Catalina wakes up with Kael's lips on her cheeks, her nose, her lips, her forehead.

She squints and smiles lazily. "Good morning."

Her husband brushes his knuckles across her cheek, the metal of his ring cold against her skin. Catalina leans into his palm, opening her heavy eyelids. Kael is dressed and ready for work, his dark eyes on hers. "I need to take care of business," he murmurs.

Catalina should feel guilty for making him late to work the past three weeks, but she doesn't. She says, "Business you put off to be with me?"

The corner of his lips tilt up. "I make a lot of people wealthy to be with you, jaan. But yes. And there's the Arsenau shitshow, we need to placate or subdue them."

Catalina finds his other hand and links their fingers together. "Will that work?"

"They're a small family," Kael tells her. "I can have them swear loyalty and either leave Hauser & Perrot alone or set it on fire and have them end up like the MacQuoids. It would be easier—they're all in one place, they're very few."

She swallows thickly. The Fourth needs to rule the world again, and she wishes he didn't have to. The Fourth needs to be violent, and she wishes he didn't have to.

Let him be soft.

Let him be mine.

"This is the last family," Kael assures her. "No more after this."

Hopefully. "Go easy on Jae," Catalina asks softly. "He's your brother. Your son."

Kael doesn't say anything. Instead, he leans down to kiss her. "Fields will be on guard. Sergei and the rest of our men are around the hospital. They'll check everyone who goes in, everyone who goes out. So stay inside, understood?"

Catalina nods once. "Be careful. Come back soon."

He kisses her hand, her ring, and then her lips again, whispering, "Always. I love you, meri jaan."

Catalina's breath gets knocked out of her lungs. She wonders if she will ever get used to those words from Kael Kincaid—the Fourth.

Before she can respond, Kael is out of the door.

*

Catalina pulls her gloves off with a practiced snap, her eyes scanning the monitors one last time. The steady beeping confirms that the patient's heart is beating strongly.

She closes her eyes and hangs her head. "Good work, everyone." Exhaustion is laced in her voice, but hidden behind her professional tone. This is her second surgery of the day and she hasn't had lunch.

Catalina steps back, letting her residents close up. After hours in the OR, the tension in her shoulders begins to ease and is replaced by the familiar ache of fatigue.

She heads to the cafeteria with Dani, scrunching her nose at the disgusting smell of fish. Teddy and Pauline are in surgery, and Reece is holding down the fort at the ER. "What do you think of the inherent intimacy of surgery?" the neurosurgeon asks as they sit down at their table. Fields sits opposite her, directly in his line of vision.

Catalina ignores him and raises her eyebrows, taking a spoonful of her soup. "What?"

"I mean," Dani continues, chewing, "I know in kissing, like your saliva stays in the other person's mouth for six months, but in surgery, how personal is it to have hands under your skin and hold the most grotesque parts of you and put them back together nicely? I mean—"

Catalina sighs. What the fuck is this woman talking about. "Dani."

"I'm trying to maintain my whimsy and optimism in the face of an anti-whimsy society. And what the hell is this food? I want a kids' menu and a margarita."

Catalina wants that margarita, too. Before her first surgery earlier, she texted Jae: How are you?

The younger Kincaid responded while she was already in the OR. Fine, noona.

Oh, boys. She sighed. Have you eaten? Gotten enough sleep?

Jae didn't respond.

Catalina sent one last message: Jae, he loves you. And I love you. Okay?

He didn't send a reply anymore, and her heart has been heavy with concern. The night before took a toll on him—she feels for Jae, caught between loyalty to Kael and his own struggles, and it tears at her. She wants to be the one to fix it, to ease his pain, but she knows that's not always possible. He's not a child anymore, and he has to face the consequences of his actions—because in this world, impulsive actions get you killed.

That doesn't mean that the silence that followed her last message doesn't sit uneasily in her chest.

Catalina tries to shake it off. After lunch, she takes a quick nap in the lounge, hoping the brief rest will clear her mind. She's just pulling off her shoes, the soft click of her pager being placed on the table the only sound in the otherwise quiet room, when the door opens. Soren steps in, his gaze briefly meeting hers.

He says, "That was a long heart transplant."

"I didn't kill her, don't worry," Catalina answers dryly, leaning back against the wall with her legs under her. "You didn't need to watch me."

The pediatric surgeon was in the gallery while Catalina worked. She only knew because her residents began whispering under their breaths, and she had to snap, "I don't care if you're gushing over Dr. Quinn, but do it quietly or leave my fucking OR."

