always watching."
Margo nodded slowly. "You want to approach him?"
"Not yet," I said. "We don't bring him in unless Emiliano folds completely. For now, we just flag him. Keep him warm in the file. I don't need him now—I need to know if I'll need him later."
She stopped typing for a second. "He's always had a soft spot for internal order. Doesn't tolerate rogue behavior."
"Exactly," I said. "If we frame Sandro not as disloyal, but disruptive to the internal balance, Calder might take the bait if Emiliano doesn't bite."
Margo sat with that for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. I'll write up the scenarios. CJ gets silent orders—standby only, but close enough to move if it gets messy. Calder's profile stays in the shadows. No contact unless we hit a wall."
I looked at her, and for a brief moment, something like exhaustion flickered in both of us.
"Thank you," I said.
She smiled faintly. "We didn't get this far just to die polite, Rowan."
"No," I agreed. "We didn't."
I reached forward, opened the drawer, and pulled out the burner phone.
Just in case.
-Reed.
I woke up before the sun had fully made its mind up about the sky.
The bed beside me was empty. Rowan must've slipped out early, and I couldn't tell if I was grateful or disappointed. Probably both. The blanket still held the shape of where he'd slept, still smelled faintly like his cologne—clean, expensive, something that didn't belong in a place like mine.
I sat up slowly.
Everything hurt in that subtle, quiet way grief does. Not stabbing. Not screaming. Just a dull ache in the bones and under the skin, like I'd aged five years overnight.
I didn't want to think. That was the problem. My brain had too many rooms, and I didn't want to walk into any of them.
So I got up. Showered. Dressed.
Pulled on my washed-out charcoal sweatshirt and matching joggers. Slipped on the backpack. Threw my headphones around my neck like armor.
Simple. Comfort. Movement.
I didn't even know if I planned to do anything once I got to the office—but maybe if I sat at my desk long enough, I'd feel less like a ghost squatting in my own life.
I stepped outside.
The city looked normal enough—quiet for once, the morning still wiping sleep out of its eyes. The kind of air that feels safe until you realize it's not. I had my headphones around my neck, backpack snug, sweatshirt sleeves pulled halfway over my hands.
I walked.
That was the plan. Walk. Breathe. Go to the office. Pretend I had some version of control left.
But two blocks in, I felt it.
That sliver of dread, thin and sharp, crawling up the back of my neck. Not paranoia—pattern recognition. Something was off. My steps echoed too loud. My surroundings too quiet. The kind of silence that feels like someone holding their breath behind you.
I glanced at the reflection in a shop window as I passed.
Two men. Unfamiliar. Nondescript in a way that screamed purpose. Following.
I kept walking. Pace steady. I adjusted my shoulder strap.
One right turn. They turned too.
Still behind me. Matching speed, but staggered just enough to look casual.
I didn't give myself time to panic. Just moved.
I bolted across the street, jaywalking between two crawling taxis. Horns blared. One of them shouted something behind me—I didn't wait to hear it.
I sprinted. Hard.
Shoes slapping the pavement. Heart pounding like a war drum. I heard their footsteps accelerate—one closer than I expected. The other shouted something sharp, clipped. Orders.
I veered left—down an alleyway that smelled like piss and burnt sugar. Skidded on a broken bottle, nearly lost balance. Kept running. Ducking under a rusted fire escape, vaulting a stack of crates like I'd done it a hundred times in nightmares.
One of them was still behind me.
I turned again. Into an alley narrower than the last—dead ends on both sides. Panic surged in my throat, hot and metallic.
I climbed.
Grabbed a drainpipe, pulled myself up like I had no business trying to. My foot slipped. A hand grazed my hoodie—I swung upward with everything I had and scrambled onto the low rooftop, lungs heaving like I was breathing underwater.
I didn't look back.
I crossed the roof, leapt onto a balcony, then down another flight of stairs and into a street I didn't recognize.
I kept running.
No plan. No destination. Just away.
By the time I stopped, I had no idea where I was.
Chest burning. Legs shaking. Hoodie clinging to my skin. I staggered against a brick wall, trying to slow my breath enough to think.
Think.
And then—Andrea.
I pulled out my phone, thumb shaking so bad I almost dropped it.
"Hello?" Her voice was groggy, low, confused.
"It's me," I said, breathless. "Can I come over?"
A pause.
"Come over."
I ducked behind a row of trash bins, my breath finally slowing to something less murderous.
The alley was quiet—just the occasional sound of wind rattling a loose piece of metal and the hum of a far-off truck. My legs were trembling. My palms were scraped from the drainpipe climb, and I had no idea if I was still being followed or just haunted by adrenaline.
I pulled out my phone.
There it was—Rowan's name, third on the list, below a spam call and an unread text from the pizza place I always swore I'd never go back to.
I hovered for a second.
Then I typed.
"Two guys were on me, might've just been a bad coincidence but didn't feel right. Lost them, no clue if it's done.
Heading here to cool off for a bit. [location shared]
Don't worry, I'll be safe. Nothing dramatic. Just need a breather somewhere quiet and soft (lol, not like that)."
