The city looked cleaner from up here.
Kane stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, one hand wrapped around a heavy crystal glass, watching the skyline stretch out. From this height, the mess of the city softened. Traffic looked organized. Lights looked purposeful. It was all an illusion, of course. But he preferred it.
Below, life went on: horns blared, brakes squealed, neon signs flickered against rain-slick streets. Up here, the air was still. Cool. Quiet. The hum of the HVAC system was barely audible, just enough to remind him that the temperature was set exactly where he liked it.
He took a slow sip of his Dalmore, a 25-year-old bottle that had cost more than some people's cars. He didn't care for the taste. He wasn't drinking to enjoy it. He was drinking to remind himself he could.
The penthouse was sparse, but not empty. Everything had its place — clean lines, dark tones, nothing soft. No clutter. No warmth. It was the kind of space that didn't invite guests. Leather seating that looked better than it felt. A steel coffee table without a single fingerprint. Artwork that cost a fortune but said nothing, unless you knew the names of the men who'd painted them. Or killed them.
The floors were polished concrete. The kitchen, unused. A folded linen napkin still sat beside the espresso machine from two mornings ago, untouched — a ritual, not a necessity. He rarely ate here. Rarely slept here, either. But it was his. Controlled. Contained. Quiet. Just the way he liked it. He didn't need warmth. He needed leverage.
And lately, that leverage had a name.
Grayson Hale.
Kane had brought him in to watch. Nothing more. Just a bartender with blood on his hands and a price he didn't know he'd already paid. Another stray pulled in off the street — kept close, kept useful, kept controlled.
But things never stayed clean.
Grayson wasn't just inside the system anymore. He was inside Kane's head.
Kane took another sip of scotch, eyes fixed on the skyline. A thousand windows blinked back at him — each one holding a secret, a sin, a debt waiting to be collected.
Grayson had become one of those debts. Only this time, Kane wasn't sure he wanted to collect.
It was supposed to be simple: track the kid, break what was left of his conscience, own the pieces. Standard procedure. Kane had done worse to men with less potential. But Grayson wasn't breaking. He was changing. Still obedient, yes — but not blindly. Still standing there, still listening. And he hadn't run. That was when Kane felt it: a shift. A pull. Something heavier than control. Desire had entered the equation. He hadn't expected that. He'd braced himself for disgust. Maybe the thrill of revenge. That cold satisfaction of seeing a man come undone.
But not this. Not want.
The silence stretched around him, broken only by the soft hum of jazz bleeding through the walls. Ella Fitzgerald, low and aching — something slow, full of ghost notes and velvet regret.
His pulse stayed steady. But his thoughts were already spiralling.
Grayson Hale was a storm pretending to be contained. All restraint and repressed fury. Eyes that fought the leash and didn't know they'd already worn it. Kane wanted to strip him down. Rewire him. Own him — mind, mouth, down to the marrow. Twist him so deep he wouldn't recognize what he used to be.
And Grayson would let him. Eventually.
A soft chime broke the quiet.
Kane turned, gaze shifting to the control panel embedded in the far wall. A faint blue light pulsed — biometric scan triggered. Tag confirmed.
Connor.
Of course.
Kane keyed the door open with a flick of his wrist. Poured a second glass of whiskey. Set it down on the low black coffee table without a word.
A few seconds later, the elevator doors slid open. Connor entered like he lived there. He didn't knock. Kane wouldn't have expected him to. His boots left streaks of rain on the marble, dark smudges that would be gone by morning. Blond hair damp from the drizzle. Green eyes sharp despite the hour. His jacket was heavy with street dust — he peeled it off one-handed and slung it over a barstool, not bothering to look back. His sleeves were pushed up to the elbows, tattoos exposed — thick, curling script and smoke-wreathed warnings inked straight into his skin.
"Fucking hell," he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. "You know what's worse than burying a guy? Burying him with company."
Kane didn't smile, not really. But the curve of his mouth twitched, faint and cold. "Is he broken?"
Connor's mouth pulled to the side. He picked up the second glass and took a sip before answering. "Grayson?" He exhaled like the name tasted of trouble. "Cracked, maybe. Still twitchy. But he didn't puke. That counts."
Kane moved to sit in one of the leather chairs, crossing one ankle over his knee. "Did he know?"
Connor's grin sharpened — not kind. "Oh, he knew. Pulled the tarp back and recognised him straight away. You should've seen his face. Looked like he saw a ghost."
"He did," Kane said mildly.
"Still zipped the bag. Still helped dig." Connor tilted his glass in quiet appreciation. "Man didn't even flinch when the shovel hit the ribs. Not out loud, anyway."
Kane hummed in his throat. He liked that. He liked that more than he should. Control. Discipline. Obedience despite the internal war. Those were the marks of someone he could mold.
Connor studied him from across the room. "You gonna tell him?"
Kane's gaze drifted back toward the city. Somewhere out there, Grayson was sleeping. Maybe. Probably not.
