Some nights the city felt like it was killing me.
And tonight I had to remind myself why the fuck we kept getting back up.
So I told the driver to take me to the only ce that hadn’t turned on me yet.
Her penthouse. The one we were building from scratch. One floor beneath the clouds, high enough to own the skyline. The crown of the city.
Her crown.
It wasn’t finished. The elevator wasn’t wired yet. I had to climb the final level by foot, stepping over cable and unpolished marble.
Now I stood in the center of what would be her bedroom. Our room.
The ss panels framed Viin like it was a painting. Full spread. City lights for walls.
This penthouse was why I hadn’t burned the city to the fucking ground.
Luca and I had nned it to perfection.
We had the bed custom built to the same size as the one we’d taken her on three years ago. Even the acoustics mattered—because when we fucked her in this room, we wanted her to hear everything.
Luca had coded the walls to move around her like a shadow. The vents shifted when her pulse rose in the night, cooling the room before she even woke. The ss tinted the second her feet touched the passage in the morning so she wouldn’t be blinded by the sun. Even the lights rose soft with her breathing.
My work was in the bones. ckout blinds that dropped without a sound when the city grew too loud for her. Floorsyered so no fall would ever bruise her. A bath wide enough for all of us, always warmed to the degree she liked.
A spa wing that carried the scent of jasmine through the vents. The pool set into the rooftop garden, water heated the moment she walked on to the deck, ss walls turned dark so no one else could see her swim.
I’d carved out balconies that didn’t hear the city, nted with roses andvender because she once said they smelled like home.
A wardrobe built with mirrored walls that never cast a harsh shadow. Because I’d never let shadows hurt our girls mind.
The firece was built low, so she could read a book and still see the skyline without the light burning her eyes.
Even the panic room had been rebuilt. If she ever had to step inside, it would feel soft. Like a shelter, not a prison.
Because this wasn’t just a home. It was a love letter written in architecture. Luca’s code. My hands.
I sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall, taking my first real breath since that morning. The city was slowly killing me. Or that’s what it felt like.
I looked out at the skyline, then closed my eyes.
And pictured her.
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Bent over.
Her thighs trembling as I fucked her, slow and brutal, while the entire skyline watched.
One hand twisted in her hair, forcing her head back just to hear her moan. Pinning her between the ss, everything we had built for her.
She’d whimper while I kept her spread and full, dragging it out until she begged.
For both of us.
Because we’d teach her to. Again.
I’d whisper in her ear that the city could burn, and I still wouldn’t pull out until she screamed both our names.
And when I finally came, deep inside her, I’d kiss the back of her head and murmur, “Ours. Every fucking inch of you.”
I swallowed hard, jaw tight, then I opened my eyes and did the one thing I wasn’t supposed to.
Broke my own ritual. I only ever checked her Veil before bed.
It was the rule—my rule.
The only one keeping me from losing what was left of my mind.
But tonight? I needed her.
I unlocked my phone.
Swipe. Tap.
Veil.
Her profile was pinned at the top of the feed on the algorithm Luca had coded for us—one that filtered out everything but her.
And there she was.
Our beautiful girl, wearing light pink. Tight. Cut low. The kind of dress that made my mouth go dry.
I zoomed in.
There, just under the strap of her dress. Whitece. Not just any lingerie.
Ours.
The Crow crest was stitched under the cup. Invisible unless you knew where to look.
But I knew.
Because we had paid to have it made. Luca and I had designed her wardrobe. Bought out her stylist under fake names.
Sent custombels, hidden embroidery, coded lingerie.
She wore us without even knowing.
I zoomed in to the ne. Gold chain. Minimalist.
But not hers.
Ours.
One of the early pieces we had slipped into her stylist’s suite.
On the back of the charm: Property of C.
Engraved so faint you’d miss it in photos. But I never missed anything. Not when it came to her.
Our initials still touched her, even if we couldn’t.
Halfway across the country, we dressed her like we used to undress her.
Every photo, we recognized the details. The brands, the colors—all made by us and pushed to her stylist through dummy ounts.
I zoomed in again. Studied the ne. Imagined my hand in her hair. My mouth on her throat.
Only for my brother’s name to cover my screen.
Rome.
I stared at it, then I picked up. “What?”
“Eastside enforcement needs backup.”
I waited.
“They botched a recovery. Loud. Civilian side. Two of ours are cornered and the crowd’s heating.”
Just Viin on another Thursday night.
“Media’s circling. Press has already posted half the scene.”
“Send Jordan’s crew in to surround it.” I dropped my head back against the wall. “ckout cameras in a two-block radius. Feed the council a different timestamp. Say it was handled an hour ago.”
“That’ll hold for now. But you’re gonna want eyes on it before it spirals.”
“Yep.”
He paused. “You good?”
I looked out over the city. Took a slow breath. “Yeah.” I ended the call. For the first time that day, I felt steady again.
Because this reminded me why. The exhaustion of holding a city together. I could bleed for that again. Because one day, she would be here. In this room.
Where she’d pull one of our shirts on and curl up on the couch near the firece—legs tucked under her, a book in herp, hair messy.
And one day—fuck, one day—we’d walk out of the elevator and hear little feet on marble.
Kids.
Ours.
Maybe two. Maybe four. We wouldn’t let the Codex dictate our children.
A girl with her mother’s eyes—big, honest, too soft for this world.
She would never learn pain the way her mother did.
She wouldn’t flinch from raised voices or wonder if love meant punishment. She would grow up knowing protection before pain. Because she would be ours.
And we would burn every bloodline that so much as looked at her the wrong way.
She would grow up knowing safety. That her uncles were kings and her dads were monsters who smiled for her.
And then, a boy.
He would have Luca’s restraint. My threshold for violence.
That quiet, inherited darkness neither of us could hide—the kind of blood that made a room tense before you spoke.
But he would be loved.
Not feared or trained like a dog waiting for the nextmand.
He wouldn’t be broken to fit someone else’s vision of legacy.
And he would know how to choose what he became. Because we would be the fathers we never got. Not handlers.
Fathers.
And if anyone—anyone—tried to drag him into the kind of darkness we were born in? We would bury that threat before it got near his name.
And our wife.
Our beautiful wife.
The one who wore our ring.
Our names tattooed on her back.
The one we would never stop choosing—not even after we had already imed her.
She would be in this very room, reading near the firece. I’d kiss her throat on my way in, Luca would kiss her cheek. She’d roll her eyes but never stop smiling.
Because she would know the truth.
We had built the empire for her.
We ran the city for them.
And we bled for the right to walk into this home without a weapon in our hand.
This wasn’t fantasy. It was blueprint.
And I’d die before I let anyone touch it.
I let myself feel it. Really feel it. Her in my arms at night. That little sigh before she slept.
Not weakness. Fuel.
The only thing strong enough to keep me getting back up when Viin tried to bury me.
I opened my eyes. Stared at the skyline.
Then I stood. Rolled my shoulders. Walked out.
Ready to face the next bastard who thought they could stand in the way of it.