Chapter 12 - Gabriel
She leaves behind the faint scent of rosemary and something floral—her shampoo, the one I smelled in her apartment that night. It lingers in the private dining room like a ghost, and I find myself breathing it in, committing it to memory.
The waiter appears to clear the table, but I wave him away. I want a few more minutes alone with the aftermath of her presence.
The risotto sits barely touched on her abandoned plate. She forced down perhaps three bites, her throat working with visible effort each time. She thought I didn't notice. She was wrong.
I noticed everything.
The way she held her shoulders—rigid, braced for impact.
The way her eyes kept darting to the door, calculating escape routes she would never use.
The way her hands trembled when she reached for her wine glass, then pulled back without drinking.
The way she flinched, almost imperceptibly, every time I leaned toward her.
She's terrified of me. That's expected, even satisfying in its own way.
But she came anyway. She sat across from me and discussed terms and maintained her composure through sheer force of will. She didn't beg, didn't cry, didn't crumble the way so many others would have. When I pushed, she pushed back—small resistances, token negotiations, but resistance nonetheless.
Honesty, she said, when I asked what she thought I wanted to hear. I don't know what you want to hear.
Most people lie to me. They tell me what they think will please me, protect them, advance their interests. They're so busy performing that they forget I can see through every mask they wear.
She didn't perform. She was terrified, and she let me see it, and somehow that honesty was more compelling than any artifice could have been.
I pour myself another glass of wine and settle back in my chair, replaying the lunch in my mind.
The moment that lingers most is when she said the word kill. She was asking about other florists, questioning why I'd chosen her, and she said people who would kill for this kind of contract—and then she heard herself, heard the word hanging in the air between us, and her face went white.
For just a second, she was back in that doorway. I could see it in her eyes—the memory of blood and candlelight and the man I'd just finished destroying. The mask of professional composure slipped, and beneath it was raw, animal terror.
I liked that moment. I wanted to live inside it, to stretch it out, to see how far I could push before she broke entirely.
But I didn't push. Not today. Today was about establishing the framework, laying the groundwork, drawing her one step closer to the web I'm spinning. There will be time for pushing later.
There will be time for everything.
I finish my wine and signal for the check. The ma?tre d' appears instantly—he knows better than to keep me waiting—and processes my card with practiced efficiency. I tip generously, as always. Money is a tool, and tools should be used to ensure smooth operations.
The car is waiting when I step outside. James, my driver, opens the door without a word. He's been with the family for fifteen years and knows better than to make conversation unless spoken to.
"The office," I say, sliding into the back seat.
"Yes, sir."
The city slides past the tinted windows as we navigate through the financial district. I watch the pedestrians without really seeing them, my mind still circling around the woman who sat across from me an hour ago.
Something about being in her presence was different from watching her through surveillance feeds. On camera, she's a figure moving through spaces, a collection of habits and patterns to be cataloged. In person, she's—
I search for the right word and can't find it.
Vivid. That's close, but not quite right. Real. Better, but still insufficient.
Alive.
Yes. That's it. She's alive in a way that most people aren't. Most people sleepwalk through their existence, going through motions, following scripts, never fully inhabiting their own skin.
But she—even terrified, even desperate, even trapped—she was present.
Awake. Burning with something that made me want to get closer, to warm myself at her fire.
Or to extinguish it. I'm not sure which.
The car pulls up to Ambrose Tower, and I push these thoughts aside. There's work to be done, obligations to meet, an empire to maintain. I can't afford to spend the entire afternoon mooning over a florist like some lovesick adolescent.
But as I ride the elevator to the top floor, I find my hand drifting to my pocket, touching the phone that will buzz when Hutton reports on her movements. Wondering what she's doing right now. Whether she's reading the contract. Whether she's thinking about me.
Josiah is waiting in my office.
Of course he is. My brother has an uncanny ability to appear whenever I least want to see him, as if he's installed sensors that alert him to my presence. He's standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out at the city with an expression of studied calm.
"How did it go?" he asks without turning around.
