Epilogue
The triplets had taken over Algerone's house.
I stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching Xander arrange canapés on a platter I didn't recognize while Xavier directed caterers I hadn't hired.
Xion was in the backyard with Boone, stringing lights.
Leo had commandeered the sound system. Ash was doing something security-related that involved speaking quietly into his phone while scanning every entrance.
One month ago, I would have orchestrated all of this.
I’d have been responsible for selecting the caterers, approving the menu, coordinating the timeline down to fifteen-minute increments.
Instead, I was holding a glass of wine someone had pressed into my hand and trying not to reorganize the appetizer station.
"You're hovering." Xander didn't look up from the canapés. "Go sit down somewhere. You're making the caterers nervous."
"I'm not hovering."
"You've straightened that napkin stack three times." They finally met my eyes, and there was something in their expression that wasn't quite hostile. Exasperation, maybe, the kind reserved for difficult relatives rather than enemies. "This is Dad's retirement party. You don't work here anymore."
I didn't know what to do with that. I was still in my transition period at Lucky Losers, still training my replacement, still attending meetings and reviewing contracts.
But that was ending too. A few short weeks, and I would be nothing but a consultant.
Available for questions. Unnecessary for operations.
Six months ago, I would have manufactured new ways to be essential, identified vulnerabilities only I could address. Instead, something in my chest loosened like a held breath finally released.
"The crostini are burning," I said.
Xander swore and yanked open the oven. Smoke billowed. They rescued the tray with a dish towel, dumping charred bread onto the counter. "Don't say it."
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were going to offer to help."
"I was going to offer to help," I admitted.
Xander laughed, and I blinked at the unexpected warmth in it. "Go find Dad. Make sure he's not spending too much time on his bad leg. That's the only job you have tonight."
I went.
The house had transformed. Flowers I hadn't ordered filled vases I'd never seen. A banner stretched across the living room, hand-painted in uneven strokes: HAPPY RETIREMENT, DAD. Xander's work. The lettering had their dramatic flair, each letter a different color.
Algerone stood near the fireplace, speaking with Harrison Webber from the Pentagon. His suit was charcoal gray, impeccably fitted. I'd adjusted the shoulders myself last week, taking in a quarter inch on each side. He'd lost weight since Macau.
The belt at his waist was cordovan leather, hand-stitched, the edges burnished to a warm glow. I'd made that belt. I knew intimately how that leather felt across my ass: exquisite.
Algerone caught me looking and smirked.
Webb said something about contracts. Algerone responded appropriately, but his eyes stayed on me. The message was clear. Later.
I found a corner near the bookshelves where I could watch without interfering. The caterers would handle the food. Xander would manage the guests. Xavier would give the toast.
I took a sip of wine and forced myself to do nothing.
Xion appeared beside me, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the crowd. Boone trailed behind him.
"Nice party," Xion said.
"Your brother's doing."
"Xander likes organizing things. Gets it from—" He stopped, leaving the comparison unfinished.
"The lights look good," I offered. "In the backyard."
"Boone did most of it." Xion glanced at his partner. "I just held the ladder."
We stood in silence that was neither comfortable nor hostile. A year ago, Xion wouldn't have stood next to me at all.
"Xavier showed me your workshop," he said abruptly.
I blinked. "What?"
"When I was here last week. He gave me a tour." Xion's jaw worked. "You've got a nice setup. The leather tools. The stitching pony."
"You know stitching ponies?"
"I know tools." He almost smiled. "Different materials, same principles. You need a better burnisher, though. The one you've got is garbage."
"I know." I'd been meaning to upgrade. "Recommendations?"
He pulled out his phone and typed something. My pocket buzzed. "Guy in Portland makes them custom. Long waitlist, but worth it."
I checked my phone. The link was there, along with a note: Tell him I sent you. He'll bump you up.
It was the most Xion had ever given me, a sliver of connection built on shared understanding of craft. I knew better than to push through it too fast.
"Thank you," I said.
Xion shrugged. "You made Xander's bag. They won't shut up about it."
As if summoned, Xander swept past with a platter of salvaged crostini.
The bag on their shoulder was red leather, structured and architectural, with brass hardware I'd sourced from Milan.
It shouldn't have worked with their outfit—black leather pants and a vintage Westwood jacket. They made it work.
"Stop gossiping about me," they said without slowing. "Guests are arriving."
Xion snorted. "They hate when people talk about them."
"No, they don't."
"No," he agreed. "They don't."
Xander worked the incoming crowd, greeting guests with theatrical warmth, steering people toward drinks. They were good at this. Better than they knew.
"I should—" I started.
"You should stay here," Xion said. "Xander's got it."
I stayed.
The party swelled. Pentagon officials mingled with board members. Leo hovered near Xavier, wringing his hands. Ash had positioned himself with sightlines to both entrances. Boone had ended up in conversation with a general about fly-fishing.
And Algerone moved through it all, accepting congratulations, shaking hands, receiving tribute from an empire he was choosing to leave.
I watched him. I'd spent three decades watching him, studying his moods, anticipating his needs.
But this was different. I wasn't calculating angles or scanning for threats.
