Marcello led Kyle down the mansionâs wide hallways, past paintings worth more than most peopleâs lives and marble columns that carried the weight of old money and older secrets. The other family heads followed at a careful distance, their faces tight with anger they couldnât quite hide.
"I need you to understand something," Kyle said low, words just for Marcello. "Whatever youâre planning, whatever moves youâre making, you need to stop."
Marcello glanced sideways, eyes hard to read. "You donât know what youâre asking."
"Maybe not. But I know what Iâm seeing." Kyle stopped walking and turned to face him straight. "Youâre not a bad man, Marcello. I can tell. Youâre kind. You listen. Youâre just stuck with the hand life dealt you."
Kyle didnât know the full story. Didnât know the burdens Marcello carried or the choices that had carved lines into his face. He just felt itâthe quiet exhaustion behind the power, the look of a man whoâd been running too long and couldnât remember how to quit.
He didnât push further. Didnât need to. Marcelloâs eyes said the words had hit home.
"Iâll think about what you said," Marcello answered after a beat. Probably the closest Kyle would get to yes.
Kyle nodded and started walking again. Each step felt strange, unreal. Power hummed through him in a way heâd never known. The family heads stared with open disgust. OâRourkeâs scarred face twisted in hate. Lucius watched like he was already plotting angles. Even the stone-faced Kurobane head couldnât mask the irritation. But none of them could touch him now. Marcelloâs word had become armor. One sentence from the Don and Kyle was off-limits.
He was glad heâd used what Nakamura gave him. He hadnât understood the full weight of those hintsâoperations in England, loose ends that werenât so looseâuntil the moment it mattered. Now it was a blade, and Isabeau knew exactly how sharp.
She lingered near the back of the group, composure perfect, but her eyes moved fast, calculating. Kyleâs new standing gave his words real teeth. Even without proof, a whisper from him would spark questions, audits, scrutiny she couldnât survive. He could ruin her life with a single conversation, and they both knew it.
"Iâve had a room prepared," Marcello said as they reached a quieter wing. "You look like hell. My doctors will check that shoulder properly. Rest."
Kyle wanted to argue, to leave this place and crawl back to something normal. But his body wasnât listening. The bullet wound throbbed steady. Exhaustion pulled at every muscle. He wasnât sure he could even make it to the car without crashing.
"Alright," Kyle said. "Just tonight."
Marcello nodded and signaled one of his men. The guy led Kyle to a guest suite bigger than his whole apartment. The bathroom couldâve fit a family.
Kyle stood under the shower for twenty minutes, hot water pounding out knots in his shoulders and rinsing away blood and sweat. His wound ached where Isabeau had shot him. Yesterday? Felt longer. But the pain seemed farther off now, something he could handle.
He dried off, wrapped a towel around his waist, used another to scrub at his wet hair as he walked back into the bedroom. Doctors would be here soon, Marcello said. Kyle just wanted a few minutes of quiet beforeâ
A knock cut through his thoughts.
"Come in," Kyle called, expecting a doctor or staff.
The door opened. Isabeau stepped inside.
Kyle paused for half a second, then kept toweling his hair like she was nothing special. "What do you want?"
Isabeauâs gaze moved over himâbare chest, bandaged shoulder, water still clinging to his skinâbut she wasnât here for the view. The shift in power was clear. She wasnât looking at easy prey anymore. She was looking at someone who could end her.
She crossed to the chair across from the bed and sat, legs crossed, graceful as ever. "We need to talk."
"So talk." Kyle dropped the towel from his hair, ran fingers through the damp strands, met her eyes steady.
Isabeau watched him a long moment. Sheâd expected rage, maybe smugness, anything but this cool calm. "How did you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Donât play dumb." Her voice sharpened. "How were you so calm back there? What did you say to Marcello to make him spare youâand put you under his protection?"
Kyle looked at her, then sighed. He could drag this out, make her sweat, but he was too tired for games.
"I didnât tell him about you and Cleopatra."
Relief hit her face fast and plain. Her shoulders eased. "You didnât?"
"No," Kyle informed her.
