Page 27 of The Silent War
She got protection.
She got us.
Even if that meant Luca and I checked her phone just as much as we checked our own. I hadn’t gone three hours without monitoring her calls, notifications, or alerts.
And right now—she was at a restaurant.
One of Villain’s most exclusive private lounges. The kind you didn’t walk into without a dozen handshakes, security credentials, and a last name that meant something. Red list only. Dynasty blood required.
I stared at the quiet notification flag at the bottom of the screen.
Private reservation. 4 guests. Tag: Dynasty Heirs.
She was sitting in a room full of men who wanted to own her.
My jaw twitched. My grip tightened around the phone.
The empire was heavier than it had ever been. Rome was starting to use, Luca was unraveling, and the penthouse we’d built brick by goddamn brick for her—was still fucking empty.
I needed to see her.
I needed to touch her.
Even if just for a minute. Even if I had to tear the whole city down to do it.
Another buzz. A port recall. I closed the notification and opened the high-clearance message chain. The one Luca and I used when subtlety wasn’t an option.
CROW-09: Authorize access. Disrupt Room B42 North Lounge. Five-minute window.
No cameras, alerts, surveillance trail.
I sent it.
The restaurant was fifteen minutes from here. Less if I didn’t stop at red lights. I had forty-three minutes to clean up the alley. To wipe the blood from my coat. To clear my schedule and erase my name from the manifest logs.
And then I was going to seemy wife.
Because nothing—not the delusion of control, the empire, not the crown we bled to build for her was enough.
Because the one place in the world I hadn’t collapsed yet… was under her hands.
I didn’t check in at the front desk. I passed through the arched corridor—just as I’d instructed. Two servers crossed behind me, subtle nods confirming their part was done.
Room B42.
Private lounge, elite-tier and there she was.
Emilia.
Sitting at the far end of the table in a low-cut, backless navy dress. She hadn’t seen me yet. But I saw her.
God help me.
Every inch of her body sculpted like she’d been poured into that dress by the hands of God.
It hurt to look at her.
A pressure in my throat I couldn’t swallow. Because there she was, close enough to touch, but not mine.
