Chapter 10 Killian
Chapter Ten
KILLIAN
The penthouse is dark when we walk in.
It isn't a peaceful darkness. It’s a heavy, pressurized absence of light, like the air inside a sealed vault.
The city bleeds through the floor-to-ceiling glass in washes of cold blue and sodium orange, painting the white furniture in long, distorted shadows that stretch across the polished concrete like fingers.
I stand in the entryway. My boots feel heavy on the floor.
My jacket smells like the warehouse—diesel, damp rot, and the metallic tang of the crime scene.
It’s a smell that sticks to the back of the throat, a reminder that while we’re standing in a sixty-story glass tower, two of my men are lying on stainless steel tables in a morgue off Dock Street.
Alessandro locks the door behind us.
The sound is a sharp, mechanical click. Final. Absolute.
He moves past me, heading for the kitchen island. He sets his keys in the ceramic bowl with a soft clatter. He unbuttons his suit jacket, slips it off his shoulders, and folds it. He aligns the seams. He drapes it over the back of a leather barstool, smoothing the fabric with the palm of his hand.
The ritual of it—the precise, mechanical dismantling of the day—makes my teeth ache.
I watch him. He looks untouched. His hair is still perfect. His turtleneck is crisp. He moves with the economic grace of a man who has never had to scrub blood out of his fingernails or call a mother to tell her that her son isn't coming home.
"Do you ever stop?" I ask. My voice sounds rough, scraping against the silence.
Alessandro pauses. He turns to face me, leaning his hip against the counter. His face is in shadow, but I can feel the weight of his gaze.
"Stop what?"
"The performance. The robot act. We just saw two bodies wrapped in your ties, Alessandro. We just saw my brother in a surveillance photo." I walk further into the room, the anger uncoiling in my gut, hot and toxic. "And you’re folding your jacket like we just got back from a board meeting."
"Order is a discipline," he says calmly. "Chaos is a liability. I prefer the former."
"Liability."
I spit the word out. I walk to the liquor cabinet. I don't bother with a glass. I grab the bottle of Redbreast—the good stuff, the stuff he saves for people who matter—and I pull the cork with my teeth. I spit it onto the counter.
I take a long pull. The whiskey hits the back of my throat like liquid fire, burning a path down to my stomach. It doesn't numb the edge. It sharpens it.
"You're drinking too much," Alessandro says.
"And you're not drinking enough." I take another pull, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I slam the bottle down on the marble island. "You need a clear head? I need to forget what Marco Vitelli’s face looked like."
"Forgetting won't help us find who did it."
"I don't want to find them right now. I want to kill them. There's a difference."
Alessandro walks around the island. He stops three feet from me. He smells of rain and expensive soap and gun oil—a confusing, heady mix that shouldn't work but does. He reaches out, his hand hovering near the bottle.
"Put it down, Killian."
"Don't." I step back, gripping the neck of the bottle like a club. "Don't manage me. Don't handle me. I am not one of your assets."
"I am not trying to manage you. I am trying to keep you functional." His voice drops, hardening. "We are in the middle of an active threat. We are being hunted. If you drink yourself into a stupor, you are useless to me. You are useless to your brother."
The mention of Rory hits me like a slap.
"Don't you talk about him," I snarl. "You don't get to say his name. You’re the reason he’s in this. If I hadn't married you, if I hadn't signed your fucking contract, he would be safe."
"If you hadn't signed the contract, the Bratva would have swallowed your territory six months ago and Rory would be dead in a ditch." Alessandro’s eyes flash. "Do not rewrite history to suit your guilt. You made a choice. Live with it."
The truth of it cuts deep. It finds the soft rot of shame in my chest and tears it open.
I hate him for it. I hate him for being right. I hate him for standing there, beautiful and cold and untouchable, telling me that my guilt is a luxury I can't afford.
"You think you’re so superior," I whisper. I set the bottle down. My hands are empty now. My hands are shaking. "You sit in your tower and move pieces around a board. You don't bleed. You don't feel."
"I feel plenty," he says quietly. "I just don't let it control me."
"Is that right?"
