Chapter 6 Killian
Chapter Six
KILLIAN
I wake up with the taste of copper in my mouth.
It takes me three seconds to remember why.
First comes the headache—a dull, rhythmic throb behind my eyes that feels like someone parked a truck on my skull. Then comes the smell—sterile, expensive air that doesn't smell like my apartment. Then comes the memory.
The glass. The city lights. The sound of my own breathing, harsh and ragged, filling a room that was otherwise silent as a grave.
And him.
The way he went still. The way he let me do it.
I sit up. The movement is a mistake. The room tilts on its axis, sliding sideways before slamming back into place. A groan works its way out of my throat, low and rough. My stomach rolls, threatening to revolt against the whiskey I poured into it last night.
The sheet falls to my waist. I am naked. My clothes are in a pile on the floor where I dropped them—the suit rumpled, the tie coiled like a dead snake.
I look at the room.
It’s white. Aggressively white. White walls, white sheets with a thread count that feels like water, white curtains filtering the grey morning light into something soft and diffuse.
It feels like a hospital. Or a morgue. A place designed to be easily cleaned, where messes are wiped away with antiseptic and efficiency.
It is Alessandro’s world. And I am the dirt in it.
I look at my hands.
The split knuckle on my right hand has scabbed over again, a dark, ugly line against the skin. I stare at it. I flex the fingers. The scab pulls tight, threatening to crack. I want it to crack. I want to feel it bleed. Pain makes sense. Pain is simple.
What happened last night is not simple.
I get up. My legs feel heavy, like I’m wading through wet concrete. I walk to the bathroom. The mirror is huge, brightly lit, unforgiving. I look at my reflection.
My eyes are bloodshot. There are dark circles under them that look like bruises. My hair is a mess. I look like exactly what I am: a thug who drank too much whiskey and forced himself on his husband because he was too scared to face the reality of the cage he’s in.
I grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles turn white. The porcelain is cold.
I have done violent things. I have broken bones. I have hurt men who deserved it and men who were just in the way. I have killed people, and I have slept soundly afterwards because I knew why I did it. It was business. It was survival.
But this?
This was weakness.
He didn't fight back. That’s the thing that sticks in my chest like a shard of glass.
He didn't scream. He didn't plead. He just…
went away. He turned off the lights inside his head and let me use his body like a piece of equipment.
He treated his own rape like a transaction I had insisted on completing.
My stomach lurches violently.
I drop to my knees in front of the toilet just as the bile comes up. It burns my throat, acidic and foul. I retch until there’s nothing left, until I’m just dry heaving over the pristine white porcelain, gasping for air.
I flush it. I sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Get up," I whisper to the empty room. "Get up, you piece of shit."
I force myself to stand. I wash my face. The water is cold. It doesn't help.
I dress quickly. Jeans and a black t-shirt I brought in my bag. I can't look at the suit. The suit is part of the lie. I kick it into the corner of the room.
I walk out into the hallway.
The penthouse is silent. It’s a cavernous space—polished concrete floors, recessed lighting, modern art that looks like spilled ink frozen in time. The air is filtered, climate-controlled to a precise sixty-eight degrees. It’s quiet. Not the quiet of an empty house, but the quiet of a vacuum.
I walk toward the kitchen. I walk heavily, my boots sounding loud against the floor. I want to make noise. I want to disrupt this perfect, sterile silence.
Alessandro is there.
He is standing at the island, reading a tablet.
He is fully dressed. Black trousers, sharp crease. Polished shoes. And a black turtleneck sweater made of some material that probably costs more than my car.
He looks immaculate. Untouched. Like he spent the night sleeping in a cryo-chamber instead of being pinned against a window by a drunk man. His hair is combed back perfectly. His posture is rigid.
The turtleneck hides his neck. Hides the bite mark. Hides the bruises.
He doesn't look up when I enter.
"Coffee is on the counter," he says.
His voice is level. Conversational. The voice of a man offering a houseguest refreshments on a Sunday morning.
I stop in the doorway. The normalcy of it is jarring. It feels perverse. It feels like a trap.
"That's it?" I ask. My voice is gravel. "Coffee?"
He swipes a finger across the tablet, scrolling through a document. "There is milk in the refrigerator if you take it. I threw away the whiskey bottle you left on the table. It was empty."