Her residents promptly shut up.

Soren sits on one of the chairs and faces her. "I was watching because your work is fascinating."

This makes her raise an eyebrow.

He keeps his expression blank. "I can dislike you and still respect your medical abilities, Dr. Di Angelo. And regardless of who you married, you have impeccable, stable hands; you care for the patients. I'm happy he hasn't corrupted you. Or killed you."

Catalina sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, closing her eyes briefly. She remembers thinking Kael being willing to kill her if it meant proving that the mafia comes first, but after last night, the thought is excruciatingly unbearable.

He'd burn the world for her but not allow a single flame to touch her.

Catalina stares at Soren. "What did he do to you? Who was that woman you treated?"

She expects him to tell her to fuck off, or at the very least, not answer once again. But he surprises her when he says, "She was running."

"From Kael?"

"No," Soren says, frowning. "Someone else. And she was terrified."

The Fourth is fear himself. Who could be more terrifying than him?

"She burnt her face because she needed a new one," he murmurs, leaning against his chair. "To hide. To survive. So I gave her one."

Catalina's lips part. "You reconstructed her face in surgery?"

"Yes."

Holy shit. "How?"

Soren doesn't answer.

As a doctor, Catalina can admire and praise Soren for this. Reconstructing a face in surgery is incredibly complex, involving a blend of precision, advanced techniques, and a thorough understanding of anatomy. The face's intricate structure—bones, muscles, nerves, and blood vessels—requires careful and accurate restoration to ensure both function outcome and appearance. There were a million challenges to address: soft tissue repair, bone alignment, revascularization. Only the best plastic surgeons could pull it off.

But as the Fourth's wife...

Catalina takes a deep breath to calm the pounding in her heart. This is treason. This is betrayal. "Soren, there is no way out of the mafia but to be dead."

"I found her a way out," he hisses, his features closed and pained. "I gave her the way out, I worked for that way out. She was scared and alone and had a little boy with her. We talked. We talked for hours every day while she was healing. I thought she wanted out, but your husband came—and then she was gone and I never saw her again."

Catalina swallows thickly. "Who is she? Let me see her new face."

Soren shakes his head and stands up. Strands of hair fall on his forehead. "A picture was too dangerous. She needed to change her name. Start a new life."

"My point is, we've wiped someone off this earth and made her a ghost—new records or not."

Her breath gets caught in her throat as she holds his gaze. "What's her name?"

"She wouldn't tell me anything," Soren mutters, heading for the door. "Said it could put me in danger." He pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. "I suggested Leto—means 'hidden,' or 'forgotten.'"

"Leto?" Catalina whispers, the name foreign on her tongue.

Soren nods, his voice distant. "A mother who had to leave everything behind, running for refuge to give birth to Apollo and Artemis. She had an interest in Greek mythology."

Catalina's breath catches in her throat. The words hit her with the force of a revelation, sharp and unmistakable.

Leto's Roman name...is Latona.

Her head reels in confusion, but she doesn't have time to time to process it as her phone begins to buzz violently in her coat pocket. She pulls it out.

"Kael?" she answers shakily, her voice clipped with concern.

"It's Chuck." Kael's voice was tight, almost unrecognizable. "I need you to come home. Now."

The world tilts, but the urgency of her husband's voice cuts through the fog. "How bad?"

"He's been shot."

Catalina is already running. "I'm on the way. Are you hurt?"

"Chuck is—"

"Kael, are you hurt?!" Catalina shouts, wanting to collapse when he doesn't answer her directly. "Is Jae hurt?!"

"No," Kael says. "I'm keeping pressure on the wound."

She hangs up and runs. Thankfully, Fields weaves quickly through traffic while Catalina tries to keep her breathing even.

How? Who?

Her heels click sharply against the tiles as she rushes through the hallway. The smell of blood hits her nose before she even enters the dining room, where Chuck lays pale and barely conscious on the table.

Catalina has never seen Kael's left and hunter so helpless. Unmoving, his breathing shallow and uneven.

"Move," she barks, shoving past Samara and Polo. She strips off her coat and assesses Chuck's injury, avoiding looking at his face. A first-aid kit, a bottle of vodka, and towels already soaked with crimson are strewn on the space beside her.

Kael's hands are pressed firmly against Chuck's side, trying to stem the flow of blood. He is expressionless—his face impassive, but it's clear that maintaining this mask takes every ounce of his willpower. "Catalina, save him."

"Shut up," she hisses. "I need to focus."

