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“Sol can manage. And I’ll make Alessio believe the control sits in his hands. I’ll give him the illusion. Let him enjoy it. The least we can do before killing him.”

“If you can pull that off,” he says. “Great.”

“I’ll bring Noor and Maya,” I add.

“Right. Be here by seven.”

The call ends. The line goes dead. For a second, the cell stays pressed to my ear, as if I didn’t hear Brox cutting the line. I lower my hand and let the device hang loose in my grip.

I turn toward the office, already sorting steps, already assigning roles in my head.

BROX

I got the penthouse the moment I knew Rio was coming. The decision settled as soon as his name entered the equation. Highest floor. Controlled access. Private elevators. Hallways I can see from one end to the other. This city doesn’t belong to me–but this space does. If anything unfolds, it unfolds here.

Jack Crawford came through again, he sent his other jet to bring Rio, Noor and Maya from Miami straight to Chicago. I appreciate the gesture more than I’ll ever say out loud. He knows exactly who we are. More importantly, he knows what we’re capable of.

I’m standing by the windows when the elevator hums. I don’t turn immediately.

Rio steps through first, as expected, carrying himself with the same calm certainty he brings everywhere. Noor and Maya flank him, their voices already layered over each other, their laughter bright, unfiltered, bouncing off the walls before the doors even close.

Their sound fills the penthouse instantly.

They don’t pause to take in the view. They don’t slow. Words tumble out of them in quick succession, sentences overlap, their stories collide. Something about the flight, something about a joke I miss entirely.

Then they see Lana.

She’s with me, close enough that her presence anchors me. Noor spots her and lets out a sound that borders on a squeal.

“Lana!”

Maya doesn’t wait. They surge forward together, arms flying, voices spiking higher, and Lana is caught between them in an explosion of excitement. They hug her, all at once. Lana laughs too. Full, unguarded.

I stay close, one hand finding the small of her back automatically, steadying her amid the chaos. Noor pulls her sideways and Maya grabs her other hand, already firing questions faster than answers can form.

And just like that, they drift away from us toward the center of the living space, still wrapped around Lana, voices tumbling in rapid bursts. Topics jump without warning. Miami. The jet. Something about turbulence. Something else entirely. I don’t catch half of it.

What I do catch is the absence of tension. They’re loose. Free in a way I rarely witness. I realize, watching them, that I’ve never seen the three of them together with nothing pressing in from the edges. No clients. No expectations. No roles.

Normally, I’d rein it in. Tonight, I don’t. I let them have it.

I check the penthouse again, the space is stretching wide around us, open-plan and deliberate. The living area bleeds into the wide corridor which splits off toward the bedrooms, long enough to create distance, short enough to monitor.

Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate the outer wall. Chicago glows beyond them, lights flickering on as evening deepens. Lake Michigan darkens into something vast and watchful in the distance.

It’s perfect.

Whatever is meant to happen here, it will happen on our terms. I’m not letting my pets wander into unknown territory, not in this city, not with this many variables circling.

The girls gravitate toward the windows, still talking, their hands moving as they gesture. Their reflections move with them, layered against the city lights.

Rio sets his bag down near the bar and rolls his shoulders, settling into the space as if he’s been here all along. He looks around once, quick and assessing, then nods to himself.

A knock cuts through the noise. We look at each other, and the room falls silent all at once. Moments like this sharpen my awareness–I note the absence of firearms without panic. A blade serves the same purpose when the distance is close enough.

I cross the living area, and open the door. It’s room service.

We exhale together as I take the cart–a couple of bottles of whiskey and champagne, an ice bucket, glasses aligned exactly where they should be. I sign, tip, and roll it inside, nudging the door shut with my foot.