Then, almost like an afterthought:
"Not your vibe, but you'd laugh at the mural on the side of this building. Pink cat in heels. Who approves these things?"
And that was it.
No winks. No breadcrumbs. Just enough—if Rowan was reading carefully— he'll understand.
And he always did.
I slipped the phone back into my hoodie pocket, pulled the sleeves over my hands, and continued walking, head low, hood up.
Ten minutes later, I was at Andrea's building.
The lobby still smelled like citrus and expensive floor wax. The elevator was thankfully empty. I didn't check the mirror this time—I didn't need to see what survival looked like on my face.
Fourth floor.
Digital lock.
I knocked once, and the door opened like a scene that hadn't been properly cued.
There she was.
Andrea.
Hair in soft waves. Lashes curled to perfection. Silk robe tied lazily at the waist. And behind her…
Two men.
One woman.
All half-naked.
One of the guys was holding a bottle of lube and a boom mic. I didn't know whether to scream or salute.
"Oh," I said.
Andrea blinked. "You look like you crawled out of a manhole." She stepped aside immediately, waving me in. "Come in, you look like shit."
"I feel like shit," I replied, walking past her and trying very hard not to make eye contact with anyone holding props.
"Reed," one of the men said, his chest bare and lightly oiled, "your timing is immaculate."
"Yeah, I get that a lot," I muttered, eyes scanning for the softest surface in the room not currently designated for nudity.
"Uh, break?" Andrea said quickly, turning to the crew. "Fifteen minutes, hydration, stretch, cuddle—whatever."
They nodded, unfazed, and wandered off toward the bedroom-slash-set, chatting like it was a Monday morning in HR.
She closed the door behind me.
I slumped onto the couch, heart finally starting to return to baseline.
"You gonna tell me what happened," she asked, "or do I need to guess?"
"Nothing interesting, just a little jump scare on the streets," I said. "Black hoodies. Following me. Don't know who they were. But it wasn't random."
Her expression changed. Still amused, still Andrea—but sharper now. That glint of I can pivot faster than you can collapse.
"Alright," she said, crossing her arms. "We'll get you water. A hoodie. Maybe a taser."
"Do you just… have a taser?"
"You'd be surprised."
I nodded, leaning back, letting my head rest on the cool leather.
This wasn't safe. Not really.
But it was sanity-adjacent. And for now, that was enough.
Thirty minutes passed.
Andrea had thrown me a spare hoodie—black, oversized, something with a questionable slogan I didn't bother reading—and let me take refuge in the spare room, which was less a "room" and more a storage-slash-dressing-slash-soundproofing nook with LED vines and enough velvet to make a drag queen weep.
I was just beginning to breathe like a person again when I heard it.
A knock.
Three short, then two.
My heart stuttered. Not because I was scared. Because I knew.
I pushed myself up from the couch and moved toward the door, nearly knocking over a feathered boa on my way out.
"I got it," I said, brushing past Andrea in the hallway. "Sorry. I might've, uh… accidentally invited company."
She arched an eyebrow but shrugged. "As long as it's not a delivery guy or a priest, I don't care. If he's hot, he can stay."
I opened the door. And there he was. Rowan.
Wearing black. Hoodie up. Looking exactly like someone who shouldn't look this good while standing under an apartment hallway light that made everyone else resemble warmed-over ghosts.
"You came," I said, voice low.
"Your message wasn't exactly cryptic," he replied.
I didn't even let him finish. I grabbed his wrist and yanked him inside quickly, locking the door behind us like I expected the earlier men to be on his heels.
But the moment we turned into the living space—Andrea's set, technically—we were greeted with an unfortunate scene:
One of the men from earlier was now shirtless, splayed on the velvet loveseat like he was auditioning for Magic Mike: The Home Video, and still very much in character.
He looked up at Rowan and whistled.
"Well, hello," he said with a grin that could probably file its own taxes. "Damn, your taste, Reed. You know I'd love for the blondie to join us. I'm generous like that."
Rowan's eyebrows lifted slightly. The faintest twitch of a smirk threatened his lip.
I saw red.
"Fuck no," I snapped, cutting across the room like I was about to physically shove the man off the couch and out the window.
The man laughed. "Relax, princess. If you're afraid you'll be missing out, you can join too."
"I'm not missing out on anything," I barked, jaw clenched. "Just leave us the fuck alone for five minutes. That too much to ask?"
Andrea appeared behind us, holding a vape and wearing pink fluffy slippers like this was completely normal.
"Okay, break's extended. Everybody chill or go hydrate. Or I swear to god I'll shut the whole thing down and make you all film a tampon ad in clown costumes."
That worked.
The guy raised his hands like a man surrendering to both war and boredom and shuffled off toward the kitchen, still grinning like he hadn't just nearly died.
I turned to Rowan, breath sharp, hands shaking a little—not from fear this time. Something else.
He looked at me. Quiet. Reading everything on my face.
Then: "You okay?"
I nodded. Swallowed.
"Yeah. Just… don't ever take offers from strangers in silk pants, okay?"
"Noted," he murmured, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "Even if they have great lighting."
"Especially if they have great lighting."