Page 39 of The Silent War

The yacht was built as a throne she didn’t know she had. Every line, every inch—commissioned for her. And now Luca wanted dynasty sons and daughters crawling over it like they mattered?

But then the other part hit. The part that made my chest burn hotter.

She’d be on it.

The corner of my mouth twitched. “The rest will leave that night. But we’ll convince her to stay.”

Luca took another drag. “Then take care of your hands. Next month. Otherwise only mine will be getting her off. And we both remember how she always needed both.”

The sound that left me wasn’t a laugh, not really. Too rough. Too fucking tired. But close enough. And he wasn’t wrong. She always needed both.

I listened to her breathing again, soft through the speaker. Nodded once.

I’d take care of my body. Heal. Because when she touched me again, I didn’t want her to see cuts and bruises and swollen muscles. I wanted her to see me. Tattooed, scarred, but not bleeding.

My eyes dropped to my fists. Ruined. They didn’t look like hands that could hold her or ever had deserved to.

Luca slid the phone back into his pocket, then stood. He reached down, pulled me up with him.

I met his eyes. “Did you rip that bastard apart today?”

For the first time all night, his calm cracked. Just a flicker. Then he nodded.

Good.

Because I hated her brother. The way Alexander moved—contracts and signatures and the kind of pride that only worked in boardrooms. He thought paper made him powerful.

But Luca had stripped him already. In front of men who mattered. Cut him down to size without lifting a hand.

And that mattered more. Because people like Alexander only cared about perception. The illusion of power.

And nothing tore it faster than silence from a Crow, followed by ruin.

I dragged deep on the cigarette. My hands still throbbed, chest still heavy, but her breathing lingered in my head like a tether.

For the first time all night, I wasn’t drowning.

Chapter Fourteen

EMILIA

Alexander was behind the long glass table, sleeves rolled, the file spread open between us like an accusation. My file. My name stamped across page after page in platinum emboss.

EMILIA V. ADAMS XII

“You stole it.” His anger clear without raising his voice. Fury in dynasty men never needed volume — it lived in restraint, in the pause.

“I didn’t?—”

“You stole my inheritance. My corridor. My heirs’ birthright.” He pushed the folder once, hard enough that it slid across glass. It hit the edge, pages going everywhere. “The Accord was supposed to be mine.”

I forced myself to hold his stare. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“That doesn’t matter.” His jaw flexed once, twice. “The dynasty doesn’t care who asks. They care who holds. And right now the spine of our family, the Dynasty is in your hands instead of mine.”

The weight of it pressed down on me — not just his fury, but the truth in it. The Liria Accord wasn’t just a trade route. It was the lifeblood of the Adams Dynasty.

I swallowed hard. “Maybe Father?—”