The dismissal hits me like a physical blow.
I cross the kitchen in three long strides, coming to stand on the opposite side of the island.
I want a reaction. I want him to yell. I want him to throw the coffee in my face.
Anything to prove that I didn't break him completely. Anything to prove he’s still in there.
"You're not going to say anything," I say.
"About what?"
The two words land between us, flat and heavy. About what.
"About last night."
He looks up.
His eyes are dark, clear, and utterly empty. There is no anger. No fear. No shame. Just a flat, clinical assessment. He looks at me the way a doctor looks at a patient with a mildly interesting rash.
"Last night was a consummation," he says. "It was anticipated. It has been accounted for."
"Accounted for." I repeat the words, trying to make sense of them.
"In my assessment of the arrangement." He lifts his mug and takes a sip. He sets it down with a precise click. "Did you expect me to be surprised? You were drunk. You were angry. You felt powerless. The psychological trajectory was predictable."
I stare at him. My chest feels tight, like the air in the room is too thin to breathe.
"Predictable," I say. "You think that was predictable?"
"I think you are a man of limited coping mechanisms," he says calmly. "And violence is the only language you speak fluently."
The insult is precise. It cuts deep, finding the exact place where my self-loathing lives.
"I expected you to fight," I say. The words come out before I can stop them.
"And give you the satisfaction of a struggle?" He tilts his head slightly. "No. I don't fight battles I cannot win, Killian. I manage the outcome."
He turns the tablet around so I can see the screen. It’s a spreadsheet. A grid of times and dates.
"This is the schedule," he says. "Monday through Friday, we maintain separate operations. I work from here or the Falcone offices. You report to your family. We do two public appearances a month to satisfy the families."
I look at the screen. Colored blocks. Times. Dates. He has mapped out our life together like a corporate merger.
"You made a spreadsheet," I say.
"I made operational parameters." He points to a column. "Weekends are discretionary. The penthouse is shared space, but the master bedroom is mine. The guest room is yours. I will not enter your space without notice, and I expect the same courtesy."
Courtesy.
I almost laugh. It’s hysterical. He’s drawing lines on a map after I just nuked the territory.
"You think this fixes it?" I ask, my voice rising. I lean over the island, planting my hands on the cool marble. "You think a schedule wipes the slate clean? You think you can just laminate over what happened?"
"I think," he says, his voice dropping an octave, "that what happened last night revealed more about you than it did about me. And I think we both know it."
He holds my gaze. He doesn't blink.
The words are a blade, sliding effortlessly between my ribs. He knows. He knows I did it because I was weak. He knows I did it because I was terrified of the silence between us. And he isn't afraid of me. He pities me.
I look at him—at the turtleneck hiding the bruise, at the steady hands holding the coffee mug—and I realize that Rory was right. Alessandro Falcone isn't a victim. He’s a fortress. And I just threw myself against the walls and didn't even leave a scratch.
I am the one bleeding.
I push off the counter. "You're sick."
"I am efficient." He turns the tablet back to himself. "Your driver is waiting downstairs. I suggest you go. You look like you need to hit something, and I would prefer it not be my furniture."
I turn around and walk out.
I can't be in this room. I can't look at him. Every second I spend in his presence makes me feel smaller, dirtier.
I grab my leather jacket from the guest room. I don't pack the suit. I leave it there on the floor. Let the maid burn it.
I head for the elevator. My hand is shaking when I hit the button.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Rory.
I stare at the screen. I can't talk to him. Not now. Not when I feel like this. But if I don't answer, he’ll panic. He’s probably been up all night tracking my location.
I answer it as the elevator doors slide shut, sealing me in the steel box.
"Kill."
"Yeah."
"You didn't call. I was about to send Brennan to kick down the door."
"I'm fine." My voice sounds ragged to my own ears. "I'm leaving the penthouse now."
"How is he?"
I close my eyes. I see Alessandro’s face. The emptiness. The spreadsheet.
"Cold," I say. "Efficient. He made a schedule, Rory. He has our marriage on a calendar."
"Sounds like him." Rory pauses. The tone of his voice changes. "Are you okay?"
The question hangs there. Am I okay? No. I’m a rapist. I’m a coward. I’m a man who sold himself to save his family and then proved he wasn't worth saving.