"No."
Connor leaned a shoulder against the bar. "No?" he echoed. "You sure? The guy's walking around with your brother under his fingernails."
Kane's jaw ticked — once. Brief. A tell, if you were close enough to catch it.
"If I told him," Kane said, low, "he'd break the wrong way. Guilt sharpens a man. Makes him useful. But grief?" He sipped his scotch. "That kind of grief doesn't just slow a man down — it kills the drive. Makes him a liability..."
Connor let out a low whistle. "You're gonna let him carry the weight without ever knowing what it is."
Kane didn't look away. "He doesn't need the truth. He needs purpose."
"Fuck," Connor muttered, almost admiring. "That's cold. Even for you."
Kane finally turned to him. "Do you disapprove?"
"I think," Connor said slowly, "you've finally found a toy you don't know whether to fuck, ruin, or keep in a glass case."
Kane didn't blink. "Who says I have to choose?"
That earned a chuckle. "Kane, come on. You've had a type since 2009. Smart mouth. Fast hands. Bad impulse control."
"This one," Kane said, "is different."
"Yeah. This one killed your brother."
Silence.
Thick. Lingering.
But they didn't need to say it — didn't need to voice the truth sitting like glass between them: Kane's brother had deserved it. And Kane hadn't shed a single fucking tear.
He set his glass down with a deliberate click. The cut crystal kissed the wood — a sound that felt final.
"You ever wonder," he said quietly, "what it takes to make a good weapon?"
Connor raised a brow, watching.
"You don't start with steel. Not really. You start with something flawed. Something soft. Then you heat it. Hammer it. Drown it. Drag it through hell until it forgets it was ever anything else."
Kane stood. Crossed to the window. Hands loose at his sides.
"That's what he is. Soft. Sharp in places, but not honed yet. Still clinging to hope. Still thinking this was just a bartending job gone sideways."
Connor gave a low snort. "That ship's at the bottom of the harbour."
"Exactly." Kane's reflection in the glass was faint — just the ghost of a man dressed like control. "So I won't give him grief. Or peace. I'll give him direction."
Connor swirled the whiskey in his glass. "And the endgame?"
Kane's smile was slow. Unkind. "To own him. Mind. Body. Soul."
Connor blinked. "Jesus."
"Not even close."
"You really want to keep him close after everything?"
"I'm going to carve his loyalty into him. Inch by inch."
Kane moved back across the floor — slow, sure, predator-smooth.
Connor watched him. "You're playing a dangerous game."
"It's the only kind worth playing."
"You ever think maybe he's under your skin?"
"He's not."
"No?"
"He's inside it."
They sat in the silence that followed — not awkward. Just heavy. Weighted with everything unspoken.
Then Connor, almost lazy: "So what now?"
Kane's eyes narrowed slightly. "Now we see how far he'll go."
Connor gave a low whistle. "Christ, Kane. Most people flirt with guys they like. Buy them a drink. Send flowers."
"I did," Kane said. "I hired him."
Connor let out a short laugh. "That wasn't courting. That was cornering."
"Same thing. If you do it right."
"You ever think he might turn on you?"
Kane looked up. Calm. Certain. "I'm counting on it."
That finally pulled a pause from Connor. He tilted his head. "You want him dangerous."
"I want him desperate. Angry. Sharp enough to cut through anything except me."
Connor stared at him like he was looking at a bomb with the pin half-pulled. "This is more than business. You don't do this with your enemies."
"He's not my enemy," Kane said. "He's mine."
The words landed like a strike. Not romantic. Not gentle.
Possessive.
Connor sipped his drink. "You're talking like he's already yours."
Kane leaned back into the leather, exhaled slow. "He is. He just doesn't know it yet."
The silence stretched again. Jazz murmured faintly through hidden speakers. Outside, the city blinked — a tired, glittering beast grinding through the dark.
Connor stood first. "You want me to keep eyes on him?"
"No," Kane said. "Let him drift. I want to see who he is when he thinks no one's watching."
Connor grabbed his coat. "You ever going to tell him the truth?"
Kane didn't answer right away. Just stared at his drink, watching the way the last mouthful caught the light.
Eventually. "Truth is just another kind of control. You use it. Or you don't."
Connor crossed to the door. Paused. "You ever gonna sleep again?"
Kane didn't look up. "Not while he's still unfinished."
The door opened. Closed. The lock whispered shut behind him. And Kane sat alone again, glass in hand, city at his feet. Somewhere down there, Grayson Hale was probably scrubbing blood from his skin.
Kane could see it — water too hot, soap too rough, trying to scrub himself clean of something that would never come off.
But Kane didn't want clean.
He wanted ruin.
Beautiful. Slow. Irrevocable.
One sin at a time.
He lifted the glass. Drained it. Let the ice rattle like bones in a cup.And when he smiled, it wasn't triumph.
It was hunger.