I knew what had to happen next.
There was no other way out of this—not without turning the gun on myself.
Sandro had to go.
Not just out of my way, not just reprimanded or cornered with leverage. He had to becut out, expelled from the body of the organization like the infection he was. And it had to look clean. Justified. Internal. If he was removed properly—if the hierarchy itself sanctioned it—then he was no longer protected. Then, and only then, I could do whatever I wanted with him.
Otherwise… they'd say I betrayed all of them. They'd say I turned.
They'd make me the mutt.
He needs to get out of this.
That was the only way Reed stayed safe. That was the only way I stayed alive.
I didn't hear the elevator, but I heard the door open. The sound of heels tapping on marble, precise and clipped. Margo entered, her silhouette cut sharp against the morning light bleeding in through the curtains.
"What the hell have they done to you?" she said, mouth falling open. Her eyes didn't move—they locked on me like she was trying to find the edges of my face beneath the bruising.
I didn't have the patience for horror.
"Margo, I need you to loop Rachel in."
Her brows furrowed instantly. "What do you mean? What is happening, Rowan?"
"I'll kill Sandro if I have to," I said, calm. Final. "I just need him out first. So who knows shit about Sandro better than Rachel?"
Margo took a half-step back, visibly recalculating.
"Okay," she said, her voice shifting—still concerned, but now sharpening into alertness. "Can I at least have something to drink first before all the gorey talk? You called me in the middle of the night yesterday and told me to be here first thing in the morning. This apartment, not the one next to Reed's. So I knew shit was happening. But all this talk is too much for me at 10 A.M."
"Go grab whatever drink you want from the bar, Margo," I muttered, the annoyance already blooming behind my eyes.
She moved slowly, eyeing me like I might fall apart in front of her. I knew how I looked—face swollen, left side of my mouth split, knuckles scraped raw from bodies that wouldn't stop coming. The bruises painted me in unfamiliar colors, but Margo was acting like this was the first time she'd seen blood on me.
It wasn't.
She reached the bar, fingers brushing across the collection of crystal bottles like she needed to focus on something else. Anything but me.
Margo had come into play about seven years ago, back when she was still an accountant for some high-end firm with white walls, bad coffee, and too many boardrooms. One of our men had found her—charming, desperate, bright-eyed—and managed to convince her to leak financial data from her company's private client pool. Bank accounts. CVVs. Password trails. The full package.
He told her he loved her.
He said they'd build something together.
And when she got caught, when everything went to hell, he helped her escape.
Then he disappeared.
She stayed.
She'd worked for the organization ever since. At first from the periphery—smaller gigs, invisible work. But when the Prince of Blech narrative began to form two years ago, we needed someone who could play multiple roles—paperwork, presentation, personal guard disguised as a secretary.
That was Margo.
No one ever questioned her loyalty again.
Now she was pouring whiskey over two cubes of ice at ten in the morning and not even blinking.
"Rachel won't want to talk to me," she said over her shoulder. "She hates me."
"She doesn't need to like you. She just needs to hate Sandro more."
Margo let the ice clink a few more times in her glass before taking a slow sip.
"Alright," she said, her voice roughened by the whiskey but steady in a way that always made me trust her more. "Let's destroy a man. You know I love to destroy men as a hobby."
I smiled.
It cracked a bit at the corner of my swollen lip, but I didn't care. I smiled at her like I meant it—because I did. With every fractured part of me, every bruise down my side, every goddamn ache crawling beneath my skin—I loved this woman.
She was chaos with precision. A scalpel when everyone else carried machetes.
"I'll text Rachel the location and everything," she continued, already reaching for her phone. "She'll think I'm the one going to meet her. Then boom, it's Your Majesty who shows up."
"Rowan, that bitch can throw punches. I won't stand a chance."
"Then you need to work on your approach."
She rolled her eyes and walked over to the dining table where I was half-slouched, trying to keep my posture from collapsing under the pain. She set a glass in front of me—the one she'd quietly made while talking, sharp and dark and burning. Then she sat across from me, her fingers tapping lightly against the wood as she thought, her eyes narrowed like she was solving an equation with blood as its variable.
"I'll try to maybe use you," she said eventually, eyes flicking to mine with something sly. "That hoe still has a soft spot for you. So if I just told her"—her voice pitched high suddenly, her hands clutching her chest in mock panic—'Rowan is at risk, Rachel!'—then she dropped the act completely, dry and cold—"she'll probably bow down."
"Okay," I nodded, sipping from the glass slowly, letting the burn ground me. "I don't mind using me. I just need you to record the entire conversation."
"Roger that," she said, no hesitation. Then tossed back the rest of her own drink in one clean shot. "So it was Sandro who beat you up?"
