28. Fall of a Vulture
Fall of a Vulture
Elias
I woke to the sound of Rowan's breathing, steady and deep beside me in the narrow bed.
Three days. That's how long I'd been in his New York apartment, sleeping on sheets that smelled like him, watching him move through the small space with the careful economy of someone who'd learned to live light.
Three days of tentative conversations and shared meals and the fragile hope that felt like holding glass in bare hands.
He was still asleep, face relaxed in a way that made him look younger, more like the boy his mother had talked about with such fierce pride.
Dark hair fell across his forehead, and I had to resist the urge to brush it back, to touch him in a way that might wake him and remind us both how complicated this was.
The morning light filtering through his thin curtains painted everything in shades of gold and possibility.
Outside, New York was waking up with its usual chaos of sirens and car horns and the constant hum of eight million people trying to make it through another day.
But inside this small room, there was just the two of us and the weight of everything we hadn't said yet.
My phone buzzed against the nightstand, pulling me out of thoughts that were becoming increasingly dangerous. A text from my lawyer:
Event confirmed tonight. Midtown. I have what you need.
I closed the message and set the phone aside carefully, not wanting to wake Rowan. Today was the day. After weeks of quiet investigation, of following paper trails and making discrete inquiries, everything was finally in place. Victor had played his hand, and now it was time to play mine.
Rowan stirred beside me, a soft exhale that made my chest tighten with want I was still learning to acknowledge. His eyes opened slowly.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning.”
“Coffee?” he asked, already starting to sit up.
“I'll make it.”
“You don't have to?—”
“I want to.”
The simple words carried more weight than they should have, but Rowan just nodded and settled back against the pillows. I'd been making his coffee for three mornings now, had learned how he liked it strong and black, had memorized the way his face relaxed when he took that first sip.
Small intimacies. The kind of domestic routine that felt both natural and revolutionary, given where we'd started.
In the kitchen, I went through the familiar motions of grinding beans and heating water, letting the routine calm the nervous energy that had been building since I'd gotten my lawyer's text.
Tonight, everything would change. Either Victor's influence over our lives would end, or this careful peace Rowan and I had built would shatter under the weight of truths that were too dangerous to speak.
“You're tense,” Rowan said from the doorway, wrapped in a robe that was too big for him and made him look almost fragile.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
I handed him his coffee, let our fingers brush as he took the mug. The contact sent electricity up my arm, the same jolt I'd been feeling for days without acting on it.
“Work stuff. There's a situation I need to handle today.”
His eyes sharpened, reading something in my expression that I'd tried to hide. “What kind of situation?”
“One that requires a suit and a lawyer.”
“Elias.”
The way he said my name, like he was trying to see past whatever walls I'd built, made me want to tell him everything. About Victor's manipulation, about the ultimatum that had driven us apart, about the weeks I'd spent building a case that would finally free us both from my brother's shadow.
But not yet. Not until it was done and Victor could never hurt him again.
“Trust me,” I said instead. “Just for today. Let me handle this.”
Rowan studied my face for a long moment, coffee mug cradled between his hands like he was drawing warmth from it. Finally, he nodded.
“Okay. But if you're going into battle, you're not doing it on an empty stomach.”
He moved around the small kitchen with practiced ease, pulling eggs from the refrigerator, bread from the counter, creating a simple breakfast that felt like home.
I watched him work, memorizing the way he moved, the unconscious grace of someone who'd learned to take care of himself and was slowly learning to take care of others too.
“Caleb’s coming by later,” he said, cracking eggs into a pan. “We're going to walk around the city, maybe catch a show before the gig. You want to come?”
The invitation was casual, but I heard the hope underneath it.
“I wish I could. This thing tonight... it's important.”
“More important than us?”
“Nothing's more important than us,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. “That's why I have to do this.”
Rowan turned from the stove, spatula in hand, and the look in his eyes made my breath catch. There was something different there, something raw and open that hadn’t been present in the careful distance we’d maintained since I’d arrived in New York.
