THE MORNING AFTER
1796 Words
I wake to sunlight.
This is disorienting. I haven't slept past dawn in months — the insomnia usually wins, keeping me in that grey space between rest and consciousness until I give up and start my day in darkness.
But the east-facing window is doing exactly what Dante designed it to do. Golden light pours across the bed, across my face, warming skin that still remembers the cold of the library at 2 AM.
Ezra.
His name surfaces before I'm fully awake. The shudder that ran through him when I touched his arm. The way he looked at me like I'd done something impossible.
I press my palm against my chest. My heart is beating normally. Steady. Calm.
Liar, I think. Nothing about last night was calm.
I shower. Dress. Choose clothes that feel like armor — dark trousers, a silk blouse in deep burgundy, heels that add two inches and a particular kind of authority. If I'm going to face Dante this morning, I'm going to do it looking like someone who cannot be managed.
The penthouse is quiet when I emerge. Too quiet.
I find coffee in the kitchen — already made, still hot, which means someone was here recently. A note on the counter in Dante's handwriting:
Meeting downtown. Back by noon. Stay in the building.
Stay in the building.
I fold the note precisely. Set it down. Pick up my coffee.
And walk directly to the elevator.
---
The lobby is different in daylight.
The black marble floors gleam with the kind of polish that requires daily attention. The art on the walls — which looked dramatic last night — reveals itself to be genuinely impressive. Old masters beside contemporary pieces. My father's taste, probably, preserved by a brother who couldn't let go of anything that connected him to before.
Marcus is at the security desk. He looks up when I approach, and something complicated crosses his face — welcome mixed with concern.
"Miss Morretti. Your brother mentioned you might try to leave."
"Did he."
"He asked me to... discourage you."
"And how do you plan to do that?"
Marcus sighs. He's not a young man — mid-fifties, weathered in the way of someone who's seen things — and the sigh carries the weight of experience. "I don't, Miss. I'm not fool enough to think I can stop a Morretti from doing what they want. I'm just supposed to tell you it's not safe."
"New Avalon isn't safe?"
"New Avalon is fine. It's the people watching the building who concern your brother."
I go still. "People watching the building?"
Marcus's expression shifts. He's said more than he meant to. "It's probably nothing. Surveillance is normal for someone in your brother's position. He has enemies. They watch. He watches back. The usual dance."
"But?"
"But the last few weeks..." He trails off. Shakes his head. "I shouldn't be telling you this. Your brother would have my head."
"Marcus." I set my coffee on his desk and lean in slightly. Not flirtatious — focused. The same attention I give patients when I need them to tell me something they're afraid to say. "I spent four years learning to sit with dangerous information. Whatever you're not telling me, I can handle it."
He studies me. I let him. Let him see the woman I've become rather than the girl he remembers.
"There's been someone," he says finally. "Not one of the usual watchers. Someone new. Professional — the kind of professional that doesn't want to be noticed but slipped once, three days ago. One of our external cameras caught a reflection. Just a fragment. But it was enough to identify a face."
"Whose face?"
"We don't know. That's what concerns your brother. Mr. Blackwood's people are running it through their networks, but so far, nothing. Ghost with a camera. Focused on this building specifically."
My skin prickles.
I see you even when you sleep.
The London stalking. The notes. The photographs of me sleeping that appeared in my email with no sender address, no trace, no explanation.
It stopped eight months ago. I told myself it was over.
What if it wasn't?
"Thank you, Marcus," I say. My voice is steady. I'm proud of that. "I appreciate you telling me."
"Miss Morretti—"
"I'll stay in the building. For now."
The relief on his face is visible. "Your brother will be glad to hear it."
I take my coffee and walk back to the elevator.
But my mind is already somewhere else.
---
The penthouse has a gym.
Of course it does. Dante believes in controlled environments for everything, including physical maintenance. The space is professional-grade — equipment that probably costs more than most people's cars, mirrors along one wall, a boxing ring in the corner that looks well-used.
I find Kon there.
He doesn't notice me at first. He's at the heavy bag — no gloves, bare knuckles, hitting with a rhythm that suggests this is meditation as much as training. Each impact is precise. Controlled. The bag barely swings because he's hitting it through rather than at — channeling force in a way that speaks to years of expertise.
I watch from the doorway.
