Page 47 of Dirty Game

A baby I’ve never met.

“This isn’t the same.”

Korrin sits back, knife retrieved, spinning now in lazy circles. “Sure. That’s what you said last time.”

Cyrus closes the folder with a snap. “So, what’s the plan? She can’t stay here forever. Marco will come again, and this time he won’t just bring goons. He’ll bring everything he’s got. Word is he feels disrespected by you.”

“Let him.” I can feel the static building behind my eyes, a migraine born of too much adrenaline and too little sleep. “If he touches her again, I’ll kill him. Not just his hand—him.”

Korrin’s grin turns savage. “That’s the King I remember.”

Cyrus checks his watch. “Are we done here?”

He sounds bored, but I see his thumb brushing the chess piece tattooed on his wrist. He’s never as relaxed as he looks.

“Go,” I tell them.

They rise at the same time, Korrin moving first—always ready to stand between me and a bullet, even when I don’t ask.

Cyrus follows, pausing at the door.

He glances back, and for a second, I see something like pity. “Careful, King. You don’t have many pieces left.”

Then he’s gone, leaving the room colder than before.

I sit alone, my chest tight with warnings I can’t afford to ignore.

I stare at the photograph of Sienna on the table, her face blurred in mid-motion, and think of the woman sleeping two floors up, blue eyes sharp enough to cut glass.

Upstairs, the penthouse is a different kind of fortress—glass, concrete, and too many empty corners.

I don’t bother with the lights.

The city below is enough: a thousand pinpricks, each one a problem waiting to be solved or a life waiting to be snuffed.

I pour myself a drink, neat, and let the first swallow burn all the way to my stomach.

I’m not sure what I want to feel.

Vengeance? Nostalgia? The sharp edge of guilt?

The taste of whiskey reminds me of nights in my father’s study, the only place I ever looked small.

My phone vibrates. I ignore it.

Somewhere below, the guards are resetting—scrubbing blood off tile, rearming, making bets on who’ll take the next bullet for me.

Out here, alone, the only thing I can hear is the low hum of the HVAC and the clink of glass as I refill.

I go to the balcony.

The wind tonight is vicious, carving through my shirt and reminding me that I’m alive in a way nothing else can.

I watch the street, half-waiting for Marco to make a run at my gates, half-expecting the Russians to come back with more than a few men next time.

The urge to destroy something is almost physical, but there’s nothing left to break that hasn’t already been broken.

I pause outside the library, listening.