CHAPTER 34
MALCOLM
The penthouse is no longer silent.
It is a Tuesday morning in August. The worst of the summer heat has broken, replaced by a clean breeze coming off Lake Michigan. The massive floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room are open a fraction of an inch, letting the sound of the city filter into the space.
I am sitting on the charcoal gray sofa.
There are currently three throw pillows wedged against my side.
One is a deep, obnoxious shade of mustard yellow.
The other two have a geometric pattern that Audrey claims adds "textural warmth" to the room.
I find them structurally pointless, but they are here, cluttering my previously immaculate furniture, and I have absolutely no intention of moving them.
I look up from the tablet resting on my knee.
Audrey is standing by the kitchen island.
She is wearing a pair of faded jeans and a white button-down shirt that I definitely purchased for myself three years ago.
Her hair is pulled back with a wooden pencil.
She is aggressively gesturing at a blueprint spread across the marble counter while talking to Vivian on speakerphone.
"I don't care if the client wants a floating staircase," Audrey says, her voice carrying clearly across the room.
She circles a section of the paper with a red marker.
"If we put a floating staircase in that specific load-bearing zone, the entire second floor will collapse the first time they throw a dinner party.
Tell them they are getting a reinforced steel spine, or they can find another architect. "
"I will relay the message with exactly that level of terrifying enthusiasm," Vivian replies through the phone. "By the way, Grant just sent over the background checks on the new contractors for the West Loop project. Two of them have a history of cutting corners on materials."
"Fire them," Audrey says instantly. "And tell Grant to find replacements by Thursday."
"Done. You are a tyrant, Audrey. It’s beautiful."
"I learned from the best." Audrey glances across the living room, her eyes meeting mine. A slow, knowing smile touches her mouth. "I have to go, Viv. I have a site visit at one."
She ends the call and drops the phone onto the counter.
Apex Architecture has been operational for exactly four months. In that time, Audrey has secured six major commercial contracts, hired a staff of three junior designers, and completely monopolized the guest wing of the penthouse.
Grant manages her logistics. He coordinates her site visits, vets her contractors, and ensures that she never walks into a building without a clear understanding of the structural and human risks involved.
He took to the job with a terrifying level of efficiency.
I suspect he prefers working for her; she doesn't require him to bury bodies in alleys.
I set the tablet down on the glass coffee table—which is now covered in architectural magazines and fabric swatches—and stand up.
I walk into the kitchen, stopping right behind her.
"You are going to terrify that client," I murmur, wrapping my arms around her waist.
"The client is an idiot," she replies, leaning back against my chest. She doesn't stop looking at the blueprint. "They want the aesthetic of danger without the actual risk. It doesn't work that way."
"No," I agree, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her neck. "It doesn't."
She turns her head slightly, her cheek resting against my shoulder. The faint scent of vanilla and coffee rises from her skin.
"Did you read the morning brief?" she asks quietly.
"I did."
We don't need to specify which brief. Grant still forwards me the high-level legal summaries regarding the Vance holding company. It is a habit neither of us has bothered to break.
"Simon took the plea deal," I say, my voice completely flat. "He agreed to testify against Preston in exchange for a reduced sentence. He will serve three years in a minimum-security federal camp."
Audrey’s finger pauses over the red marker. "Three years."
"It is a light sentence," I admit. "But he will spend the rest of his life as a convicted felon. He has no trust fund. He has no company. He has no family."
"And Preston?"
"Preston’s trial begins next month. Without Simon’s cooperation, he might have found a loophole. With it, the federal prosecutor is pushing for twenty years. He will die in prison."
The words hang in the quiet air of the kitchen.
I spent sixteen years standing between my father and the consequences of his actions. I built an empire to protect him. And in the end, it only took one woman with a red marker and a terrifying lack of hesitation to burn it all to the ground.
"Are you okay?" Audrey asks.
She turns around in my arms, resting her hands flat against my chest. She looks up at me, the golden flecks in her eyes searching my face for any trace of regret.
"I am fine," I say.
"Malcolm." She slides her hands up to my shoulders. "You lost your company. You lost your entire career. You’re allowed to be angry about it."
"I am not angry." I look down at her, my hands tightening slightly on her waist. "I told you, Audrey. The company was a cage. I don't miss the cage."
"What do you miss?"
"Nothing." I reach up, my thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "I have exactly what I want."
It is the absolute truth. I don't miss the board meetings. I don't miss the encrypted servers. I don't miss the constant, suffocating pressure of anticipating the next disaster. For the first time in my life, the silence in my head is actually quiet.
"You need a hobby," she says, a faint, teasing smile touching her lips. "You can't just sit on my mustard yellow pillows and read legal briefs all day."
"I am managing my investments."
"You are hovering." She pokes me in the chest. "Go buy a boat. Or a sports team. Do whatever it is retired billionaires do."
