Page 91 of Inheritance
I bent, picked up her dress from the floor. The fabric was still warm from where it had been pressed between us. I held it open. She stepped in. No words. She turned, lifted her hair. I ran thezipper up slowly, the line of her spine disappearing inch by inch until the dress was sealed again.
I buttoned my shirt next as she smoothed her dress at the hips. Adjusted the straps at her shoulders.
Then she crossed the room. Not aimless. Not uncertain. Straight to the cabinet near the window. She opened it, pulled out the bottle I always reached for before stepping into the war room.
Her fingers curled around the neck like she’d done it a hundred times. Two glasses. Clean pour. No hesitation. She brought one to me without looking away from my eyes. Just handed it over like it belonged in my hand.
I took it. Our fingers brushed. Her gaze didn’t waver.
The whiskey burned a clean line down my throat before I checked my watch.
“Almost time?” she asked.
“Almost.”
I drained the glass and set it on the edge of the desk.
She sank into my chair—my chair—as though it were hers. Legs crossing, spine straightening as the leather cradled her.
I drew a thin charcoal folder from the drawer and slid it across the blotter.
“If you’re going to sit in my chair you’re going to do my work.”
She shook her head with a cute smile. “You would have passed this onto me whether I sat here or not.”
She opened it without hesitation. A customs manifest—names, weights, ports of call—waiting for the final markings that would secure a weapons shipment hidden inside furniture crates.
I’d always hated paperwork.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said. No flourish, no question. Her pen moved in precise strokes.
Watching her work in my space loosened something behind my ribs. I could hand her a task and trust it was done right.
I wanted to stay. To let the room cool around us. To pretend the next door didn’t lead to strategy, retaliation, more blood. But the address pulled from the dead man’s pocket tugged like a hook in my side. Every tick of my watch made it dig deeper.
I bent, brushed a kiss across the crown of her head.
“I won’t be too long.”
She didn’t look up. Focused on the page. “See you then.”
At the door I glanced back. Sunlight poured across the office—the black paneling, the slate desk, her soft face bent in concentration, brows drawn as she read. She felt my stare, lifted her eyes, and blinked—open. Unguarded. A small smile.
I carried it with me as I left.
The hall was empty. Quiet in a way that didn’t feel restful.
My footsteps barely made a sound on the polished floor, but the air carried weight. You could feel it in the walls—The house had a new scar. The portraits along the hallway stared down with blank expressions. Each step carried me deeper into the place I’d grown up in and no longer recognized.
You couldn’t lead from behind a desk. My father taught me that by failing to do it himself. But he also taught me to ask questions first—not to charge in blind, shooting before I knew what I was aiming at.
The war room door stood open when I reached it. Light spilled out onto the floor—yellow, steady, too warm for the tension in the air.
I stepped in.
They were already gathered. Two old family friends: Angelo and Luca. I hadn’t summoned them, but they felt the call loyal men feel in trying times, and came to my side. Word traveled fast in this world—especially when there was blood.
Angelo stood near the fire, nursing a glass of whiskey. Lean. Silver hair swept back. Jaw clenched like he’d been grinding his teeth since the funeral.
