The morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows feels wrong somehow—too soft, too ordinary for what we've become. I stand in the doorway of the dining room, watching Lorenzo's back as he pours coffee like that is normal, like we didn't spend last night bathed in blood and adrenaline.
My arm still aches when I slammed it against the wall during the fight. There's a bruise forming on my ribs that I haven't mentioned. Small prices for staying alive.
Lorenzo turns, two mugs in his hands, and stops when he sees me. For a moment, we just stare at each other across the pristine marble floor. The penthouse is immaculate again—his people worked through the night to erase every trace of violence. You'd never know four men died here just hours ago.
But we know.
"Coffee?" His voic