“Elias,” he started, then stopped, shaking his head like he was clearing it of thoughts too dangerous to voice.
“What?” I asked gently, setting down my mug.
“Nothing. Just... be careful tonight. Whatever you’re walking into.”
The concern in his voice, the way he was looking at me like I was something precious that might break, made my chest tighten. This—this was what love felt like, wasn’t it? The careful tending of another person’s wellbeing, the willingness to trust even when you didn’t understand.
After breakfast, I dressed carefully. My best suit—the one that made me look like someone who belonged in boardrooms and private clubs, someone who could play the games men like Victor had perfected. The mirror reflected a stranger: composed, dangerous, ready for war.
Rowan watched me from the bed, still in his robe, coffee mug balanced on his knee. “You look like you’re going to destroy someone.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Good.” The simple word, the fierce satisfaction in his voice, reminded me why I was doing this. Not just for abstract justice or moral righteousness, but for the man sitting on rumpled sheets, watching me prepare to fight for something that mattered more than my own safety.
I crossed the room, letting the gravity between us pull me closer.
Rowan looked up, and I saw the hope and fear tangled together in his eyes.
Before he could say another word, I cupped his cheek in my palm and kissed him—slow, deliberate, letting everything I couldn’t say out loud pour into the space between us.
His hand found my wrist, holding me steady, grounding me in a way nothing else could.
When I pulled back, he smiled—a real one, small but shining through the worry. “Come back to me,” he whispered.
“Always,” I promised, brushing my thumb along his jaw. “No matter what.”
The address my lawyer had given me led to one of those private clubs that existed in the spaces between legitimate business and actual power.
Victor was holding court in the main dining room when I arrived, surrounded by men who treated politics like a blood sport and human beings like chess pieces.
He looked exactly like what he was: a predator dressed in expensive clothes, charming and dangerous and completely convinced of his own invincibility.
The doorman hesitated when I gave my name, but my reputation preceded me. In certain circles, the Grant name still carried weight, even if I'd spent years trying to distance myself from what it represented.
I waited in the bar, nursing a whiskey I didn't want, watching Victor through the archway that separated the two rooms. He was in his element here, animated and confident, telling some story that had his audience laughing at all the right moments.
It would have been easy to hate him if I hadn't understood him so completely. Victor had always needed to be the smartest person in the room, the one with the most information, the most leverage, the most control. It wasn't enough for him to win; everyone else had to lose.
“Mr. Grant?”
I turned to find a young woman in an expensive suit, probably Victor's assistant.
“Your brother asked me to tell you he'll be with you shortly. He's just finishing up with some colleagues.”
“I'll wait.”
She nodded and disappeared back into the dining room, probably to deliver the message that I'd arrived and was ready to play whatever game Victor thought he was controlling.
Twenty minutes later, he appeared in the bar, still wearing that satisfied smile that had made me want to hit him since we were children.
“Elias. This is unexpected. I thought you were playing house with your little pet.”
The casual cruelty of it, the way he reduced Rowan to an object of possession, sent anger flooding through my system. But I'd come here for a reason, and losing my temper would only give Victor more ammunition.
“We need to talk,” I said, finishing my whiskey and standing up. “ Privately.”
“Of course. There's a quiet room upstairs. Perfect for... family discussions.”
He led me through corridors lined with portraits of dead white men who'd probably built their fortunes on other people's misery, up a staircase that creaked with the weight of history and accumulated sins.
The room he chose was small and windowless, furnished with heavy leather furniture that was designed to intimidate rather than comfort. Victor settled into one of the chairs like he was claiming a throne.
“So,” he said, pouring himself a drink from the crystal decanter on the side table. “What brings you all the way here? Finally ready to discuss reasonable terms for ending this unpleasant business?”
“Actually, I'm here to discuss your resignation.”
Victor laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “My resignation from what, exactly?”
“Everything. The town council, the development board, every position of influence you've managed to worm your way into over the years.”
“And why would I do that?”