Two men in dark suits fall in beside us, appearing from a side door so quietly I didn't hear them approach. Security. My body clenches when the bodyguard stands close, old instinct firing before I can stop it.
I force myself to relax. They move without speaking, one in front and one behind, their postures loose but their hands resting at their sides where weapons sit inside shoulder holsters. The corridor narrows and our footsteps echo in a tight, synchronized rhythm, eight pairs of shoes on concrete, fast and purposeful, and nobody speaks because speaking would acknowledge that this is unusual and for these women it isn't.
Is this a regular Tuesday?
We emerge into a loading bay on the ground level. Pale afternoon light filters through the open bay door and the air smells like exhaust and wet concrete and the cold metallic bite of a Chicago afternoon. Three SUVs wait with engines running, their exhaust curling in the cool air, tinted windows reflecting the gray concrete walls and the security team positioned at each vehicle.
Persia gets into the first SUV, a guard holding her door and scanning the lot before she settles inside, her composure never breaking. Katriana and Ilona take the second, Katriana still on the phone with Drake, her voice a low, steady murmur that cuts off when the door closes. Onyx guides me to the third SUV with her hand firm on my elbow and I climb in, the leather seat cold against my bare legs where my skirt rides up, the interior smelling like leather conditioner and the faint, sterile scent of bulletproof glass.
The door shuts with a heavy thud that sounds different from a normal car door. Heavier. Sealed. The engine pulls us forward and through the tinted window I watch Scarlet Thorn's loading dock shrink behind us, the building I used to walk into as a guest disappearing in the side mirror.
Onyx sits beside me, her hand still wrapped around mine, her pulse steady against my fingers. She's done this before. The evacuation. The guards. The clipped phone calls and coordinated exits and armored vehicles with tinted windows. She didn't hesitate because hesitation is a luxury this world doesn't offer and she learned that lesson the hard way long before I showed up.
I look down at the ring on my finger. The platinum catches the passing streetlights through the tinted glass, flashing white and then dark, white and then dark, keeping time with my heartbeat.
I thought I married a man, but I really married into a world.
Bodyguards. Threat assessments. Armed escorts and learning to check exits before I sit down. This is my life now. I'm not visiting Massimo's world anymore. I'm living in it. And the door just locked behind me.
The SUV takes a corner and Onyx squeezes my hand. "You okay?"
I look at my best friend. The woman who survived a kidnapping and a virgin auction and fell in love with a man who grows roses on his roof. She's sitting in an armored vehicle holding my hand and asking if I'm okay with the same voice she uses when I'm upset about a bad date or a broken heel.
"I'm okay." My throat is tight but my voice holds. "Just adjusting my expectations for what lunch looks like from now on."
Onyx smiles. "Wait until you see what dinner looks like."
I lean my head against the cold window, the glass vibrating against my temple from the engine, and watch Chicago blur past through bulletproof glass. Massimo will want to know what happened. He'll make calls. He'll pull footage. He'll do what he always does, fix the problem, eliminate the threat, protect the people he cares about with contracts and strategy and the quiet, relentless precision that makes him the best at what he does.
Massimo can fix a lot of things. But he can't fix the fact that I just watched four women I care about get escorted out of a building because of me. That weight is mine to carry. And it's heavier than any armor I've ever worn.
Twelve
Massimo
Rain hits the windows in sheets, the water running down the glass in thick, uneven streams that blur Chicago's skyline into a wash of amber and silver. The penthouse is warm and the lights are low and the woman who turned my life inside out three days ago is in my kitchen making pasta.
She insisted on cooking. I told her the last time she cooked for Harrison she nearly gave him food poisoning. She told me to sit down and shut up, which I did, because clause four apparently works both ways when Sloane Whitmore decides it does.
The kitchen smells like garlic browning in olive oil and the sharp bite of fresh basil she tears with her fingers instead of cutting, dropping the ragged leaves into the pan where they sizzle and curl. She hums while she cooks, something low and tuneless, and the sound of it fills the space between the rain and the ventilation and settles into the walls of a penthouse that has never heard a woman hum.
She carries two plates to the living room and sets them on the coffee table, then drops onto the sofa beside me and pulls her bare feet up under her, tucking them beneath the throw blanketshe brought from her apartment along with three plants, a record player, and a vintage poster of Etta James that is now hanging in my bathroom.
"The dining table is too big for two." She hands me a fork, the metal warm from where she held it while plating. "Plus we can watch the rain from here."
She's right. The dining table seats twelve. I've eaten at it alone more times than I can count, the empty chairs a reminder of exactly how much space loneliness takes up. The coffee table is better. The sofa is better. She is warm against my side, her shoulder pressing into my arm, and the food smells like garlic and butter and the fresh basil she picked up at the market this afternoon with her security detail trailing behind her while she argued with a produce vendor about the ripeness of tomatoes.
I try a bite. The pasta is al dente, the sauce rich with garlic and parmesan and a heat that builds at the back of my tongue. "You've been holding out on me."
"My talents are vast and underappreciated." She twirls pasta around her fork and catches a drip of sauce with her thumb before it lands on the cushion, licking it clean with a casualness that sends heat straight down my spine. "I just needed the right motivation."
I set my plate down. Pull her legs across my lap and slide my hand under her calves, the warmth of her skin against my palm, the fine hairs on her shins soft under my fingers. She adjusts without protest, her back against the armrest, her plate balanced on her stomach, entirely at ease in my space in a way that makes my chest ache with how quickly this feels normal.
"Come here." I take her plate and set it next to mine.
"I'm not done eating."
"You can eat from here." I pull her onto my lap. She settles against my chest with her back to me, her weight solid and warm, and I feel her spine soften against my ribcage as she lets herself lean in. I reach around her for her plate and fork. I twirl pasta and hold the fork in front of her mouth.