The amber lights flickered once, then held—dim, but enough to see Dante’s fingers still on the edge of the manila folder. I had been watching them for the last twenty minutes, those fingers, the way they tapped out a rhythm only he could hear against the polished mahogany of the conference table. The rest of him was motionless, always motionless, like a man who had long since learned that motion was a tell. But his hands betrayed him. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe they were the only part of him that ever told the truth.
I didn’t reach for the folder. Not yet. The power had cut out three minutes ago—first the overhead fluorescents, then the soft hum of the HVAC system dying. The elevator panel beside the door had gone dark, its digital display winking out like a snuffed candle. Dante hadn’t moved then, either. He had just sat there, watching me watch the lights go out, his expression unreadable. The kind of stillness that made the back of my neck prickle.
Then the folder. Slid across the table like an offering—or a threat. My notary seal was stamped in the top right corner, the ink crisp after twelve months. I didn’t need to open it to know what was inside. The name of the South Side bookkeeper was burned into my memory, along with the date I’d pressed my seal to the restructuring documents. The date he’d died.
I looked up. Dante was watching me, his black eyes steady, unblinking. The scar along his jaw stood out in the dim light, a thin white line against his dark skin. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The folder said it all.
I exhaled, slow and controlled, and reached for the water glass I’d been nursing all night. The ice had melted hours ago. I took a sip anyway. “You’ve had this for a year.”
His mouth quirked, just slightly. “I have.”
“And you didn’t use it.”
“Not yet.”
I set the glass down. The sound was too loud in the sudden silence of the room. “Why now?”
Dante leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a second folder—thinner, this one, the edges worn. He set it on the table between us, parallel to the first, like he was lining up pieces on a chessboard. “Because the power’s out. Because the elevators are dead. And because the men in the stairwell aren’t here to negotiate.”
I didn’t touch the second folder. I didn’t have to. I knew what it was. The exposure package. The one I’d been assembling for months, the one that would burn Aldric Voss to the ground if I ever had the guts to send it. The one I’d told no one about—not even Rosario.
“You knew,” I said.
“I suspected.” He tapped the folder with one finger. “I’ve been waiting for you to move first.”
I laughed, sharp and humorless. “You could’ve ended me a year ago.”
“I could have.” His voice was quiet, deliberate. “But I didn’t want to.”
His words hung between us, heavy and unspoken. I could feel the weight of them, pressing down on my ribs. I didn’t know what to do with them. I didn’t know what to do with him.
The emergency generator kicked in then, a low, uneven hum that vibrated through the floor. The amber lights brightened for a moment, then dimmed again, as if the building itself was taking a breath. Somewhere below us, a door slammed. Not the heavy, deliberate sound of a conference room door—sharper. Metallic. A stairwell door.
Dante’s eyes flicked toward the sound, then back to me. “We’re out of time.”
I reached for the folder. My fingers brushed the edge of the paper, and for the first time in two years, I let myself touch the thing that could destroy me. “Then let’s make a deal.”
The stairwell door had opened on the forty-first floor. I knew that because I’d counted the floors as we descended, my heels clicking against the concrete steps in a rhythm that matched the pounding of my pulse. Dante moved ahead of me, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the dim light. The emergency lighting in the stairwell was worse than in the conference room—pale, sickly yellow, the kind that made shadows stretch and twist.
I had Rosario on the line. Or I did, until the encrypted relay cut out. The last thing she’d said was, “Package is live. Both ends. You’re clear.” Then static. Then nothing.
Dante glanced back at me, his expression unreadable. “You routed it.”
I nodded. “Before the line dropped.”
“Good.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to. We both knew what would happen if Aldric’s men found us before the package did its work. The thought settled in my stomach like a stone.
We reached the thirty-ninth floor. Dante stopped, pressing a hand against the door. He listened, his head tilted slightly, his body coiled like a spring. I didn’t ask what he heard. I didn’t want to know.
“They’re moving up,” he said finally. “Two of them. Armed.”
I swallowed. “How long?”
“Five minutes. Maybe less.”
I looked at the door. The EXIT sign above it glowed faintly, a beacon in the dark. “We can’t go down.”
“No.” He turned to face me, his back to the door. The light caught the silver at his temples, making him look older than his thirty-six years. “But we can’t stay here.”
I exhaled, forcing my hands to still. “Then what’s the play?”
Dante reached into his jacket and pulled out a keycard. Not the standard Blackridge issue—this one was matte black, unmarked. He held it up between us, letting the light catch the edge. “Service elevator. Bypasses the main security grid. Goes straight to the loading dock.”
I stared at the card. “You had that the whole time.”
“I had it.” He didn’t look away. “But I wasn’t going to use it unless I had to.”
“And now you have to.”
“Now I do.”
I reached for the card. My fingers brushed his, just for a second, before I pulled it away. “Why give it to me?”
Dante’s mouth twisted. “Because I’m not the one who needs it.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but he was already moving, his hand on the door handle. He pushed it open just enough to peer through, then pulled it shut again. “They’re on the forty-second. We’ve got three minutes.”
I looked at the keycard in my hand. Then at him. “What are you going to do?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his jacket again and pulled out the manila folder—the one with my seal on it. He held it out to me. “Take it.”
I didn’t move. “Why?”
“Because I don’t need it anymore.” His voice was quiet, steady. “And because you should have it.”
I took the folder. My fingers closed around it, the paper rough against my skin. “What changed?”
Dante stepped closer, close enough that I could see the flecks of silver in his eyes, his pupils dilated in the dim light. “Everything.”
I should have stepped back. I should have put distance between us, should have remembered who he was, who I was. But I didn’t. I stood there, frozen, as he reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from my face, his fingers lingering against my cheek.
“Vivienne,” he said, my name a low rumble in his chest. “I kept it because burning you would have meant burning myself. And I haven’t decided yet if that’s the only reason.”
The words hit me like a punch. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. All I knew was that the stairwell door below us was about to open, and that Dante was still standing there, his hand on my face, his eyes locked on mine.
And then the generator cut out again, the lights dimming to almost nothing, and somewhere below us, a door creaked open.