I move.
It’s not a conscious decision. It’s a reflex. A need to break something.
I close the distance between us in two strides. I grab the front of his turtleneck, fisting the expensive wool, and I shove him backward.
He hits the edge of the counter hard. The impact jars a breath out of him, but he doesn't fight. He doesn't struggle. He grips my wrists, his fingers digging in, anchoring himself.
"You want to see control?" I growl, my face inches from his. "I could snap your neck right now. I could crush your windpipe with one hand. And all your money, all your strategy, all your fucking discipline wouldn't stop me."
"Then do it."
The challenge hangs in the air between us.
He isn't afraid. That’s the thing that drives me mad. He looks up at me with those dark, depthless eyes, and he isn't afraid. He’s waiting. He’s curious.
"You won't," he whispers.
"Why? Because of the truce? Because of the contract?"
"Because you aren't a monster, Killian. You just want everyone to think you are."
I let go of his shirt.
My hand sweeps across the counter. It finds the knife block.
I pull the chef's knife. Eight inches of German steel. The blade sings as it leaves the wood block.
I slam it down.
The tip drives into the wooden cutting board next to his hip. Thunk. The handle vibrates with the force of the blow. The blade catches the city light, a jagged line of silver separating us.
Alessandro doesn't flinch. He glances at the knife, then back at me. His pulse is visible in his throat, beating a steady rhythm against the skin I bruised last night.
"Are you finished?" he asks.
"No," I say. My voice is wrecked. "I'm not."
I look at him. I look at the composure that won't crack. I look at the mouth that speaks in complete sentences even when I’m holding a weapon.
And the anger shifts. It twists. It curdles into something else—something hot and heavy and desperate.
I grab his jaw. My thumb presses into the hinge, hard enough to hurt.
"You talk too much," I say.
I kiss him.
It’s not a romantic gesture. It’s violence by other means. I crash my mouth against his, grinding our lips together, punishing him for his calmness, punishing him for making me want him.
He freezes. For a second, he is rigid against the counter, his body rejecting the contact.
And then, he breaks.
A sound tears out of his throat—a low, desperate noise that vibrates against my lips. His hands fly up. They don't push me away. They grip my shoulders, the fabric of my t-shirt bunching in his fists. He pulls me closer.
His mouth opens. He tastes like mint and cool water and the lingering, metallic taste of adrenaline. I invade him. My tongue sweeps his mouth, rough and demanding. I bite his lower lip, tasting the copper tang of blood.
I lift him. I grab his hips and hoist him up onto the counter. He wraps his legs around my waist instantly, pulling me into the cradle of his thighs. The friction is immediate—jeans against wool, hard cock against hard cock.
I groan, burying my face in his neck. I find the sensitive spot under his ear and suck the skin, marking him, claiming him.
"Killian," he gasps. His voice is wrecked. It’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.
"Shut up," I growl against his skin. "Don't think. Don't analyze."
"I... I can't..."
"Let me help you."
I pull back. I look at him.
His face is flushed. His lips are swollen, red, slick with saliva. His eyes are blown wide, the pupils swallowing the iris. He looks unmade. He looks human.
"On your knees," I say.
The command falls into the silence.
Alessandro stares at me. He looks at the knife still quivering in the board. He looks at my hands, resting on his thighs.
He slides off the counter.
He moves slowly. Deliberately. He doesn't drop; he descends. He keeps his eyes on mine the entire way down, a silent challenge. I am doing this because I choose to.
His knees hit the floor.
He rests his hands on my thighs. The heat of his palms burns through the denim. He looks up at me. The city lights halo his head. He looks like a fallen angel. He looks like ruin.
My hands are shaking as I reach for my belt. I fumble with the buckle. The metal jingles, loud in the quiet kitchen. I shove my jeans and boxers down to my knees.
I am hard. Painfully hard. The blood is thrumming in my veins, demanding release.
Alessandro reaches out. His fingers are cool, steady. He wraps his hand around me.
The touch sends a jolt through my spine that makes my knees buckle. I have to grab the edge of the counter to stay upright.
