The waiter—Leo, a ghost from an underground firefight six months ago whose torn shoulder I had stitched back together without anesthesia—didn’t hesitate when my fingers clamped onto Damian’s sleeve. The silver tray tilted. Sunlight refracting through the crystal champagne flutes splintered into blinding shards across the marble floor.

My reflection in the polished steel doors looked like a stranger: pale skin, eyes wide with residual shock, and a heavy tactical vest that Miller had forced me to strap over my clothes before we left the command center.

Beside me, Damian stood like an obsidian statue. His right hand rested casually on the grip of his Sig Sauer, his thumb brushing the checkered polymer frame in a slow, rhythmic motion. He hadn’t spoken a single word since we left the third floor. The silence between us wasn’t empty; it was thick, charged with the heavy gravity of what waited for us at the top of the world.

Ding.

The elevator doors parted to reveal the open-air helipad.

The wind up here was ferocious, howling off Boston Harbor and whipping our hair across our faces. Below us, the city glittered like a scattered circuit board of amber and neon lights. Parked fifty yards away, the sleek black chopper sat with its rotor blades spinning down into a slow, whining death hum.

Standing beside the open cabin door were three men in tactical gear, weapons slung low. And right in the center, hands tucked neatly into the pockets of a tailored cashmere overcoat, stood Julian.

My brother.

Julian looked up as the elevator doors locked open. When his eyes landed on me, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Boston’s most feared mafia boss behind a wall of armed enforcers, his composed legal facade cracked.

"Elizabeth?" Julian called out over the howling wind, taking a step forward. "What the hell are you doing with him? Get away from him, Lizzie—he's a monster!"

"Shut your mouth, Julian," I shouted back, stepping past Damian.

An iron-grip hand clamped down immediately onto my shoulder, stopping me dead in my tracks. I looked back. Damian didn't say a word, but his dark gray eyes warned me: Don't move another inch.

"You've been busy playing corporate chess with a dead man's money, Julian," Damian’s voice cut through the wind like a razor blade. It was low, calm, and terrifyingly cold. "Using your own sister as a pawn to drop my perimeter security. That’s a bold move for a lawyer who has never held anything heavier than a fountain pen."

Julian swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the armed guards surrounding us. He forced a thin, defensive smile.

"Cross. Let's not be dramatic," Julian tried to reason, raising his hands palms-up. "Mercer offered a buyout. A clean exit for everyone. You can't fight a war on three fronts at once—the federal indictments are already being drawn up, and your docks in East Boston are burning as we speak."

Damian didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.

"My docks aren't burning, Julian," Damian said smoothly, stepping out onto the concrete tarmac, his long coat snapping in the gale. "Because twenty minutes ago, my men cleared Mercer’s warehouse out before his crew even reached the gates. And as for federal indictments..."

Damian tilted his head toward the dark sky above the harbor.

In the distance, three unmarked black Coast Guard and federal helicopters crested the horizon, their spotlights suddenly flashing blinding white, locking directly onto Mercer’s chopper.

Julian’s face went completely grey. "You... you flipped the feds?"

"I don't flip people, Julian," Damian replied, stopping three feet away from my brother. "I buy them. And Mercer’s ledger—the one you've been laundering money through for three years—is currently sitting in an email inbox at the Department of Justice."

Before Julian could process the trap closing around him, a loud pop echoed across the helipad.

Crack.

A sniper round punched clean through the tail rotor of Mercer’s helicopter, sending a shower of bright yellow sparks flying into the night sky as the metal frame whined and died.

"Secure the perimeter!" Miller roared, raising his rifle.

In less than three seconds, Damian’s men swarmed the helipad, pinning Julian’s mercenaries to the ground before they could even unholster their sidearms.

Julian stumbled backward, falling hard onto his knees against the concrete. "Lizzie! Help me! Tell him to stop!"

I stood frozen by the elevator doors, torn between the brother who had betrayed everything we were, and the dangerous, magnetic man who had just rewritten my entire existence.

Damian didn't look back at Julian. He turned around, walked slowly back toward me, and stood inches away, completely shielding me from the chaos behind us.

"It's over," Damian murmured, his hand reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from my face. His fingers were warm, steady, and grounding.

"What happens to him?" I whispered, my voice trembling as I looked at my brother being zip-tied by Damian's enforcers.

"He goes to a federal holding facility," Damian said quietly, his gaze locked onto mine. "He gets a fair trial. Because he's your brother, Elizabeth. That is the only reason he is breathing right now."

I let out a shaky breath, the overwhelming adrenaline finally beginning to drain from my veins. I looked up into Damian's storm-gray eyes—eyes that had terrified an entire city, but had looked at me tonight with absolute, unyielding devotion.

"You're insane, Damian Cross," I whispered.