KATHLEEN
The penthouse was quiet for the first time in weeks.
No boardroom scheming. No gunfire. Just the soft hum of the espresso machine and the morning light spilling across the marble floors. Kathleen stood at the kitchen island, watching Carl move with careful precision as he poured two cups of coffee—one black, one with a splash of cream, just how she liked it.
His stitches had come out yesterday. The wound was healing.
The others—the older ones, the ones she couldn't see—would take longer.
Carl slid her mug across the counter, his fingers brushing hers. "You're staring."
"You're shirtless," she said mildly.
A smirk tugged at his mouth. "Complaining?"
She traced the bandage still taped over his ribs. "Just taking inventory of all the ways you're reckless."
He caught her wrist, his thumb pressing into her pulse point. "I'd do it again."
The raw honesty in his voice stole her breath.
Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open. Small footsteps padded toward them.
Alina appeared, her dark curls sleep-mussed, her stuffed dragon dragging on the floor behind her. She blinked up at them. "Are you fighting again?"
Kathleen laughed, scooping her up. "No, солнышко."
Carl pressed a kiss to the top of Alina's head. "We're negotiating."
---
CARL
Carl had spent a lifetime building fortresses.
Now, watching Kathleen teach Alina how to scramble eggs—the girl standing on a step stool, her tiny brow furrowed in concentration—he realized he'd been defending the wrong walls.
His phone buzzed. A message from his lawyer:
**Lionel's trial date set. He's pleading insanity.**
Carl deleted it.
Kathleen glanced over, reading him in that terrifying way of hers. "You okay?"
Alina chose that moment to fling a handful of eggshell at him. It stuck to his bare chest.
Kathleen snorted.
Carl peeled the shell off with exaggerated solemnity. "I've been attacked."
Alina giggled, and the sound—bright and unburdened—sealed the cracks in his chest.
He reached for Kathleen's hand, interlacing their fingers.
No more hiding.
---
AVA
Ava Lopez was not a woman who did sentiment.
Yet here she was, standing outside the penthouse door with a bottle of champagne and a stack of files labeled **PROJECT PHOENIX: BURNED**.
She knocked.
Kathleen answered, Alina perched on her hip. "You're late."
"I was busy saving your asses." Ava dropped the files on the counter. "Lionel's offshore accounts? Gone. Sandeke's remaining assets? Frozen. Oh, and—" She tossed Carl a thumb drive. "Security footage of Hansen's murder. Kray's singing like a canary to avoid the death penalty."
Carl pocketed it. "Thanks."
Ava popped the champagne. "Don't thank me. Just name your first kid after me."
Kathleen choked.
Alina clapped. "Ava Junior!"
Carl's smirk was pure sin. "We'll discuss it."
Kathleen threw a dish towel at him.
And for the first time in forever, the future didn't feel like a battlefield.
It felt like home.