Isaac
The whiskey is older than I am. I roll the liquid in the heavy crystal tumbler, watching the legs cling to the glass. It burns on the way down, a familiar fire that does nothing to warm the ice in my veins.
My father’s office. It still smells of him. Leather, cigar smoke, and that faint, metallic scent of ambition. Or maybe that’s just blood.
“The council has agreed,” Leo says from the doorway. He does not knock. He never has. He was my father’s consigliere, and now he is mine. He is a fixture, as permanent as the mahogany desk and the shadows in the corners.
“Of course they agreed,” I say, not turning. “Old men love sending young women to solve problems they can’t.”
Leo walks into the room. The sound of his leather shoes on the Persian rug is a soft, steady rhythm. “They see a path to peace, Isaac. A way to stop the bleeding. The Sterlings proposed it. It shows they are weak.”
“It shows Marco Sterling is a moron,” I correct him, finally turning to face him. “He would trade his queen to save a pawn. He doesn’t realize his sister might be the most valuable piece on his board.”
Leo raises a silver eyebrow. He is a man of few expressions, each one carefully chosen. “You think she is valuable?”
I think back to the funeral. The oppressive scent of lilies. The sea of black suits. The simmering hatred in a room full of our enemies. And her. Phoebe Sterling.
I expected a ghost. A weeping, pale thing draped in black lace, propped up by her family. That is what women in our world are supposed to be in times of grief. Decorative sorrows.
She was not that.
She stood by that casket like a statue. Cold, still, perfect. When Marco postured and puffed out his chest, her eyes showed nothing but contempt. Not for me. For him. For her own blood.
And when I walked in, when every Sterling soldier looked ready to draw their weapon, she was the only one who met my gaze without fear.
“I saw her at the funeral,” I say, my voice low. “She is not what they think she is.”
“She’s Enzo’s daughter,” Leo states, as if it is that simple. “Raised in a palace. Kept away from the business. She is a princess, nothing more.”
“No.” I shake my head, picturing her eyes. Dark, intelligent, and holding a spark of something I recognized. Defiance. “I looked at her, and she looked back. She wasn’t looking at the new Lorne Don. She was looking at an opponent. She was assessing me.”
A small, humorless laugh escapes me. “Marco is a child playing with his father’s gun. He will be easy to break. But her… She is a Sterling. She has her father’s blood. Enzo was a snake, but he was a clever one.”
Leo moves to the wet bar and pours himself a small glass of water. He is a man of discipline. “The marriage is a political necessity. It ends a war that has cost us thirty-two men and millions in lost revenue. It solidifies your position. It shows you are a man of reason, not just a man of war like your father was.”
The unspoken words hang in the air between us. A war his father started. A war that got him killed.
“My father believed in strength,” I say, the words tasting like ash. “He would see this as a surrender.”
“Your father is dead,” Leo says, his voice devoid of malice but sharp with truth. “And his idea of strength left us vulnerable. This marriage makes us stronger. It brings the Sterling territories under our influence. It gives us a window into their operations. You are the one who has to lead now, Isaac. In your own way.”
He is right. He is always right. But the idea of it, the thought of binding myself to one of them, it feels like swallowing poison.
“She will be a spy,” I say flatly. “A snake in my own house. You can be sure Marco will use her to listen, to watch.”
“Marco is not that strategic.”
“But she might be.”
I walk to the large window that overlooks the city. The lights glitter below, a kingdom of glass and steel built on secrets and violence. My kingdom. I am its king, and I will not have my reign ended by a woman with clever eyes.
“You are marrying her,” Leo says. It is not a question.
“Yes.” I turn back from the window. “It is a necessary evil. The truce holds. The families see a united front. The other players in this city will think twice before making a move.”
I drain my glass and set it down on the desk with a heavy click. The sound echoes in the quiet room.
“But I want her watched, Leo. Every minute of every day.”
Leo nods slowly, his expression unreadable. “You think that is necessary?”
“I think it is essential for survival,” I counter. “When she moves into this house, I want our best people on it. I want her rooms bugged. Her phone, her computer, everything she touches. I want to know who she talks to, what she says. I want to know if she whispers our secrets in her sleep.”
“That seems… extreme,” Leo ventures, a rare hint of caution in his voice.
“Extreme is what keeps us alive,” I reply, my voice hard. “I am not my father. I will not be blinded by tradition or pride. I will not underestimate an enemy, especially one I am inviting into my bed.”
The thought is a bitter one. This woman, this Sterling princess, will be my wife. A title that should mean trust, loyalty, partnership. For us, it will mean suspicion. A cold war fought under one roof.
“She will be under constant surveillance,” Leo confirms, the discussion over. He knows my tone. He knows when a decision has been made.
“Good. Use your most trusted men. No one else is to know. To the rest of the family, she is my wife, the sign of our new era of peace. They will treat her with respect. But you and I will know the truth.”
“And what is the truth, Isaac?”
I look him dead in the eye. “The truth is that the war is not over. It has just moved indoors.”
Leo gives a single, sharp nod and leaves the room, closing the heavy doors behind him. The silence descends again, thicker this time.
I am left alone with the ghost of my father and the impending arrival of my bride. I feel a strange mix of emotions. Wariness, certainly. A cold, calculated resolve to stay ten steps ahead of whatever game she thinks she is playing.
But underneath it all, there is something else. Something I am reluctant to name. A flicker of curiosity.
Most people in my world are predictable. Their motives are simple: greed, fear, power. They are easy to read, easy to manipulate. But Phoebe Sterling… that spark in her eyes at the funeral was not simple. It was not grief or fear. It was a silent challenge.
She looked at me like she knew she was a pawn, but she was already planning how to become a queen.
It is a distasteful arrangement, a necessary political maneuver. I tell myself that over and over. But I cannot shake the feeling that this marriage will be more than a truce.
It will be a battle of wills.
And I have no intention of losing.
