We reach our car, a nondescript black sedan with tinted windows and false plates. Cyrus takes the wheel while I wipe down our weapons before storing them in a hidden compartment beneath the floor mats. The routine we have practiced thousands of times.
But something feels different.
As the city blurs past the windows, I find my thoughts drifting to our penthouse. To Keira. Her rehearsal should have finished three hours ago. She’d have returned to an empty apartment.
“You’re quiet,” Cyrus says, glancing at me.
I meet his gaze, recognizing my own thoughts reflected in his eyes. “Just thinking.”
“About Keira?”
I don’t answer, which is answer enough.
We’ve always been careful. The risk of failure has been accepted as a professional hazard. But now, watching the blood dry beneath my fingernails, I consider something I’ve never allowed myself to contemplate before. What if we hadn’t walked away?
What if Marconi’s security had been better? What if there had been a third guard we missed? What if one of us took a bullet?
The thought of Keira waiting, not knowing, settles uncomfortably in my chest. She would have no way to find us. No explanation for our disappearance. The Blackwoods would ensure any connection to us vanished, leaving her with nothing but questions.
“We should text her,” I say, the words escaping before I can analyze them.
Cyrus raises an eyebrow but doesn’t mock the suggestion. “Yeah. Probably should.”
I pull out my phone, composing a message that reveals nothing.
Finishing up business. Home by six.
The relief I feel when I hit send is unfamiliar and unsettling. This consideration for someone outside ourselves is foreign territory.
21
CYRUS
The drive home is quiet, both of us lost in our thoughts. I catch Ace checking his phone several times, his brow furrowed slightly.
We park in our private garage and take the elevator up, neither of us bothering to change. The adrenaline has worn off, leaving behind a familiar hollowness. Marconi’s blood has dried on my shirt, dark burgundy splatters that tell the story of our afternoon’s work.
When the elevator doors slide open, I’m already unbuttoning my shirt, ready to shower away the evidence. But Keira’s standing there in the living room, a glass of water frozen halfway to her lips.
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating as she takes in the sight of us. The glass slips from her fingers, shattering on the hardwood floor.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, rushing toward us. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
The concern in her voice is so genuine. I’ve never had anyone look at me like that before, like my pain would cause them pain.
“We’re fine,” I say, catching her hands as she reaches for my blood-soaked shirt. “It’s not our blood.”
She freezes, her eyes meeting mine, then flicking to Ace. “Not... your blood?”
“No,” Ace says flatly, moving past us toward the bathroom.
Keira steps back. “Then whose?—”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” I tell her, softer than I intended.
She looks down at her hands, now stained with someone else’s blood. A small tremor runs through her body as understanding dawns.
“Oh,” she says simply.
