Chapter 39
Gabriel
She was still shaking when I slowed down. Thighs wrapped around my waist, lips parted, fingers slack against the edge of the desk. Her body gripped me like it didn’t know how to let go.
“Am I forgiven?” She asked.
I held still, buried deep inside her, and waited. Her chest rose against mine, breath by breath. No words. Just the soft sound of her exhale cooling the skin at my throat.
“Yes.”
When I pulled out, it was slow. Careful. Her legs dropped from around me with a slight tremble, her heel catching briefly on the desk edge before slipping free. I caught her with both hands—one at her hip, one at her back—until her feet touched the floor again.
She stood. A little unsteady, but she didn’t reach for anything. Just looked up at me, skin flushed, hair slightly mussed from where I’d had my hand in it.
I bent, picked up her dress from the floor. The fabric was still warm from where it had been pressed between us. I held it open. She stepped in. No words. She turned, lifted her hair. I ran the zipper up slowly, the line of her spine disappearing inch by inch until the dress was sealed again.
I buttoned my shirt next as she smoothed her dress at the hips. Adjusted the straps at her shoulders.
Then she crossed the room. Not aimless. Not uncertain. Straight to the cabinet near the window. She opened it, pulled out the bottle I always reached for before stepping into the war room.
Her fingers curled around the neck like she’d done it a hundred times. Two glasses. Clean pour. No hesitation. She brought one to me without looking away from my eyes. Just handed it over like it belonged in my hand.
I took it. Our fingers brushed. Her gaze didn’t waver.
The whiskey burned a clean line down my throat before I checked my watch.
“Almost time?” she asked.
“Almost.”
I drained the glass and set it on the edge of the desk.
She sank into my chair—my chair—as though it were hers. Legs crossing, spine straightening as the leather cradled her.
I drew a thin charcoal folder from the drawer and slid it across the blotter.
“If you’re going to sit in my chair you’re going to do my work.”
She shook her head with a cute smile. “You would have passed this onto me whether I sat here or not.”
She opened it without hesitation. A customs manifest—names, weights, ports of call—waiting for the final markings that would secure a weapons shipment hidden inside furniture crates.
I’d always hated paperwork.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said. No flourish, no question. Her pen moved in precise strokes.
Watching her work in my space loosened something behind my ribs. I could hand her a task and trust it was done right.
I wanted to stay. To let the room cool around us. To pretend the next door didn’t lead to strategy, retaliation, more blood. But the address pulled from the dead man’s pocket tugged like a hook in my side. Every tick of my watch made it dig deeper.
I bent, brushed a kiss across the crown of her head.
“I won’t be too long.”
She didn’t look up. Focused on the page. “See you then.”
At the door I glanced back. Sunlight poured across the office—the black paneling, the slate desk, her soft face bent in concentration, brows drawn as she read. She felt my stare, lifted her eyes, and blinked—open. Unguarded. A small smile.
I carried it with me as I left.
The hall was empty. Quiet in a way that didn’t feel restful.
My footsteps barely made a sound on the polished floor, but the air carried weight. You could feel it in the walls—The house had a new scar. The portraits along the hallway stared down with blank expressions. Each step carried me deeper into the place I’d grown up in and no longer recognized.
You couldn’t lead from behind a desk. My father taught me that by failing to do it himself. But he also taught me to ask questions first—not to charge in blind, shooting before I knew what I was aiming at.
The war room door stood open when I reached it. Light spilled out onto the floor—yellow, steady, too warm for the tension in the air.
I stepped in.
They were already gathered. Two old family friends: Angelo and Luca. I hadn’t summoned them, but they felt the call loyal men feel in trying times, and came to my side. Word traveled fast in this world—especially when there was blood.
Angelo stood near the fire, nursing a glass of whiskey. Lean. Silver hair swept back. Jaw clenched like he’d been grinding his teeth since the funeral.
Luca sat with his legs crossed, one arm draped lazily over the back of the chair like this was just another meeting, another deal to weigh. But his eyes flicked to mine as I entered. Sharp. Ready.
Damien leaned against the far wall, silent. Clean now. He kept his word and quit using after a week.
I didn’t sit. Just dropped the folded note onto the center of the table.
“One address. Upper East Side. A hotel suite. Room 417.”
Angelo raised an eyebrow. “And the body?”
“Clean. No ID. No digital trail. Professional. This was a hit.”
Luca leaned forward, lacing his fingers. “And the note was all he had?”
I nodded. “No bag. No supplies. Nothing stashed in the woods either.”
“Then it’s bait,” Angelo muttered.
“Or it’s a lead,” Luca countered. “If they’re sloppy enough to leave a trail—”
“They’re not sloppy,” I cut in. “This was deliberate. Whoever hired the assassin wanted us to find it if the plan failed.”
“Then why not spring it right away?” Angelo asked.
No one had an answer.
Luca studied the note like it might say more. “So what’s the move?”
The room stilled. Even Damien looked up.
I didn’t answer right away. Just studied the paper. Room 417. Upper East Side. Too public to get in, kill and get out.
“We talk,” I said finally. “Find out who did this, figure out their connections, then we get revenge, on everyone even remotely aligned to them.
They waited.
Angelo crossed his arms. “And who do we send in? He will need to be someone cordial. Cunning. Detached enough to stay calm, but not so far removed they don’t understand what direction to take the conversation. You and Damien are too close. Luca and I are too far. So who?”
I glanced at Damien. He was already grinning.
“She,” I said.
“What?”
“She, will need to be cordial. Cunning. Objective. In control of her temper. Among other things.”
Angelo narrowed his eyes. “You have someone in mind?”
Damien laughed. “Don’t worry about it, Angelo. We’ve got the perfect girl for the job.”
They wouldn’t expect her.
And I trusted her more than anyone.
She was family, even though her ring still sat in my pocket.