Whether it's because she's a doctor or his wife, Catalina isn't sure, but Kael—who doesn't take kindly to orders—falls silent. Even Samara doesn't have one, smart thing to say.

The gunshot wound is in Chuck's lower chest, dangerously close to vital organs. Blood pools on the table beneath him.

Catalina closes her eyes and takes one, deep breath, her mind quieting with concentration.

She rolls up her sleeves and demands, in her firmest voice, "I need gloves, clamps, forceps, every surgical tool you can find, clean towels, and boiled water. Now."

The room erupts in movement. Catalina scrubs her hands in the sink, grateful for the stash of sterile gloves and medical tools Kael insisted on keeping in the house.

She glances at Chuck again. No monitors, no way to measure blood pressure or heart rate. She has to rely on her senses alone—feeling for pulses, watching for signs of shock, listening to shallow, frantic breaths.

Trying to force down her panic, Catalina returns to the table, slipping on the gloves and carefully peeling back the blood-soaked fabric of Chuck's shirt. Her pulse hammers in her ear as she examines the wound.

"Through and through," she murmurs, tracing the trajectory of the bullet with her fingers. "It missed the heart, but it's close to the lung. If it's nicked, he could drown in his own blood."

Kael steps back, his hands streaked with red. "What do you need?"

Catalina cleans the wound quickly and thoroughly, pouring vodka over the area as a makeshift antiseptic. Chuck groans in pain, his body twitching weakly. The sound nearly makes her wince, but she snaps, "Keep him still."

Kael presses down on Chuck's shoulders, and says, his voice low and commanding, "Don't move, you fucker."

The silence rings in her ears, broken only by the sound of her movements inside Chuck's body. She can feel the slow rhythm of his heartbeat, each beat a fragile reminder that his life lays quite literally in her hands. She has treated emergency cases before, she has had her hands inside a person's body and kept a literal heart pumping, but doing this to Chuck is fucking nauseating and she fights the urge to vomit, forcing the feeling down. Every so often, she glances at Kael, needing to reassure herself that it's not him lying on the table.

In surgery, how personal is it to have hands under your skin and hold the most grotesque parts of you and put them back together nicely?

Catalina gags.

"Oh, that's fucking disgusting," Samara's voice, from a distance, comments.

"Catalina," Kael says in alarm, his brow furrowed.

"I'm fine," she chokes out, swallowing the bile in her throat. She avoids Kael's gaze and continues to explore the wound with the forceps, her hands moving with meticulous precision. The bullet tore through muscle and nicked a blood vessel; using the clamp, she stems the bleeding then sutures the vessel with steady fingers.

When Chuck's breathing hitches, Catalina freezes, listening intently. Then she drops the clamp. "He has fluid in his chest, I need to drain it now. Scalpel."

Kael hands the tool to her and Catalina makes a small incision between Chuck's ribs, inserting a tube to relieve the pressure. Blood and air hiss out, and his breathing evens slightly.

She exhales heavily, sweat forming on her brow.

Catalina continues to suture the torn tissue. Without the numbers telling her his vitals are stable, she focuses on small signs—his skin color, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the warmth in his body.

Working methodically and silently, Catalina's hands remain steady despite the tension thrumming through her body. As she repairs the torn tissue and clamps off small, leaking blood vessels, she notes that Chuck's condition is stabilizing. The bleeding, torrential earlier, has slowed significantly.

She carefully checks for further damage, running her gloved fingers along the exposed tissues to ensure no major vessels remain compromised. Then she leans in closer, listening carefully to his breathing. The uneven, shallow gasps from earlier are now deeper and more rhythmic. She presses gently on his abdomen, feeling for rigidity or abnormal swelling that would signal unseen bleeding, but the area remains pliant under her touch.

The color of Chuck's skin, though pale, hasn't worsened, and she sees warmth returning to his hands and feet—a hopeful sign that his circulation is improving.

Sure that the internal damage is repaired and the immediate crisis has passed, Catalina packs the wound with sterile gauze to prevent further contamination. Her movements are careful but quick—she has to stitch him closed before infection sets in.

When she finally sits back, stripping off her gloves, her hands are shaking.

"He's stable," she says to her feet, breaking the silence, her mouth dry. "But he needs antibiotics, lots of fluids, and rest."

Slowly, Kael steps closer. "Catalina—"

But he doesn't get a chance to touch her because she runs to the bathroom and vomits into the toilet.

Her husband follows her immediately and kneels behind her, holding her hair back as she leans over the toilet, her body wracked with heaves. His free hand rubs soothing circles on her back, lips pressed into a thin line.

