“Are you sure?” Ace asks, his usual calculation replaced with genuine concern.
Keira nods. “I don’t want to be protected from this. I want to be part of it.” She looks between us. “I need to be.”
I reach across the table, taking her hand in mine. “Then that’s what happens.”
“We do this together,” Ace agrees, something dangerously gentle in his eyes. “All three of us.”
“When do we leave?” Keira asks.
I exchange a look with Ace. This isn’t just about killing anymore. It’s about justice for the woman we’ve claimed—the woman who’s claimed us right back.
“Tonight,” I tell her, squeezing her hand. “We leave tonight.”
I watch Keira’s face closely, seeing determination replace the fear in her eyes. She’s stronger than anyone gives her credit for. Maybe even stronger than we realized.
“You want in? All in?” I ask, a smile spreading across my face. “Want to help me pick out the tools we’ll use?”
Ace’s head snaps toward me, his warning glare intense enough to burn. I know that look—it’s the one that says I’ve gone too far, pushed too much. He’s worried, I can tell. Not about the killing—we’ve done that countless times—but about Keira seeing exactly what we’re capable of. It’s one thing to tell someone you’re an assassin, another to let them watch you select the instruments of someone’s slow, painful death.
Ace thinks it’ll change how she sees us. He’s afraid she’ll finally realize what monsters we truly are.
Maybe she should.
“Cyrus,” Ace says, his voice carrying that dangerous edge, but I keep my eyes on Keira.
She looks between us, reading the tension with that uncanny perception she has. Then she stands, smoothing her hands down her leggings like she’s preparing for a performance.
“Yes,” she says. “I want to see everything.”
Ace’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing. He knows better than to try to shield her from her own choices.
“The tools, the planning, all of it,” Keira continues. “If we’re doing this, I don’t want to be handled with kid gloves. Not for this.”
I reach out my hand to her, and she takes it without hesitation. The same hand that’s ended dozens of lives, and she grips it like it’s her lifeline.
“Lead the way,” she says.
I glance at Ace, seeing resignation replace his warning. He nods once, conceding.
I lead Keira through our penthouse to the office, where we never let anyone else enter. Her hand feels small in mine, but her grip is firm. Ace trails behind us, his footsteps nearly silent on the hardwood floors.
“You two have an office?” Keira asks, her voice steadier. “I thought that door was just storage.”
I smirk, glancing back at Ace. “We need somewhere to keep our work separate.”
The office looks normal enough—sleek desk, two leather chairs, bookshelves lining the walls. Nothing that would raise suspicion if someone managed to get this far into our home.
“Here,” I say, stopping at the bookshelf against the far wall. “Watch.”
I reach for an economics textbook—one of those dense tomes no one would ever actually pull down to read—and tug it halfwayout. There’s a soft click, and I push the entire left section of the bookshelf inward, revealing a narrow passage.
“What the—” Keira’s eyes widen.
I gesture for her to enter first, my hand at the small of her back. “After you.”
She hesitates for only a second before stepping through. I flip a switch, and clinical white lights illuminate the room beyond.
Keira freezes, a small gasp escaping her lips.