"I am thirty years old. I am not retired."
"Then what are you?"
I look at the woman standing in my arms. I look at the vintage diamond resting on her left hand.
"I am an investor," I murmur, leaning down until my mouth is inches from hers. "And my primary asset requires constant supervision."
Audrey laughs, a bright, genuine sound that completely fills the massive space of the penthouse. It is a sound that didn't exist in this apartment four months ago.
"I don't need supervision," she whispers, her hands sliding to the back of my neck.
"You threatened a client with a structural collapse five minutes ago."
"It was a factual observation."
I kiss her. The banter dissolves instantly, replaced by the heavy, grounding intimacy that has become the foundation of our daily routine. I pull her flush against me, my hands sliding down to grip her hips. She opens her mouth for me, her fingers tangling in my hair.
The sharp, chaotic adrenaline of the war is gone, but the physical pull between us hasn't faded. If anything, the absence of the danger has only made it stronger. I don't have to worry about looking over my shoulder anymore. I only have to look at her.
My phone vibrates on the marble counter, a harsh, buzzing sound that breaks the quiet.
I ignore it. I deepen the kiss, walking her backward until her lower back hits the edge of the island.
The phone vibrates again. And then a third time.
Audrey pulls back slightly, breathless, her hands resting against my chest. "You should answer that. It might be Grant."
I let out a slow, rough exhale. I reach blindly for the phone, keeping my other arm wrapped securely around her waist. I look at the screen.
It isn't Grant.
It is a secure email from a sender I haven't spoken to in four months.
I drop my hand, the phone resting against my thigh. The relaxed, domestic energy in my posture vanishes instantly.
Audrey feels the shift. She steps back, her eyes scanning my face. "Malcolm? What is it?"
"It’s an email," I say, my voice dropping back to the cold, analytical register of the CEO. "From the Department of Defense."
Her brow furrows. "The military? Why are they emailing you?"
I look at the screen again. The text is brief, heavily redacted, and carries a level of classification that I haven't dealt with since I built the initial firewalls for Vance Security.
"They are requesting a consultation," I say slowly. "They have a vulnerability in their internal logistics network. They want me to build a patch."
"I thought you resigned."
"I resigned from Vance Security." I set the phone down on the counter. "I did not surrender my security clearance."
Audrey looks at the phone, then back at me. She doesn't look panicked. She looks incredibly, terrifyingly calm.
"Are you going to take the job?" she asks.
I look around the penthouse. I look at the blueprints on the counter, the throw pillows on the sofa, the life we have built in the ashes of my father’s empire. I have peace here. I have quiet.
But as I look at the encrypted email, a familiar, dark hum of anticipation begins to vibrate in the back of my skull.
I am a problem solver. I am a tactician. I can sit in this apartment and manage investments, but it will never quiet the instinct that was bred into me.
"It is a massive logistical challenge," I murmur, my eyes meeting hers. "It would require establishing a new firm. A new infrastructure. Completely independent from the Vance name."
"A new firm." A slow smile spreads across Audrey’s face. She leans back against the counter, crossing her arms. "You mean you would actually have to leave the apartment and stop hovering over my blueprints?"
"I would still hover."
"I’ll take my chances." She reaches out, her hand covering mine on the marble counter. "Build it, Malcolm."
I stare at her. "You are not concerned about the risk?"
"The Department of Defense is not your father," she points out logically. "They are a client. You are the best in the world at what you do. Why shouldn't you do it for yourself?"
She is entirely correct.
I turn my hand over, my fingers wrapping around hers. The vintage diamond presses against my skin.
"I will need an office," I say, my voice low.
"I can design one for you." She tilts her head, her eyes flashing with a sharp, professional challenge. "My rates are very high."
"I can afford you."
"We’ll see."
She pulls me down by the collar of my shirt, kissing me hard. It is a kiss full of promise, full of the absolute certainty that we are no longer surviving. We are building.
I pull back, my thumb brushing against her lower lip.
"Get your coat," I tell her.
"Why? I have a site visit at one."
"You have a site visit at one. Right now, we are going to look at commercial real estate." I step back, picking up my phone and sliding it into my pocket. "If you are going to design my new headquarters, you need to see the space."
Audrey laughs, shaking her head as she walks toward the hallway to grab her coat.
I stand in the kitchen, watching her.
The silence in the penthouse is completely gone. It has been replaced by the sound of her voice, the rustle of her blueprints, and the heavy, undeniable reality of a future I never thought I would have.
I pull my phone out one last time. I open the secure email, type a single word in response to the Department of Defense, and hit send.
Acknowledged.
I slide the phone back into my pocket.
The Devil of Chicago is dead.
But the man who took his place is infinitely more dangerous. Because this time, I am not fighting to protect a legacy.
I am fighting to protect an empire I built myself.