CHAPTER 29 : Back to the Tower

"I am leaving this place."

Julian stood by the hospital bed. He was pale. His hands shook as he buttoned his shirt, but his voice was firm.

"The doctor said you need three more days," I said, crossing my arms.

"The doctor is an idiot," Julian muttered. He winced as he tucked his shirt in. The movement pulled at his stitches. "I can heal just as well at home. And the coffee here tastes like battery acid."

He grabbed his jacket. He swayed slightly.

I stepped forward and caught his arm. "You can barely stand."

"I can stand fine," he growled, pulling away. But he didn't move toward the door. He leaned against the bed frame, breathing hard.

He hated this. He hated being weak.

"Fine," I said. "If you want to go home, we go home. But we do it my way."

I picked up his tie. I walked over to him and draped it around his neck. I tied the knot efficiently, my fingers brushing against his throat.

"There are fifty reporters in the lobby," I told him. "They want to see if the rumors are true. They want to see if the King is dying."

I tightened the knot. I looked up into his gray eyes.

"You are going to walk out there," I said. "You are not going to limp. You are not going to wince. You are going to look at them like they are insects."

Julian stared at me. A corner of his mouth ticked up.

"You sound like me," he whispered.

"I learned from the best," I replied. "Can you do it?"

He straightened his spine. He took a deep breath, masking the pain behind a wall of pure willpower.

"Let’s go."

The lobby was a zoo.

Cameras flashed the second the elevator doors opened. Questions were shouted like bullets.

"Mr. Thorne! Is it true you lost a kidney?"

"Who ordered the hit?"

"Are the rumors of a mafia war true?"

Marcus and the security team formed a wedge.

Julian walked beside me. He didn't lean on me. He walked with a smooth, lethal grace that hid the fact he was probably bleeding through his bandages. He looked bored. He looked untouchable.

I walked on his left side, shielding his injury from the crowd. I kept my face blank.

We reached the curb. The armored SUV was waiting.

Marcus opened the door. Julian climbed in without help, though I saw his jaw clench tight enough to crack a tooth.

I slid in next to him. The door slammed shut, cutting off the noise.

Julian let out a ragged breath and slumped back against the leather seat. The mask dropped. He closed his eyes, sweat beading on his forehead.

"You did good," I whispered, reaching for his hand.

He didn't open his eyes. "Did they buy it?"

"They looked terrified," I said. "You looked like you were ready to fire someone."

"Good."

The car moved into traffic.

"Marcus," Julian said without opening his eyes.

"Sir?"

"Why are we taking the long route?"

I stiffened. Even half-asleep and in pain, he noticed everything. We were taking the highway instead of the city streets. I had ordered it to avoid potential ambushes.

"Traffic, sir," Marcus lied smoothly. "Construction on Fifth."

Julian grunted. He seemed to accept it.

"And the fruit basket," Julian murmured. "From the hospital."

My heart skipped a beat. The box of dead roses.

"What about it?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.

"Did you bring it? I want to send a thank you note to the Mayor."

"I left it," I said. "It was too heavy. Marcus said he would have it sent to the penthouse later."

Julian finally opened his eyes. He turned his head to look at me. His gaze was heavy, searching.

"You left a gift from the Mayor behind?"

"It was just melon, Julian," I said, squeezing his hand. "You need to focus on healing, not fruit."

He studied me for a long moment. He looked at the tension in my shoulders. He looked at the way Marcus was gripping the steering wheel.

He knew something was off.

"You are a terrible liar, Vivian," he whispered.

"I'm not lying," I insisted.

He didn't argue. He just closed his eyes again. But his grip on my hand tightened. He didn't trust me.

We arrived at the Thorne Tower.

The penthouse was exactly as we left it. Cold. Modern. Silent.

But it felt different now. It didn't feel like a fortress anymore. It felt like a cage.

I helped Julian to the master bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes.

"I can manage," he said when I reached for his shirt buttons.

"Shut up," I said softly.

I undid his shirt. I peeled the fabric away.

The bandage on his side was spotted with fresh red. He had torn a stitch walking through the lobby.

"You're bleeding," I said, grabbing the first aid kit from the bathroom.

"I'm alive," he corrected.

I sat beside him and began to change the dressing. My hands were steady. I cleaned the wound, applied the fresh gauze, and taped it down.

Julian watched me the whole time.

"When did you learn to dress a knife wound?" he asked.

"I read a book," I said. "I am a librarian, remember?"

"You were a librarian," he said. He reached out and touched my cheek. "You aren't anymore."

I leaned into his touch. "No. I suppose I'm not."

"Vivian," he said, his voice dropping. "Who sent the box?"

I froze.

"I told you," I said. "The Mayor."

"The Mayor is allergic to melon," Julian said. "And Marcus has his hand on his gun inside his own house. And you... you look like you are waiting for a bomb to go off."

He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him.

"Tell me the truth."

"I can't," I whispered.

"Why?"

"Because if I tell you, you will try to leave this bed. You will try to fight. And you will rip your stitches and bleed out."

I pulled away from him and stood up.

"I am protecting you, Julian. Just like you protected me."

I walked to the door before he could stop me.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, trying to stand up.

"I have work to do," I said. "Get some sleep."

I closed the bedroom door. I heard him curse my name.

I walked into the living room. Marcus was there, waiting.

"The trace came back on the roses," Marcus said.

"Who was it?"

"It wasn't the Russians," Marcus said grimly. "The courier picked up the package from a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands."

"And?"

"The company is owned by a man named Silas Vencetti."

I frowned. "Silas? I thought Luca was the last one."

"Luca has a brother," Marcus said. "An older brother. He was in prison overseas. He just got out."

I looked at the closed bedroom door. Julian had burned the warehouse. He had beaten Luca. But the Vencetti family was like a hydra. Cut off one head, and another grows.

"Silas Vencetti," I repeated. "What is he known for?"

Marcus looked uneasy.

"They call him The Butcher."