I hit Donnelly again, harder this time. His head snaps to the side with a crack that sounds wrong. Too final. His body goes slack in the chair, that gurgling wheeze cutting off into silence.
"Shit." I step back, chest heaving. Blood drips from my knuckles to the concrete floor. I wasn't fucking done. "Shit."
Stellan moves forward, checking for a pulse I already know isn't there. His expression doesn't change. "Well. That's that."
"I didn't mean—" But the denial dies before I finish it. Maybe I did mean to. Maybe some part of me wanted exactly this—to break something beyond repair because everything in my life feels broken and I don't know how to fix any of it.
"It's fine." Stellan straightens, pulling out his phone. "We'll handle it. Won't be the first body we've disappeared."
The casual pragmatism should be comforting. This is our world—violence and consequences and cleaning up messes. We're good at it. Efficient. But right now it just makes me feel hollow.
I stare at Donnelly's corpse, at the blood pooling under the chair, and feel nothing. No satisfaction. No release. Just the same crushing weight that's been sitting on my chest since I got that call from Danny. The same helpless rage that won't stop churning in my gut.
"Talk to me." Stellan pockets his phone, crossing his arms again. "What's actually going on here?"
"Nothing." I turn away from the body, flexing my split knuckles. Everything hurts in that distant way that means I'll feel it properly tomorrow. "Just needed to blow off steam."
"Bullshit." He blocks my path to the door, and there's something almost concerned in his expression. Almost. Stellan doesn't do concern well but he's trying. "You've been wound tight since the hospital. Tighter than usual. And you just beat a man to death with your bare hands, which even for you is excessive."
"He hit Zola." Like that explains everything. Maybe it does.
"And he paid for it." Stellan tilts his head slightly. "But that's not what this is really about, is it?"
I want to lie. Want to brush him off and walk out and pretend everything's fine like we always do. But I'm so fucking tired of pretending. Tired of carrying this weight alone while Zola's at home trying not to cry and my uncle's plotting my future and I can't see a way forward that doesn't destroy something.
"Uncle Vittorio didn't just come to check on Zola in the hospital." The words taste bitter. "He came to talk to me."
Stellan's expression goes carefully neutral. "About?"
"Succession. Leadership. The usual." I run my bloody hand through my hair, not caring that it probably looks insane. "And about requirements for taking over. Strategic marriages. Beneficial alliances."
"Ah." Just that. Like he already knew where this was going.
"He said Zola's not suitable." The words burn coming out. "No family connections, no standing. And now that she can't have children—" I can't finish that sentence. Can't repeat what my uncle said about mistresses and bastards and moving on from this situation.
"So you told him to fuck off." Not a question. He knows about the ring I've been hiding and the way I've been feeling.
"I told him you could have the title." I meet his eyes, see something flicker there that might be surprise. "We'll run things together. You handle the politics, I handle everything else. Nothing really changes except the name on the paperwork."
Stellan stares at me for a long moment. Then he shakes his head slowly. "I don't want the fucking title, Dec."
"Then get over it." The snarl comes out sharper than I intend. "Because that's the only way I can be with Zola. You step up or I lose her. Those are the options."
"There have to be other?—"
"There aren't." I cut him off. "You know how this works. You know what Uncle Vittorio expects. I either marry someone useful or I step aside. Simple as that."
"It's not simple." Stellan's jaw tightens, frustration bleeding through his usual control. "I don't want a wife either. Or kids. The whole domestic situation—it's not for me."
"You sleep around enough." I'm being cruel now but I can't stop. "You'll accidentally produce an heir eventually."
"I'm not a fucking idiot." He scoffs. "I'm careful. Always."
"Then be less careful!" The words explode out of me, too loud in the empty warehouse. "Figure it out! Because I don't know what else to do and you're not helping!"
Stellan throws his hands up, that careful control finally cracking. "What the hell do you expect me to do, Declan? I can't just magic up a solution to this!"
The outburst echoes off the concrete walls, hanging between us like smoke. I stare at my brother—my brilliant, calculating, emotionally detached brother—and feel something break inside my chest. Something that's been holding me together since I walked into that hospital room and saw Zola hooked up to machines.