When the worst of it passes, Catalina slumps forward, resting her head on the cool porcelain.

"Catalina," he murmurs softly, her name spoken like a prayer.

Tears slip down her cheeks before she can stop them, and she wipes at her face furiously, frustrated with herself. But Kael doesn't let her hide. He gently tilts her chin up, meeting her eyes. "You are incredible," he whispers, his voice rough with emotion.

Catalina lets out a shaky breath, and he helps her up, his arm around her waist steadying her as they move to the sink. He hands her a toothbrush, squeezing the paste onto it before she can fumble for it herself. She brushes her teeth in silence while he watches her.

When she's done, Kael leads her to the tub and lets the warm water pour in. Catalina strips off her stained clothes without hesitation, stepping into the steaming water. She sits down, knees pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them.

The blood is gone from her hands, but she feels it everywhere—on her skin, under her fingertips, clinging to her like a weight she can't shake. She scratches absently at her arms, the sensation of it still lingering. For someone so skilled with a scalpel, she's unnervingly desperate to wash the blood away. Chuck's blood.

Kael sits on the edge of the tub, his dark eyes unwavering as he reaches for her hands. "Stop," he says gently, pulling them away from her arms. He wraps his much larger hands over hers, stilling the trembling. "You are incredible," he whispers again, his voice filled with conviction.

Catalina closes her eyes, letting his warmth seep into her. "I don't feel incredible," she admits, her voice breaking.

Her husband doesn't respond right away. Instead, he picks up a sponge and reaches for the soap, lathering it until it foams. He dips the sponge into the water, squeezing it over her back. The warm, soapy water cascades down her skin. He repeats the motion, slow and deliberate, before finally speaking.

"After we dealt with the Arsenaus, Chuck reported that he found them," he begins. His tone is low, steady, and almost detached, but the darkness in his eyes betrays the weight of the story. "The pilot and the spy. Irina Ilyin was playing the whore, cozying up to fucking Omar Haddad to get information to sell to Cirillo Mirkov."

Catalina watches his hands as he continues to bathe her, the rhythm of his movements strangely soothing.

"The pilot, Jae was dealing with," Kael continues. "And the whore wouldn't talk, no matter what Chuck and Merlot did. They'd been torturing her for hours when Polo and I got there. But she had plenty of words for me."

Quietly, Catalina asks, "What did she say?"

Kael's eyes flick to hers, his expression unreadable. "It was barely audible. No one else could hear. I read her lips more—she said he knows I have something of his and he wants it back."

Catalina swallows thickly, her pulse quickening. "Cirillo?"

"Yes."

Catalina stares at her husband.

Do you? Have it?

Kael pauses, dipping the sponge into the water again. "Polo made a move to kill her. Merlot put his hands on him. Samara put her hands on her. Chuck...well, the whore got ahold of a weapon in the chaos. She shot him, I killed her."

The finality in Kael's tone, the lack of remorse...Catalina already knows how easily Kael can kill. He will not hesitate, he is not merciful. But hearing him state it so casually, so matter-of-fact as if death is something to shrug off—like she didn't just fight tooth and nail to save Chuck...it's a jarring contrast, one she can't ignore. But then there was that moment—the fear in his voice when he thought he might lose his left...and friend.

Catalina reaches out, her wet hand curling around his wrist, seeking something solid. When his eyes meet hers, the vulnerability in them is stark—a reminder that even kings of the underworld can care, and caring, for someone like him, comes with a cost too steep to measure.

Then a sudden wave of anger surges through Catalina. What if it was him? The thought clenches her chest, sharp and suffocating. And—and her hands were inside Chuck's body, and she needed to hold it together, knowing that someone she now considered family was on the table. There were no monitors, no anesthesiologist, no nurse, no first assist—she couldn't let her fear cloud her focus. And now, the reality of what could have happened crashes over her.

She yanks her hand back, snapping, "I told you, Kael. I will not save any of your subordinates. Not your friends, not anyone who stands with you."

Her husband presses his mouth into a thin line. "The doctor was too far. And I trusted you. I trust you with my life, with Jae's life, with Chuck's life—"

"If anything happened to him under my watch, during my operation, if I was not able to save him...you wouldn't forgive me. We've had this conversation."

"Catalina—"

"I almost lost Chuck!" she shouts, furious, pushing him. The water slashes around her body. "I didn't have the numbers for his vitals, didn't have clear visibility, and he's fucking lucky the bullet missed his heart and what if it was you!" Her voice breaks at that last sentence. "What if it was you, Kael!"

