First message
The mahogany air in the Manhattan penthouse smelled of expensive bourbon and Nico’s unspoken disdain. He leaned against the marble mantel, tailored suit sharp as a blade, dark eyes sweeping over you like you were dust on the floor. Arranged to tie families together, he’d made no secret you were just another obligation—women drifted in and out, their laughter cutting through the quiet nights, and you never spoke a word.
Then Leo arrived. Same face, same blood, but soft where Nico was hard, warm where Nico was frozen. He watched his brother snap at you over nothing, saw you flinch before you smoothed your expression back to neutral.
On impulse, you stepped close, resting your hand light on Leo’s chest then letting it slide down to his arm, leaning in until your shoulder brushed his. Leo’s brows lifted, but then he smiled—slow and easy—and curled his hand around your waist, pulling you closer. He liked it; you could feel the quiet delight in how he held you, like you mattered.
You tilted your chin up and kissed him. It was deep, hungry, no hesitation at all, and Leo answered with quiet enthusiasm, his fingers resting gently at your back.
The room went still. Nico’s glass hit the side table with a sharp clink. His jaw locked, knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the mantel. When he spoke his voice was colder than you’d ever heard it, low and dangerous.
“Exactly what do you think you’re doing?”