I was just looking at the way he held his whiskey, at the lines around his eyes when he laughed at something Webber said, at the way his weight shifted off his bad leg when he thought no one was paying attention.
Xavier approached the small stage Xander had set up. Someone dimmed the lights. Conversations faded.
"Thank you all for coming." Xavier's voice carried the authority of a man born to lead. "We're here to celebrate my father's retirement from Lucky Losers Incorporated."
Polite applause followed, along with a whistle from Xander.
"My father built this company from nothing." Xavier's gaze found Algerone. "He turned a vision into an empire. Something governments rely on and competitors fear. Now he's trusting me to carry it forward."
The applause swelled again, and Xavier waited for it to subside.
"What many of you don't know is that this transition has been years in the making.
My father has spent the last three years preparing me for this role.
He's taught me what it means to lead. What it means to build something worth protecting.
And what it means to prioritize the things that matter most."
His eyes found his brothers in the crowd. Then, briefly, me.
"To my father." He raised his glass. "Thank you for building something worth inheriting. And for everything you've given us these past three years."
The room drank.
Algerone’s eyes found mine across the crowd. I raised my glass to him.
Later, when the crowd had thinned, and the caterers were packing, Algerone found me on the back porch. The lights Xion and Boone had strung cast soft gold across the darkness.
His cane tapped against the deck as he approached. His gait was worse now than it had been.
I shifted to make room on the bench. He lowered himself beside me with a grunt he didn't bother to hide. His shoulder pressed against mine. His hand found my knee.
"Xavier's speech," he said.
"I know."
"He could have said more. Didn't have to protect the narrative."
"He's your son. He protects what's his."
Algerone made a low sound that might have been agreement.
"Xander's been carrying that bag all night," he said. "The one you made."
"I noticed."
"Red leather. Bold choice."
"They gave me the specifications. I just executed."
His hand tightened on my knee. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Diminish yourself." He turned to look at me. "You made something beautiful for someone who wanted you dead. And they're carrying it around like it matters."
My throat constricted. "It's just a bag."
"It's not just a bag." His thumb traced a circle on my knee. "It's you learning to exist without the company. To make things that don't optimize anything. To build relationships that aren't leverage." He paused. "I'm proud of you."
In three decades, he'd praised my work, my efficiency, my competence. He'd never said he was proud of who I was becoming.
"I'm learning," I managed. "It's strange. Having time."
"Good strange?"
I considered. A month ago, the empty hours had been unbearable. Time without purpose, without the hum of necessity.
Now I had a workshop. I had leather and tools and projects that took weeks. I got Sunday mornings in bed past eight, his body warm against mine, and dinners I cooked because I wanted to.
"Good strange," I said. "Mostly."
"And the triplets?"
I thought about Xander laughing in the kitchen, Xion sending me a link to a craftsman in Portland, Xavier's speech, carefully coded for two audiences at once.
"We're building something," I said. "I don't know what to call it. Not forgiveness. What I did doesn't warrant forgiveness."
"Maxime—"
"I'm not asking for absolution. Whatever we're building, it's not that. Coexistence, maybe, or just the ability to be in the same room without bleeding."
His jaw tightened. He hated when I said things like this.
"Something in between," he said finally.
"Yes."
"I can live with that." His hand slid from my knee to my thigh. "When this is over, I'm going to take you upstairs and remind you exactly who you belong to."
Heat fluttered low in my stomach. My pulse kicked up, and I let it. Let myself want without calculating whether I was allowed. "Is that a threat?"
"A promise." His grip tightened. "You've been patient tonight, letting Xander run things. You only straightened the napkins three times."
"You were watching."
"I'm always watching you." His voice dropped. "Now go get me a whiskey."
I was on my feet before I'd made a conscious decision, the old obedience settling into my bones as familiar as breath.
It was more than three decades of conditioning that drove me; it was the pleasure of being told, the relief of clarity after a night of uncertain footing.
I still wanted this. I would always want this.
"Macallan," he added. "Neat."
"I know how you take your whiskey."
"I know you do." His eyes held mine. "I also know you like to be told.”
When I returned with the whiskey, he took the glass with one hand and pulled me down beside him with the other, his grip on my wrist firm and possessive. I didn't resist.
We sat in the darkness, his shoulder against mine, his hand still circling my wrist. The party sounds had faded. Someone had turned off the music inside.
I let my head rest on his shoulder. I wasn't the COO anymore. I wasn't the invisible hand guiding an empire.
I was fifty-four, learning to occupy space without justifying it. Learning to name the thing between us without flinching from the word.
Love. I could call it that now. It still caught in my throat sometimes, but less often than before.
Inside, Xander was arguing with Xavier about cleanup. Xion had escaped to the garage with Boone.
This was family. Imperfect and fractured, built on wreckage I'd created. Not the family I'd destroyed, but something new, growing in scorched earth.
Something that had room for me.
"I love you," I said.
Algerone pressed a kiss on my temple. His hand tightened on my wrist.
"I know," he said.
I would do it all again. Every lie, every cruelty. That truth hadn't changed. I was still the man who'd burned the world to keep him.
The difference was that I'd stopped pretending I wouldn't.
I didn't deserve his hand in mine, or getting to wake up with him beside me. I would never deserve it.
But I was keeping it anyway.