Chapter 9 - NO MORE EMPIRES
Three months later, the Amaranth had a new tablecloth.
Talia knew because she was sitting at the same table where everything had begun.
This time she wasn't carrying the wine.
Lucian was pouring it.
“You're holding the bottle incorrectly,” she said.
He looked at his hand.
“No, I'm not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I own three vineyards.”
“And somehow learned nothing.”
He poured anyway.
Not a drop spilled.
Talia sighed.
“Annoying.”
Lucian sat across from her.
The private room had changed.
No bodyguards inside.
No weapons visible.
No negotiations.
Lucian had spent ninety-one days dismantling much of the criminal structure he had inherited.
It had cost him millions.
Several captains had walked away.
Two had threatened him.
One had tried to kill him.
Lucian had survived.
Again.
His legitimate shipping company remained.
So did restaurants, warehouses, and real estate.
The rest was being handed to attorneys, regulators, or—in certain cases—federal prosecutors.
Marco Bellini had become Special Agent Marco Bellini again.
Lucian still hadn't forgiven him.
They had lunch every Thursday.
Nico had pleaded guilty to conspiracy, obstruction, and several financial crimes.
His cooperation against Orlov had reduced what could have been decades.
The death of Carlo Marchetti remained under investigation.
Lucian visited his brother every Sunday.
Some Sundays he spoke.
Some Sundays he sat silently.
Talia never asked which kind it had been.
Her father's case had also been reopened.
Patrick Brennan's name was finally being cleared.
And his research had become unexpectedly important.
A university in Boston had offered Talia a funded doctoral position.
She had not answered.
Lucian knew.
That was why they were having dinner.
“You should go.”
Talia looked at him.
“That was quick.”
“You've wanted this for years.”
“I wanted someone to believe the work mattered.”
“It matters.”
“You've never read my dissertation.”
“I read forty-three pages.”
Her mouth fell open.
“When?”
“Last week.”
“You understood it?”
“No.”
She laughed.
Lucian smiled.
“I understood enough to know you're wasted serving men like me dinner.”
Talia looked down.
“I don't serve anymore.”
“No.”
Lucian had offered her a position in international compliance at Marchetti Shipping.
She had accepted temporarily.
Temporarily had become three months.
Working together had been complicated.
There had been arguments.
Long nights.
Coffee at two in the morning.
A kiss in an elevator that neither had discussed afterward.
A second kiss in his kitchen that had been significantly harder to ignore.
Then nothing for two weeks because Lucian had apparently decided emotions could be managed like shipping schedules.
Talia had informed him otherwise.
Now Boston sat between them.
“You want me to leave?” she asked.
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
She looked up.
Lucian's jaw tightened.
“I want you to stay.”
“That's different.”
“Yes.”
“Then why tell me to go?”
“Because I spent most of my life making choices for people.”
He looked at her.
“I won't do that to you.”
Talia studied him.
“You've changed.”
“Don't sound so surprised.”
“You called me stupid the first night we met.”
“I remember.”
“Pathetic wages.”
“I remember that too.”
“Blank stare.”
“Talia.”
She smiled.
He deserved at least another decade of this.
Lucian reached into his jacket.
She raised an eyebrow.
“If that's a ring, I'm jumping through the window.”
His hand stopped.
“It isn't.”
“Good.”
“That's a strangely violent reaction.”
“We've kissed twice.”
“Three times.”
“The hospital parking garage does not count.”
“It counted to me.”
Her smile faded.
So did his.
Lucian placed an envelope on the table.
Talia opened it.
Inside was a check.
She stared at the amount.
Then at him.
“What is this?”
“The Brennan Foundation.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“What did you do?”
“I provided the initial funding.”
“Lucian.”
“Before you become furious, read the second page.”
She did.
The foundation would fund linguistic research, translation services for immigrants, and scholarships for students studying endangered dialects.
Talia's throat tightened.
“You named it after my father?”
“He deserves to be remembered for something other than how he died.”
She looked away.
Tears threatened.
“I can't accept this.”
“It's not yours.”
“What?”
“You don't control it.”
She stared.
Lucian almost smiled.
“I learned.”
“Apparently.”
“The university administers it independently.”
Talia looked again at the paper.
“You did all this?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He was silent for a moment.
“Because you saved my life.”
“You've already thanked me.”
“No.”
He leaned forward.
“You saved it before the gunshots.”
Talia stopped moving.
“I had money. Power. Men who obeyed me. Houses I barely entered.”
His voice softened.
“But I wasn't living particularly well.”
“Lucian…”
“You walked into a room carrying a bottle of wine, and within five minutes you made me ashamed of the man I'd become.”
“That sounds romantic when you leave out the insults.”
“I am trying.”
“I can tell.”
He smiled.
Then his phone rang.
Marco.
Lucian answered.
His expression changed.
“What happened?”
Talia watched him.
Lucian stood.
“When?”
He listened.
Then looked at her.
“We're coming.”
He ended the call.
“What?”
“Orlov.”
Her stomach tightened.
“What about him?”
“He's dead.”
Talia stared.
“How?”
“Someone reached him inside federal detention.”
“That should be impossible.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“They don't know.”
Talia stood.
Lucian's phone vibrated again.
This time it was an email.
No sender.
One attachment.
He opened it.
A photograph filled the screen.
Patrick Brennan.
Carlo Marchetti.
And a third man neither of them recognized.
All three stood outside Saint Aurelia Library.
On the back of the photograph, visible beneath them, someone had written one sentence.
Talia translated the Russian handwriting.
Her face went cold.
“What does it say?” Lucian asked.
May you like
She looked at him.
“Orlov was never the man in charge.”