"Do it," I rasp.
He leans forward. He opens his mouth.
He takes me in.
The sensation is blinding. Wet heat. Suction. The soft drag of his tongue. He doesn't hesitate. He slides down, taking the head, the shaft, forcing his throat to open and accommodate me.
I weave my fingers into his hair. It’s soft, silky. I grip it, anchoring him.
"Yeah," I groan. "Just like that."
He sets a rhythm. He uses his hand and his mouth in tandem, twisting, sucking. He knows what he’s doing. Of course he does. He’s Alessandro Falcone; he doesn't do anything halfway. He attacks this with the same focus he applies to a spreadsheet or a crime scene.
I look down.
The view destroys me.
The Prince of the city, on his knees in his own kitchen, his cheeks hollowed out, his eyes closed, serving me. The contrast between the violence of the day and the intimacy of this moment is too much. It breaks something in my brain.
I start to move. I snap my hips forward, driving into his throat.
He makes a noise—a muffled, choked sound—but he doesn't pull away. He takes it. He grips my thighs harder, his nails digging in.
"Look at you," I whisper. "Look at what you are."
He opens his eyes. He looks up at me. And there is no shame in his gaze. There is only hunger. There is only a dark, consuming need that mirrors my own.
It pushes me over the edge.
I fuck his face. Harder. Faster. I ignore the drag of his teeth. I ignore the way he gags. I need to get out of my own head, and he is the only exit.
"Alessandro," I roar.
I grab the back of his head. I hold him in place.
I bottom out in his throat and I come.
It’s violent. It tears out of me in hot, spurting waves, emptying me out. My legs shake. My vision blurs.
He swallows. He keeps sucking, milking every drop, until I am dry and twitching and sensitive.
I pull out.
He slumps back on his heels, gasping for air. A string of saliva connects us. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
He looks up at me. His eyes are watery. His face is red.
He looks beautiful.
I pull my pants up. I zip my fly. My hands are still shaking.
He stands up. He is unsteady. He leans against the counter, breathing hard. He smooths his turtleneck. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to restore order.
But the order is gone.
"Better?" he asks. His voice is raw, raspy.
I stare at him. I feel lighter. Hollowed out, but steady. The rage is gone, replaced by a heavy, languid exhaustion.
"Yeah," I say. "Better."
He nods. He picks up his jacket from the chair where he left it.
"Goodnight, Killian."
He turns and walks down the hallway. He doesn't look back.
I listen to his footsteps. I listen to his bedroom door open and close.
I am alone in the kitchen.
The knife is still sticking out of the cutting board. The whiskey bottle is still open on the counter.
I touch my lips. They still tingle from the kiss.
I walk over to the knife. I grip the handle. I pull it free. I wash it in the sink, watching the water run over the steel. I dry it. I put it back in the block.
I cork the whiskey. I put it back in the cabinet.
I clean up the mess.
I walk to the guest room. I strip off my clothes and crawl into the cold, white bed.
I stare at the ceiling.
I replay the moment in my head. Not the sex. Not the release.
The moment he looked up at me. The moment he chose to kneel.
He could have fought. He could have called security. He could have shot me with the Beretta I know he has tucked in his waistband.
He didn't.
He gave me what I needed. He saw the violence in me, and instead of running from it, he absorbed it.
I roll over, burying my face in the pillow.
I don't hate him.
I thought I did. I told myself I did. But hate doesn't feel like this. Hate doesn't make your chest ache when you look at someone. Hate doesn't make you want to stand between them and a bullet.
I realized it in the warehouse, but I know it now.
I want to keep him.
The thought settles in my chest, heavy and permanent as a stone.
I want to keep him safe. I want to keep him close. I want to keep him on his knees, and I want to keep him standing tall, and I want to kill anyone who tries to touch him.
It’s a dangerous thought. A fatal thought.
But as I close my eyes, listening to the hum of the city outside, I realize it’s the only thought that matters.
I drift off to sleep.
And for the first time in three days, I don't dream of blood. I dream of green eyes in the dark, and the taste of mint, and the feeling of falling without hitting the ground.