"Will it stay that way?" Isabeau questioned him.
Kyle leaned back against the headboard, thinking it over. He was done with the endless moves and countermoves. But having Isabeau neutralâor better, usefulâwouldnât hurt. Especially now that he held real leverage. The kind that could bury her if he ever used it.
"That depends," Kyle said.
"On what?"
"On whether you play this smart." He held her gaze. "You donât know exactly what I have. Could be everything. Could be scraps. But you know enough to realize Iâm the last person you want as an enemy right now."
Isabeau didnât speak. Her silence said plenty. She got it. Kyle had walked in as nobody. Less than twenty-four hours later he could ruin her with a phone call. The kind of threat that kept people awake wondering when the blade would drop.
"So hereâs how it goes," Kyle continued. "You leave me alone. You donât come after me or anyone I care about. In return, what I know about you and Cleopatra stays buried. If our paths cross and interests line up, we can even help each other. Fair?"
Isabeauâs jaw tightened. This wasnât a deal. It was surrender dressed as terms. But she had no cards left.
"Fair," she said quietly.
Kyle nodded. "Good. Now get out. Doctors are coming and I donât want to explain why youâre in my room."
Isabeau stood, smoothed her suit, walked to the door. She paused with her hand on the handle and looked back.
"Youâre more dangerous than anyone realized," she said.
"Yeah," Kyle answered. "Iâm starting to see that myself."
Isabeauâs fingers lingered on the cool metal handle just a second too long, her heart still racing from Kyleâs words. Then the door slammed shut behind her. She hadnât touched it.
No footsteps. Not a sound.
Before she could turn, something firm pressed against her ass, it was solid. Warmth seeped through the thin skirt, right into the cleft. Isabeau froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
It was Kyle. Heâd moved like a shadowâno noise, no rustle, nothing. The silence unnerved her more than the contact. This was the movement of an assassin.
Her body stiffened. Muscles tightened under the suit as she felt him flush against her from behind, trapping her lightly but firmly against the door.
Then it stiffened. Kyleâs cock swelled between her cheeks, thickening, lengthening, pulsing steadily against her. Huge and rigid.
Like a thick rod wedged in place with warmth radiated through her skirt and panties, making the fabric cling awkwardly. Isabeauâs mind raced, this had to be payback for the games sheâd played, the teasing, the control sheâd tried to keep. But heâd had easier moments before, in her home when sheâd held the advantage. Heâd stayed professional then, despite the tension. Why risk it now? Guards patrolled and families were close. One shout and everything would collapse in on Kyle.
"What the hell do you think youâre doing?" she hissed, voice low and edged, twisting to glance back.
Kyleâs hand clamped her hip. Fingers dug in hard. He yanked her back, grinding forward until his full length nestled deep between her cheeks. The pressure parted her buttocks slightly, friction sending an unwanted spark up her spine.
No answer. Just the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back, breath warm on her neck. Isabeauâs heart pounded as she was astonished by his new found audacity. Anger surged, tangled with something darker she didnât quite understand, tension coiling in her stomach. Their deal was fresh, fragile. One yell and the mansion would swarm but Kyle held too much leverage. Even with that, this was far too reckless.
But then his other hand slid up her side, bold, no hesitation. It slipped under her blouse hem. Fingers brushed the underside of her small breast, then cupped it fully. Palm enveloped the soft curve. His thumb dragged over her nipple, it peaked instantly.
"Hmpphhh!" Isabeau gasped. Rough skin against smooth, squeezing just enough to sting, sending jolts straight down.
She twisted in his grip, hands pushing at his arm, but the struggle felt weak. More instinct than fight. Her body betrayed her with a rush of warmth, pussy tightening as his hold strengthened.
Kyle spun her in one smooth motion. Her back hit the door flat. Now she faced him. His eyes locked on hers, there was something dark and intense behind them, no doubt.
Up close his bare chest, still damp from the shower, brushed her top. The bandage on his shoulder stood out sharp. He towered over her, cock tenting his towel thick and obvious, head inches from her thigh.
"Iâm going to give you something to remember me by," Kyle said.