"Not him. His underlings. He gave them altered orders—on behalf of Emiliano, apparently."
Her face darkened, mouth tight. "That son of a bitch. He never knows when to stop."
"He doesn't need to. No one ever made him."
"How's Reed?" I asked, almost too softly. The question slid out without defense, too honest.
Margo's expression shifted at once, lips twitching with something fond but tired. "He called me this morning on his way to the office. Said he can't get a hold of you." She sighed. "Please, call him. I really can't Reed when you aren't around."
That got a laugh out of me—sharp and dry, but real. "I'll call him," I said, reaching for my phone.
The screen blinked to life with a jolt of light that made my eyes ache. Notifications poured in—missed calls, texts, reminders, voices of a world I hadn't touched in over twelve hours. I cleared them without reading. Just noise. Then I typed the message to Rachel—location, time, no unnecessary words.
Next, I forwarded the same details to Margo.
This had to be clean. Controlled. Undeniable.
And this time, I'd make sure it didn't leave me half-dead on the floor.
Margo was already moving—phone in hand, purse slung over her shoulder, the sound of her boots a clipped rhythm across the marble floor. Always efficient. Always knowing when to leave me alone.
As the door shut behind her, the apartment fell into a stillness that was too loud.
I moved slowly, every joint complaining, every bruise reminding me of the limits of flesh. I eased down onto the sofa with a hiss of breath I didn't mean to let out. The leather felt cold through my shirt, but I needed to sit. I needed something that wasn't strategy or anger or blood.
I needed Reed.
I pulled up his number, thumb hovering over the call button for half a second before pressing it. Just long enough to wonder what I'd even say.
He answered on the first ring.
"Where the fuck have you been?" His voice came sharp, biting through the speaker like a slap.
And yet—
I missed it. God, I missed that voice. Even when it came wrapped in fury.
"I missed you too," I murmured, half-smiling, though the expression didn't hold.
"Lucien." His tone dropped an octave—cold, dangerous. "I'm not in the mood for jokes right now. Where the hell have you been?"
"I got caught up with work. I'll be back soon."
"I don't like this answer. Try again."
There it was—his refusal to settle, to be handled.
"Reed," I sighed, leaning back carefully, closing my eyes. "Can you please not get all annoyed with me right now? I'm going through some rough times."
Something in his silence shifted.
"…Why? What's going on?"
"I'll tell you when I see you."
"And when is that?"
I hesitated. My eyes opened again, staring at nothing. I couldn't tell him the truth. Not like this. Not with my face still swollen, ribs still sore, and trust still broken in all the places I didn't know I had.
"In a couple of weeks."
There was a pause—long enough to hear his disbelief.
"Wh—are you serious? Weeks?"
"I know," I said, quietly. "It's too much for me too. But there are some things that I have to take care of first."
"Can't we at least video call?"
"Not now."
That silence again. Different this time.
"You're really suspicious. Look, I gotta go now. I'll call you later. Please don't shut your phone down. Bye."
And then—he was gone.
Just like that. No softness at the end. No teasing sarcasm. Just Reed disappearing into the soundless distance, and the line going dead.
I sat there, the phone still pressed to my ear, long after the call ended.
If he could only know how badly I wanted to see him. How much I needed that comfort—his presence, his warmth, his tendency to invade every inch of space and make it feel like home. If he were here, I could lie against him and let the world be ugly for just a little longer. But I couldn't.
Not like this. Not until I made it right. And right now, nothing was.
Two days had passed, and I still hadn't left my apartment. Not the castle. Not the crisp, rented place next to Reed's that smelled like lavender and bad cover stories. This one—this was mine. My original place. It was carved out of quiet wealth: clean lines, muted lighting, silk drapes that caught the morning light just enough to look accidental. Nothing too gold, nothing too obvious. But everything—from the imported marble flooring to the black lacquered bar—whispered power. No one came here unless I let them. Or at least, that used to be true.
Only Margo knew about this place.
Or so I told myself.
I couldn't be sure anymore. Not with the way things were shifting. Every safe house was just a ticking clock now.
The bruises had changed color—mottled purples turning into a sickly green and yellow at the edges. My left eye was less swollen, though it still stung every time I blinked too fast. My ribs were tucked and taped, each breath reminding me that the damage was still healing underneath. Slow. Quiet. Like everything else in me.
Reed and I had been texting. Often. But not in any way that satisfied him. I knew he could feel the distance, could sense the absence of something he'd grown used to. The difference between obsession and withdrawal is only timing. I'd been all over him days ago, unable to get enough of his voice, his space, his attention. And now I'd vanished without warning.
He wasn't stupid.
