The heavy oak doors of the Council chamber closed behind them, muting the rising clamor of the syndicate heads as they swarmed their new interim chair.
As they walked down the long, marble-floored corridor, Nico's hand found the small of Mara's back. It was the same familiar placement as the night outside the club after the Morozov meeting.
His palm felt warm, heavy, and undeniably possessive against the dark fabric of her suit.
There was no one around to watch… no old guard traditionalists, no Russian proxies… no one. He touched her simply because they had survived the fire, and he needed the reassurance that she was still standing beside him.
She leaned back into the pressure, just a fraction of an inch, letting the heat of his hand anchor her.
They turned the corner toward the private elevators and stopped.
Donna Sylvia Greco was waiting in the quiet stretch of the corridor. She stood perfectly straight, clutching a designer handbag with both hands.