"I'm fine, Ror. Just a hangover. The whiskey was expensive but it still kicks like a mule."
"You're lying."
"I'm tired."
"Come by the shop," Rory says. "I'm working on a new piece. It’s... complex. I could use the company."
"Yeah. Maybe later. I need to go to Gallagher's. Check in with Da."
"Kill—"
"I gotta go. Elevator’s losing signal."
I hang up.
The elevator opens into the lobby. I walk past the concierge without looking at him. I can feel his eyes on me. Does he know? Did he hear anything last night? The penthouse is soundproofed, but guilt makes me feel like I’m walking around with a neon sign over my head.
My car is waiting at the curb. Not my Chevelle. The Falcone driver. Stone-faced.
I get in.
"Gallagher's," I say.
The driver nods and pulls out into traffic.
The drive is a blur of grey streets and rain. I stare out the window, watching the city go by. The financial district gives way to the industrial sector. The glass towers turn into brick warehouses. The suits turn into work boots.
I look at the wedding ring on my finger. A platinum band. Simple. Heavy.
It feels like a shackle.
When the car pulls up to Gallagher's, I don't wait for the driver to open the door. I’m out before the wheels stop rolling.
The pub is dark inside. It smells of stale beer, sawdust, and decades of cigarette smoke. It smells like home.
But it doesn't feel like home.
Brennan is behind the bar. Doyle is sitting at a corner table with two of the new recruits. They all look up when I walk in.
And the conversation stops.
It’s not the respectful silence I’m used to. It’s awkward. Hesitant.
Brennan wipes a rag across the bar. He doesn't meet my eyes. "Boss. You're... back early."
"It's Sunday, Brennan. Where else would I be?"
"Right. Right." He grabs a bottle of Jameson. "The usual?"
I nod.
I sit at the bar. The stool creaks. I look around the room. Doyle is whispering something to the recruit next to him. They both glance at me, then look away quickly.
They know.
They know I’m married. They know I’m living in the Falcone penthouse. They know I’m not just the Underboss anymore. I’m the asset. I’m the treaty.
I’m the Falcone’s husband.
I can feel the shift in the air. The loss of respect. They don't see the Reaper. They see the man who sold himself.
Brennan slides the glass toward me.
I stare at the amber liquid. I don't drink it. My stomach is still rolling from this morning.
"Where's Da?" I ask.
"Back office," Brennan says. "Counting the receipts."
Of course. Counting the money he saved by selling me.
My phone buzzes again.
I pull it out, expecting Rory again. Expecting a lecture about avoiding him.
It’s not a call. Not a contact I have saved.
Unknown Number.
I open the message.
It’s an image.
I frown, tapping the screen to download it. The little circle spins for a second, then the picture loads.
My blood freezes.
It’s Rory.
He’s walking down the street outside his studio. I recognize the mural on the wall behind him—the faded blue waves. He’s wearing his oversized coat, carrying a sketchbook under one arm and a coffee in the other. He’s smiling at someone off-camera, his head thrown back, his neck exposed.
The photo is taken from a distance. From across the street. Maybe from a car window.
The angle is perfect. The focus is sharp.
It’s a surveillance shot. Professional grade.
There is no caption. No text. No threat. Just the image.
I stare at it. I zoom in on Rory’s face. He looks happy. Unaware. He has no idea that someone is watching him. He has no idea that he is in the crosshairs.
My hand tightens around the phone until the case cracks.
The glass of whiskey sits on the bar in front of me, untouched.
I thought I did this to save him. I thought the marriage was a shield. I thought if I gave myself to the Falcones, if I let them cage me, then Rory would be safe.
I was wrong.
The marriage didn't buy safety. It bought a target.
Someone is watching him. Someone who has my number. Someone who wants me to know that they can get close enough to take a picture.
And if they can take a picture, they can take a shot.
I look up at the mirror behind the bar. I see my own reflection—hollow eyes, pale skin, the look of a man who is slowly realizing that the trap he walked into has no exit.
I grab the whiskey glass.
I down it in one swallow. It burns all the way down.
Good.
Let it burn.
I need the fire. Because whoever sent this photo just started a war they aren't ready for.
I slam the glass down on the bar.
"Brennan," I say. My voice is steady now. The hangover is gone, replaced by something colder. "Get the boys. We have a problem."