The drive back from the docks was silent. Not the tense, brittle kind that follows an argument—but the kind that sits between two people who have too much on their minds to waste words.
Rain misted against the windshield, blurring the neon reflections of late-night Rome. Kairo's hands rested easy on the wheel, though his eyes never stopped moving—mirrors, intersections, rooftops. Elira sat angled slightly toward him, her coat still damp, the faint scent of saltwater clinging to her hair.
She had questions. Dozens. None of them felt safe to ask while the city still seemed to be watching.
It wasn't until the gates of his private villa slid shut behind them that she let herself breathe. The gravel crunched under the tires, the sound muffled by the gardens stretching out in manicured shadow.
Inside, the warmth hit instantly—polished wood, soft lamplight, the faint aroma of coffee that had probably been brewed hours ago. Kairo shrugged off his jacket, revealing the cut on his forearm where Rahn's blade had grazed him.
"You should clean that," she said.
"It's nothing."
"Humor me," she replied, already heading for the small cabinet in the corner of the kitchen. She found the first-aid kit without asking.
When she came back, he was standing by the tall windows, watching the rain streak down the glass. He didn't turn when she approached, but he didn't stop her either.
"Sit," she said softly.
One brow lifted. "Since when do you give orders?"
"Since you decided to bleed in front of me and pretend it doesn't matter."
For a second, he almost smiled. But he sat, letting her take his arm. She worked quietly, the antiseptic sting breaking the silence.
"You fight like you don't care if you walk away," she murmured, taping the bandage in place.
He looked at her then, really looked. "And you fight like you've never had the luxury of standing still."
Her hands stilled. The truth in the words made her throat tighten. She could have asked him how he knew, but she didn't want to hear the answer. Not yet.
Instead, she finished wrapping his arm and stepped back. "There. You'll live."
His gaze lingered on her, unreadable. "I always do."
But the way he said it carried no arrogance. It was a statement carved from habit, from surviving things most people never saw.
They stood there for a moment too long, the space between them charged but quiet. Then his phone buzzed on the counter.
He didn't check it immediately. Just looked out at the rain again, jaw tightening.
"Trouble?" she asked.
"Trouble doesn't wait for an invitation," he said, picking it up.
Kairo's eyes flicked to the screen, the name lit in cold white letters.
Vale.
He let it ring twice before answering, voice flat. "You have bad timing."
"Timing," Vale replied, "is a luxury neither of us can afford. You've been busy."
Elira stepped closer, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. She couldn't hear the other voice, but the sharpness in Kairo's expression told her enough.
"You're reaching too far into my city," Kairo said, pacing toward the window. "I should take it personally."
A quiet laugh echoed from the speaker. "Take it however you want. You know how this game works. You keep playing defense, and I'll still have the board by morning."
Kairo's gaze sharpened. "Then maybe I'll flip the table."
A pause. "You always did think violence was strategy."
The line went dead before Kairo could answer. He lowered the phone slowly, his reflection caught in the rain-dark glass—a man who'd been in too many wars to mistake words for threats.
"What did he want?" Elira asked.
Kairo turned to face her. "Not what—who. He's sending someone."
Her brow arched. "To talk?"
"To take."
She pushed off the counter. "Then we'll be ready."
His lips twitched, not quite a smile. "We?"
"You think I'm just going to sit here and make tea while Vale tears into you?"
"I think," Kairo said, stepping closer, "you've already been shot at, chased through half the city, and spent the night on a boat that probably violated every maritime safety law in existence."
"Your point?"
"That most people would want to step away."
"I'm not most people."
The silence stretched between them, not cold but taut. He didn't move back. Neither did she. Somewhere in the house, the rain tapped against the roof, steady as a heartbeat.
Finally, he said, "If you stay, you stay on my terms."
Her eyes narrowed. "And what are those terms?"
"You listen when I tell you to move. You don't improvise in the middle of a firefight. And—" his voice dropped lower—"you don't get between me and Vale."
She held his gaze, her own voice steady. "Then you'd better make sure you don't give me a reason to."
Kairo's jaw flexed. He could argue. He could order. But he didn't. Instead, he reached past her, setting his phone down on the counter beside her hand.
"We've got a few hours before they make their move," he said, tone shifting back to business. "Rest. Eat. Think."
"And you?"
He walked toward the stairs, pausing just long enough to glance back. "I don't rest."