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I despise Rex for not killing Don Giacomo, for letting the man breathe for years, for building a life inside the same system that murdered his father. Our father. I despise him for having our face and not carrying our rage.

I scrub a hand over my mouth and feel the roughness of the stubble.

The jet shudders lightly–turbulence passes. The cabin holds steady. The mirror holds my reflection steady. But nothing about me feels steady.

I leave the restroom and walk back toward the seat, then stop at the divider where Lana rests. I don’t wake her. I stand there for a few seconds, and return to my seat.

This time, I sit in a different posture–leaned forward, forearms on my thighs, head slightly bowed.

I stare at the whisky again, then push it away. I don’t need it. I need clarity.

Having a brother in Chicago changes things.

It means our bloodline extends past Rio and me in a way that threatens the simplicity of our bond. That’s what burns.

Rio and I are built on a two-person world. The rest of the universe is either an enemy or tool, threat or collateral.

Rex doesn’t fit either category. I don’t know whether to pull him close or keep him at gunpoint. I don’t know what accepting him would cost.

And that uncertainty sits in me, raw and unresolved, with nowhere to go. My chest tightens again. Fucking Don Giacomo. Dead man.

I have questions stacked in my head until they crowd my thoughts. Who ordered it? Who paid? Who watched? Who knew? Why Chicago?

RIO

I stand in the middle of the bedroom with my jacket draped over the back of a chair. My cufflinks on the dresser, and I reach for them, rolling the metal between my fingers before fixing them in place. The mirror throws my reflection back at me–hair slicked, jaw set, eyes already in work mode. I look prepared. I feel prepared. That doesn’t mean my head is clear.

Chicago gave us a brother. Half-brother, technically. The word still doesn’t settle. It hovers somewhere between fact and intrusion, something real enough to change the structure of my life yet distant enough that I haven’t decided where to place it.

I button my shirt slowly, working upward, grounding myself in the order of the task. Fabric slides under my fingers. I move to the chair and pull my jacket off, shrugging into it, letting the weight settle across my shoulders.

Chicago disrupted quite a lot.

Brox did not speak much on the flight back. That alone would have caught my attention even if everything else had gone smoothly. Noise follows him naturally, whether it’s words or laughter or commentary no one asked for. Silence on him sits wrong, like a coat borrowed from someone else.

I saw him clearly in the airplane, on our way back, strapped into the seat beside me, glass of whisky in his hand, head tilted back, eyes fixed on nothing.

If I hadn’t been there, he would have poured whiskey down his throat until the cabin lights blurred. I know the signs. I know the pace he sets when he’s dealing with shit.

Lucky for Brox, I had always been too good at reading him. His restlessness wasn’t hunger for whiskey; it was displacement, the need to outrun thoughts he didn’t want to name. So, I redirected him the only way that ever worked–by changing the atmosphere. I drew the girls into his orbit, let their bodies soften the edges of his thoughts, let familiarity do what control never could. Slowly, his shoulders eased, his breathing evened out, and the tension slipped from his posture as the flight carried us forward.

Lana understood before I ever said a word. When I met her gaze, there was no confusion in it, only recognition–an unspoken agreement. She moved with intention, settling beside him, drawing him into something that belonged to the now instead of whatever storm he’d been trapped inside. By the time the cabin lights dimmed, Brox wasn’t reaching for a drink. He was fucking full on, being alive in his own body again, which meant Lana claimed her place in the Mile High Club.

I straighten my jacket and step out of the bedroom into the corridor, my shoes silent against the marble floor.

I cross into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water, drinking it slowly while the half-brother revelation unfolds in my mind again, stripped of drama now that distance has dulled the edge.

I don’t feel anger.

Blood has a way of demanding attention even when it hasn’t earned it. I acknowledge the fact and set it aside, where it belongs for now. There will be time to decide what it means. There will be space to evaluate what, if anything, comes next.

Brox and Lana are already downstairs, preparing for shit loads of clients. We’re having another busy night.

I move toward the elevator, my stride steady, when my cell rings.

I pull it from my pocket. The name on the screen tells me everything before I answer.

“Waddington.”