His eyes are resolute when he murmurs, "You would've saved me, too."

I haven't had enough time to love you yet. Don't ever make me save you.

Catalina shuts her eyes and bows her head.

And then she can't stop her tears from falling.

Kael crushes him to her and holds her for a long, long time.

*

Chuck is asleep in the guest room when Catalina enters. Polo is seated next to the bed, his head bowed, hands clasped tightly together as though in prayer.

It's the first time Catalina has ever seen Kael's polished lieutenant—the showpiece of his business—disheveled. Polo's usually sharp suit is wrinkled, his tie loosened, his hair slightly out of place. There's blood on his suit.

Chuck's blood.

Looking away, she clears her throat and says softly, "Hey. I just need to check on...him."

Polo doesn't look up or respond. His stillness feels heavier than silence, and, for a fleeting moment, Catalina wonders if he's here because of guilt. She knows Polo doesn't allow himself to feel much—composure, precision, and a cold sense of duty are his usual companions. The rare exception is Samara.

She moves past him quietly and checks Chuck's pulse, counting each beat with practiced ease. It's steady but slightly weak. She places her hand on his forehead—still warm, though no longer dangerously hot. Gently, she adjusts the IV drip Kael had set up, ensuring the flow is smooth and consistent.

Satisfied, she steps back. Polo hasn't moved an inch.

After what feels like hours of silence, she takes a deep breath and sits beside him. "Polo," she begins cautiously, "why were you going to kill Irina?"

A low scoff escapes him. "Because I'm efficient, Catalina. Irina Ilyin was a loose end, and loose ends are liabilities. That's how this world works."

His words are cold, clinical, but the way his shoulders tense and his jaw tightens tells something deeper—like he's holding himself together by a thread.

Catalina's eyebrows furrow. "Efficient? Chuck almost died because of your efficiency."

He doesn't respond right away. Instead, his fingers curl into a fist on his lap, as if holding onto his composed exterior.

Finally, he lifts his head. His expression is grim. Tired. "Do you know how I came to love Samara?"

Catalina blinks, caught off guard by the sudden question.

"She had nothing. She had no one," Polo begins, his voice hollow. "Her virginity was being auctioned in a whorehouse. Not unlike you, except she had no parents to sell her—just men who wanted to profit. The Third bought her instantly."

A chill runs down Catalina's spine. How disgustingly ironic—the Third and her father aren't so different after all.

"He...assigned her to me," Kael's right hand says slowly, his voice heavy and dripping with an emotion Catalina can't quite place. "He made me hurt her, subdue her. She complied because she had no choice, but she always had a sharp tongue around me. It was like she had no fear. And that...that was dangerous. If you weren't afraid of the Third, what were you afraid of?" He lets out a humorless laugh. "I used to envy her for it, you know? For how she could stand there, unafraid of the Third, even when he was at his worst. He'd look at her like she was nothing more than something to break, yet she never gave him the satisfaction of seeing her crumble. It made me feel like I was incapable of that kind of strength."

He exhales heavily, his eyebrows furrowed. "I'm used to cold detachment or mindless obedience when the Third—or even the Fourth—gave me orders. But when it came to her...despite the danger, despite my efforts to keep my distance, I found myself caring, feeling things I shouldn't. And eventually—without meaning to—I fell in love with her. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop it."

In this world, whether you're the Fourth or not, love is a dangerous, dangerous liability.

Catalina takes a deep breath and tries to suppress the images of Kael in her mind, relentless and unyielding, orchestrating every calculated move to have her. To protect her. To keep her.

She doesn't want to think about the people who had to bleed for his love, the lengths he went to because of her. It's suffocating. Heavy. Like the weight of all his choices, all the lives tangled up in his devotion, are now pressing against her ribs.

Kael's love isn't soft or gentle—it's dangerous. Ruthless.

And yet, a small, unwelcome part of her whispers: It's why you're still here. It's why you're safe.

Shaking her off her thoughts, Polo exhales deeply, his  hands tightening on his knees. "I hid it well. I never let it show, not to anyone—not even to her. I couldn't put her in more danger—she was his. So I played the part. I stayed quiet, didn't flinch, didn't move when he hurt her. I was careful, but the Third was sharper than most. He saw things no one else could. And all it took was one moment of weakness for him to find out."

Catalina stays silent, her heart sinking at the weight of his words.