"As expected."
"That's not an answer."
I move to my desk and sit, putting the familiar barrier of polished wood between us. "She's considering the contract. She'll sign by Monday."
"You're certain?"
"Yes."
Now he turns, and I see the concern he's trying to hide behind that neutral expression. Josiah has never been as good at masks as he thinks he is—or perhaps he simply doesn't bother to hide from me, knowing I'll see through it anyway.
"Gabriel." He moves to the chair across from my desk, the same chair Benedict occupied yesterday. My brothers do love to make themselves comfortable in my space. "I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer honestly."
"You need a great many things. Whether you get them is another matter."
"This isn't a joke."
"I'm not laughing."
He holds my gaze for a long moment, and I see him gathering himself, preparing for a confrontation he's been building toward for days.
"What is this woman to you?"
The question is direct, unavoidable. I consider deflecting, dismissing, or turning it into another verbal sparring match.
But Josiah deserves better than that. He's been my partner, my advisor, my closest confidant since we were children.
If I can't be honest with him, I can't be honest with anyone.
The problem is, I'm not sure I know the answer.
"She's a witness," I say finally. "One I'm managing."
"You don't manage witnesses by taking them to lunch at Umberto's."
"I'm bringing her into our orbit. Keeping her close, where I can watch her. It's the safest approach."
"Safest for whom?" Josiah leans forward, elbows on knees. "Brother, I've watched you operate for three decades. I know how you handle threats. This isn't handling. This is—" He pauses, searching for words. "This is something else."
"What would you have me do? Kill her?"
"It would be cleaner."
The suggestion lands like a stone in still water.
He's right, of course. From a purely practical standpoint, eliminating her would be the simplest solution.
One body, properly disposed, and the problem vanishes.
It's what we've done before, what the Brotherhood has always done with loose ends that can't be tied any other way.
But the thought of it—of her light extinguished, her voice silenced, her body cold and still—
Something in my chest revolts. Violently.
"No," I say, and my voice comes out harder than I intended. "She's not to be touched. Not by you, not by Benedict, not by anyone in the Brotherhood. Do you understand?"
Josiah's eyes widen slightly. He's surprised—not by the command, but by the vehemence behind it.
"Gabriel," he says slowly. "What is she to you?"
The question again. The same question I can't answer.
"She's mine," I say. "That's all you need to know."
He studies me for a long moment, and I see understanding dawn in his expression—along with something else. Worry. Fear.
"This is dangerous," he says quietly. "You know that."
"I know."
"The Brotherhood won't tolerate a liability. If they decide she's a threat—"
"I'll handle the Brotherhood."
"Will you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're compromising everything we've built for a woman you've known for three weeks."
"I'm not compromising anything."
"You're not eating. You're not sleeping.
You're delegating responsibilities you've never delegated before.
You spent two hours yesterday staring at surveillance footage instead of attending the Morrison meeting.
" He stands, his composure cracking for the first time.
"This isn't like you, Gabriel. You're the one who taught me that emotion is weakness, that attachment is a liability. You're the one who—"
"I know what I taught you." I stand as well, placing my hands flat on the desk. "And I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?"
We face each other across the polished wood, two brothers who've shared everything—secrets, sins, the weight of a legacy that would crush lesser men. We've kept each other alive, kept each other sane, kept each other anchored to something resembling humanity even as we did inhuman things.
But this is something I can't share with him. This hunger, this obsession, this inexplicable need that's taken root in my chest and won't be dislodged—he wouldn't understand. He's never felt anything like it.
Neither have I, until now.
"Trust me," I say finally. "Please."
The word is foreign on my tongue. I don't ask for trust. I command loyalty, demand obedience, expect results. But Josiah is different. Josiah is my brother.
He holds my gaze for another long moment. Then he sighs, and some of the tension drains from his shoulders.
"I trust you," he says. "I always have. But I'm not the only one watching, Gabriel. The Brotherhood has eyes everywhere. If you can't control this—if she becomes a problem—"
"She won't."