Chapter 3
The morning sun did not filter into the penthouse. It pierced it. It struck the brushed steel appliances and ricocheted off the white marble countertops, creating a blinding, sterile glare.
Iris stood in the kitchen, a mug of black coffee cooling in her hands. She hadn’t slept. The guest room bed was massive, the mattress swallowing her in high-thread-count cotton that felt less like luxury and more like a shroud.
In the closet, she had found rows of clothing in her exact size — cashmere, tailored slacks, silk blouses in muted neutrals. The precision of it made her skin crawl. Someone had been watching her long enough to know her measurements, or Declan possessed a terrifyingly observant eye.
She had chosen to wear the same faded denim and dark green henley she’d arrived in.
“The coffee is Jamaican Blue Mountain,” a gravelly voice said from the archway.
Iris didn’t flinch. She turned slowly.
Rocco stood there — built like a cinder block, neck thick, nose crooked from a break that had never been set right. A dark suit strained across his shoulders, the bulge of a shoulder holster ruining the tailoring.
“It tastes like burnt dirt,” Iris replied, taking a deliberate sip.
A heavy exhale whistled through his nostrils. “Boss said to make sure you eat. Private chef comes at noon. Tell him what you want.”
“I want my keys, my phone, and a cab.”
“Not on the menu.” He crossed his thick arms. “You can watch TV, read a book. The gym’s down the hall.”
“I am a prisoner.”
“You’re breathing.” His voice held no malice, no sympathy. Just fact. “Two days ago, Costa’s men burned a bodega to the ground because the owner’s cousin once changed a tire on one of our cars. You patched up the boss. You think they’d just break your windows?”
Iris set her mug down on the marble with a sharp clink. The logic was sound. That was the most infuriating part. Declan hadn’t just taken her. He had caged her in a structure built from her own survival instincts.
The private elevator dinged. Rocco straightened immediately, his hand dropping casually to rest near his jacket. The doors slid open and Declan stepped out — bringing the street with him. Ozone, exhaust, the metallic tang of fresh blood. No suit jacket. White shirt rolled to the elbows, smeared with dark, rusty streaks. Knuckles raw, the skin split and bleeding. He looked exhausted, the flesh around his eyes drawn tight with fatigue, but he didn’t slouch. He moved like a predator returning to its den after a brutal hunt.
“Rocco. Fresh crew on the southside warehouses. Costa is pushing the borders.”
“Done.” Rocco gave Iris one last impassive look before stepping into the elevator. The doors closed.
Declan walked into the kitchen. He didn’t look at her. He looked at the coffee pot, grabbed a mug, poured a cup, and drank it black, grimacing as the heat hit the back of his throat.
“You’re bleeding,” Iris said. Not concern. Observation.
He turned his hands over, noticing the damage as if for the first time. “Not my blood. Mostly.”
“Sit down before you bleed on the marble.”
He raised an eyebrow — a flicker of dark amusement breaking through his exhaustion.
“Giving orders in my house.”
“I don’t care whose house it is. I hate a mess.” She retrieved the first aid kit from the pantry — she’d located it during a sleepless prowl at three in the morning — and dropped it on the heavy oak dining table. “Sit.”
He sat. She pulled up a stool opposite him and took his hands, turning them palms down. Thick, calloused fingers. Knuckles a mess of bruised flesh and broken skin — the brutal, unglamorous aftermath of violence. She uncapped the antiseptic.
“This will sting.”
“I’ve had worse,” he muttered.
She worked in silence. He watched her. His gaze had a physical weight — she could feel it resting against her collarbone.
“Why do you do it?” She kept her eyes on his hands. She didn’t want to look at him. She only wanted to see the patient. It was safer that way.
“Do what?”
She gestured broadly with a bloody cotton swab — his hands, his ruined shirt, the invisible empire outside these walls. “You have enough money to buy an island. You live in a penthouse and spend your nights beating people to death in alleys. Why?”
He was quiet for a long moment. He didn’t look away from her face.
“Power isn’t a bank account. Power is a vacuum. If I step back, someone worse steps in. Costa doesn’t have rules. He targets families, children, civilians. I don’t.”
“You kidnapped me.”
“I secured you.” He paused fractionally. “A semantic difference.”
“That only matters to the warden.” She taped the gauze pad over his left hand.
He leaned forward, closing the distance between them. The exhaustion in his face vanished, replaced by that terrifying, absolute certainty she’d seen the night before.
“You think I want you here against your will? You think I enjoy playing the villain in your story?”
“I think you don’t care what role you play as long as you write the script.” She finally met his eyes.
“I care.” His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “That’s the problem.”
He pulled his hand back slowly. He stood. He looked at the neat bandages, then at her.
“The war ends soon. Once Costa is in the ground, you walk out that door. You have my word.”
May you like
He turned and moved down the long shadowed hallway toward the master suite. Iris sat alone at the table, staring at the bloody cotton swabs. He had given her an expiration date. A promise of freedom.
So why did the thought of walking out that door suddenly feel like a threat?