"It was one night in his study," Kael's right says. "Samara had...displeased him earlier that day. Something small, insignificant. Maybe she spoke out of turn, or maybe she just breathed wrong—doesn't matter. He decided she needed to learn a lesson. I was in the room, standing just a few feet away, when he called her in."

Catalina's stomach twists, but she doesn't interrupt.

"He made me stay," Polo says, his voice tightening. "Made me watch while he raped her. Told me it was a reminder that no one—no matter how beautiful or useful—was untouchable when you're king." His jaw flexes, his gaze distant. "I tried to stay cold, detached. I'd trained myself for years to be stone, to be nothing. But..." His voice falters for a moment, then hardens. "I looked away. Just for a second. But it was enough."

Catalina shut her eyes.

"The room went quiet," Polo continues. "I could feel his eyes on me before he even spoke. He didn't yell, didn't lose his temper. He just laughed and told me it was the first time he saw me react."

A bitter smile plays on his lips. "I tried to deny it. Told him I was just tired, distracted. But it was no use. He started testing me every day—pushing, probing, waiting for me to slip. He toyed with me like it was some kind of sport. And the more he played his games, the more it broke Samara."

Samara's voice rings in her thoughts: "The Third fucked me in front of him. Multiple times. Hurt me, beat me, slapped me around. One wrong word from Polo and the Third would threaten him with me. Held me at knifepoint and gunpoint for hours while he and Polo were in meetings. Made Kael strangle me in front of him. Had Polo bring me to the hospital to take my uterus out. Made him choose my ring and dress for my wedding to the Third."

Catalina's chest tightens at the helplessness Polo must have felt, trapped and paralyzed.

"And you stayed," she whispers.

Polo nods, his expression grim. "I needed to find a way to get her out. But every day I stayed, I was proving him right. Love is weakness in this world. And she paid the price for mine."

His voice drops lower, trembling with suppressed rage. He looks away, murmuring, "The Third wasn't merciful. He wasn't kind. And he wasn't afraid to make you wish he was. It was worse than being tortured, Catalina. It was like knives carving into me, the kind of pain that keeps you alive just enough to make you want to beg for death. But death was too easy a route for the Third. He enjoyed it—seeing us stripped of any will to fight. He'd make us suffer, drag us to the edge of despair, then pull us back just enough to torment us again."

Catalina closes her eyes. Fuck.

"When I found out she was being given to the Mirkovs, and when Kael found out the Third wanted you next," Polo says, his voice thick with venom, "I knew it was time. The moment I've been waiting for. Kael needed to rise. Knowing about my feelings for Samara, the Third imprisoned me, and so Kael..."

He exhales sharply, meeting her eyes. Catalina keeps herself from flinching at the darkness haunting them that have now only become apparent. "Do you know what it takes to torture a man like the Third? It takes precision. Patience. It takes thirty years of hatred and an inhumane level of control to drag it out just a little. And if I had my way, I would've dragged it out longer," Polo tells her. "If I, Samara, and Kael had our way, the Third would've been locked away and tortured every day for another thirty years—broken piece by piece, just like the hell he fucking put us through. But it also takes a certain amount of fear, a certain amount of restraint, to know that the Third still breathing the same air as you, Catalina—that was more than what Kael could bear. And him still breathing the same air as Samara...it was more than what I could bear."

Catalina stares at him, his words sinking in. "Fear and restraint? For love?"

The corner of his lips tilts up into a bitter smile. "Samara made a slave of me, Catalina," he says quietly. "And I knew you would make a slave of Kael. That's why I told him not to marry you."

She swallows the lump in her throat. "Polo—"

"I sent the Mirkovs dismembered body parts. Everyone who touched Samara. I sent them back with a pretty ribbon and a note."

Though afraid to know, she asks, "What did it say?"

Polo holds her gaze. "'Family ties are fragile. Handle what remains with care. With love, the Fourth...and Polo Halifax.'"

Her stomach churns. Fuck.

That's why—that's why—

"And Cirillo is no fool," Polo tells her with no emotion.

"However, shortly after the Third's funeral, my hope that my wife and child were alive was...rekindled, you can say."

"I was consumed by rage because Kael wouldn't act—he couldn't. He wouldn't risk a war with the Mirkovs. But then he pulled his goddamn Trojan War stunt, risking five fucking families just for you. Now he knows—knows what it's like to love someone so much it drives you to madness. But it doesn't matter. It was too late."

Polo rises slowly. Turns to the door. Then murmurs, "Chi ama senza limiti, soffre senza misura."

He who loves without limits, suffers without measure.

*

#ReignTheFourthWP