His body is... considerable. The word large doesn't capture it. He's built like a weapon — layered muscle, broad shoulders, the kind of physical presence that would be intimidating if I hadn't spent years learning to read bodies rather than fear them.
But what strikes me isn't the strength. It's the control. Every movement is deliberate. He could destroy this bag, destroy this room, destroy anything he wanted — and instead, he's choosing precision over power.
Discipline, I think. Not violence. Discipline.
He stops mid-strike. Turns.
Our eyes meet.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The silence is different from the others — Kieran's charged silences, Ezra's weighted ones. This is something simpler. Rawer.
He doesn't know what to say, I realize. He's waiting for me to set the terms.
"You're here early," I say.
"I don't sleep much." His voice is low. Rougher than I remember from dinner, where he barely spoke. "Your brother lets me use the gym. Helps."
"Helps with what?"
A pause. His pale blue eyes hold mine — not aggressive, not evasive. Honest.
"Everything," he says.
I step into the room. He tracks my movement with the attention of someone who catalogs everything — exits, obstacles, potential threats. It's not paranoia. It's pattern recognition. Survival instinct.
What happened to you? The question rises again, sharper this time.
"Dante told me you're a fighter," I say.
"I was. I own the circuits now."
"But you still fight."
"Sometimes. When I need to."
"Need to what?"
Another pause. His hands flex at his sides — not aggression, something else. Processing.
"Feel something," he says finally. "That isn't this."
He gestures vaguely at his own chest. The motion is almost helpless — a man trying to point at something internal that he doesn't have words for.
I understand. More than he knows.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"Yes."
"At dinner last night. You watched me the entire meal but you never spoke. Why?"
He's quiet for a long time. I wait. I'm good at waiting.
"Because I don't know pretty words," he says. "The others — Kieran, Roman — they know how to say things that sound good. I never learned. Where I come from, words were..." He trails off. Shakes his head. "Words were what people used before they hit you. So you learned to be quiet. Watch. Wait for the hit."
My chest aches.
Words were what people used before they hit you.
"Who hit you?" I ask softly.
His jaw tightens. "My father. Until I stopped him."
The way he says stopped carries weight I don't want to examine too closely. Not yet. Not until he's ready to show me.
"And now you don't trust words," I say.
"I trust actions. Bodies. What people do when they think no one is watching." His eyes find mine again — that raw, unfiltered attention. "Last night, you walked out of that dining room like you owned it. Like you weren't afraid of your brother or any of us. That told me more than anything anyone said."
"What did it tell you?"
"That you're not like other people." A pause. "That maybe you wouldn't look at me and see... what everyone else sees."
"What does everyone else see?"
"Monster."
The word hangs in the air.
I cross the remaining distance between us. Stop three feet away — the same distance I've maintained with all of them, the boundary that feels safe while still being close.
"Can I tell you what I see?" I ask.
He nods. Once. Bracing.
"I see a man who was taught that violence is the only language," I say. "Who learned to fight before he learned to trust. Who believes he's a monster because that's what he was told, over and over, until it became easier to accept than to argue."
His breathing changes. Faster. Shallower.
"But here's what I actually see, Kon. I see a man who stands at the edge of rooms so he doesn't intimidate people. Who speaks quietly because he's afraid his voice might scare someone. Who trains alone at 7 AM because he doesn't want anyone to see him struggle."
"You don't know—"
"I see a man," I continue, "who just told me his father beat him, and his immediate instinct was to explain why he doesn't talk, rather than ask for sympathy. Because you don't expect sympathy. You don't know what to do with softness. It confuses you."
His hands are shaking. I can see them trembling at his sides — those massive, deadly hands that could break me in half, shaking like a child's.
"I'm not afraid of you," I say softly. "And I don't think you're a monster."
He stares at me. His eyes are bright — not tears, something more controlled, but close. So close.
"Then what am I?" he whispers.
"You're a man who's spent his whole life being told what he is. Maybe it's time you started deciding for yourself."
I reach out — slowly, the way I did with Ezra — and let my hand hover near his arm. Giving him the choice.
He looks at my hand. Back at my face. At my hand again.
And then, with a gentleness that seems impossible for someone his size, he takes my fingers in his.
His hand engulfs mine. Warm. Callused. Trembling slightly.
"I don't know how to do this," he says. "Whatever this is. I don't have the words."
"Then don't use words." I squeeze his fingers gently. "Show me."
End of Chapter Six
- Writer