He knew something was off.
The lock clicked.
Margo entered without knocking, coat half-off, her hair still damp like she'd sprinted out the door. She tossed her phone onto the sofa beside me with a grin that was already too pleased with itself.
"You're going to LOVE what you're about to hear," she said, breezing past me toward the fridge.
"That was quick," I muttered, smirking, dragging my fingers over the bandages under my shirt as I shifted in my seat.
"I told you—you are her weakness."
"Boo fucking hoo." I reached for one of the bottles in her hand as she returned, snatching it before she sat. "She brought it on herself."
"I like Reed so much more anyway," she said, as casually as if she were talking about movie characters.
I blinked. "Excuse me, what?"
"Oh, don't play this game on me, Rowan," she said, rolling her eyes. "The fuck you think I am? Stupid? Blind? Emotionless? You're smitten with him."
"And him?" I asked, tone edging into challenge.
"He's obsessed with you," she replied, then paused—her brow rising as the words settled between us. "See? I knew there was something going on."
I didn't answer.
Because she wasn't wrong.
"Shhh," she added, waving a hand in my face. "My favorite part's about to play."
I leaned back, watching her connect the phone to the apartment's speaker system. The tone shifted immediately. A sharp hiss of feedback, followed by too much static. Shuffling. Footsteps. Fabric against fabric. It grated. I looked at Margo, who gave me a perfectly blank face, pretending like she hadn't started the recording inside someone's goddamn purse.
Then—finally—the sound settled.
"You look well."
I let out a quiet breath through my nose. Of course Margo opened like that.
The voice that followed was unmistakably Rachel's: sharp, defensive, and still dipped in cheap perfume.
"I look like someone who sleeps with a knife under her pillow. That's not wellness. That's trauma in a dress. What the hell are you doing here?"
"Well, Lucien couldn't make it. He's in serious trouble."
"He sent you. Thought he might. I knew it wasn't love when he texted, but I did wonder if it was war."
"Love?" I scoffed quietly, lifting the bottle to my lips.
"Shhh," Margo waved again, entirely too amused by this.
"He didn't want to hurt you. He just… wants to know if you know the truth. About Niccolo. Before he comes all the way out to meet you face to face."
There was a pause. A silence that bled like tension stretching.
"Niccolo was good. Too good. Too clean. He saw Sandro stealing weight off the shipments. Tried to confront him. Didn't even raise his voice, just asked for a number."
"Sandro snapped. There was a bottle. A scream. I was in the other room—shouldn't have been there. But I was. Half-naked and stupid."
The air in the room shifted slightly. I kept my expression still, but the corners of my fingers curled tighter around the neck of the bottle.
"You saw?"
"I heard. Then I saw the blood when he came out. And the way he looked at me, Margo…"
There was another pause. This one heavier.
"Like I was already buried."
"He said I could disappear. That he'd protect me. Set me up with nicer clients. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut and let him pin it on Marlo."
"And you did?"
"Marlo OD'd six months later. He never said anything. Never fought the charges. Just vanished. Like we all do eventually. Sandro doesn't fear consequences anymore. And Lucien's the only person who ever made him nervous. If Lucien's fighting, then maybe it's finally safe to stop hiding. He used me. I was sleeping with him while dating Lucien. I kept quiet. I thought I was safe."
I didn't flinch.
But I felt Margo's eyes on me.
"But I'm not giving you a name for free. I want out. New name, new passport. Enough cash to leave the continent. And I want the tapes wiped."
"You always negotiate like a pro."
"I was trained by the best. Plus, I know you are capable. So I'm helping you, and I want something in return. Is this too bad?"
"Your audacity never failed to amaze me, Rachel."
"Never cared to amaze you, Margo. I don't give a fuck about any of you."
"Well, you don't have to be both a slut and a liar. Pick a struggle."
"Tell Lucien to come meet me if he wants this information recorded."
"Oh I'll definitely let him know. I'll pay for your order. Don't bother with that."
Of course Rachel wasn't skilled enough to know this all was already being recorded.
Then another unbearable loud shuffle started. Then the recording —thankfully—clicked off. Silence returned to the apartment, thick and settling like dust.
Margo looked over at me, lips pressed into a thin line, like she wanted to say something and didn't know how to do it without setting me off.
I just sat there. Breathing. Letting the truth wrap around my ribs, and press into the bruises already there.
Sandro killed Niccolo.
Framed Marlo.
Kept Rachel close as leverage.
There was no rage in me yet. No scream. No shattering. Just a stillness so deep it could only mean something terrible was coming.
I set the bottle down gently on the table.
"Send that recording to me," I said.
Margo nodded once.
We both knew what came next.