The morning sun cuts through the penthouse bedroom, sharp and guiltless, painting stripes across the rumpled silk sheets where Alex’s body had been. Ella is reaching for her robe when the door bursts open without a knock.
Rose stands there, her usually impeccable uniform crisp but her face the color of old paper. Her hands twist in her apron. "Sir," she says, the word brittle. "There's... something at the main gate."
Alex is already in motion. He doesn't look at Rose, doesn't ask questions. He snatches a fresh white shirt from the valet stand, the fabric starched and severe. He shrugs into it, his movements economical, buttoning it with one hand while the other finds the gun he’d left on the nightstand. He slides it into the waistband at his back. Smooth. Automatic.
Ella’s feet find the cool floor. She ties the robe, her fingers fumbling only once. She doesn't speak. She just follows him out the door, her bare feet silent on the polished marble stairs behind his heavy tread.
The mansion’s grand foyer feels cavernous, echoing with their hurried descent. Morning light glares off the chandelier, too bright. The front door is already open, held by a stone-faced guard whose eyes track nothing but the driveway.
At the wrought-iron entrance gate, the world holds its breath. A package sits centered on the cobblestones. Neat. Square. Wrapped in brown paper now dark and glossy in patches. The air smells of copper and damp earth.
Alex doesn't stop. He walks right up to it, his shadow falling across the stain. He crouches, his tailored pants pulling tight. He doesn't use a knife. He just tears the paper open with his bare hands.
Ella sees it first. A finger. Severed cleanly at the knuckle. Pale. Waxy. It wears a heavy signet ring, the crest a snarling bear carved into black onyx. The Volkov crest. The blood is fresh, still seeping into the paper.
Silence. Then a car engine, approaching fast. A black sedan skids to a halt just beyond the gate. Daniel is out before it fully stops, his tie crooked, a file folder clamped under his arm.
His eyes dart from the open package to Alex’s face. His voice is wire-tight. "The Volkovs. They hit the Emerald Lounge an hour ago. Took the safe, shot Luca in the knee. They're making a move on the downtown clubs."
Alex doesn't look at the finger again. He stands, wiping his hands on his trousers, a slow, deliberate drag. His expression doesn't change. It just settles into something colder than the morning. Glacial.
He turns. His gaze finds Ella, who has wrapped her arms around herself, the silk robe thin against the sudden chill. He closes the distance between them in two strides.