The slide of the matte-black titanium hand-cannon vanished under the hem of Corso’s oversized flannel shirt with a whisper of treated carbon steel. Vivienne’s designer heels clicked away down the hallway in a furious, rattling tempo, her voice trailing off into shrieks about ungrateful heirs and dry-cleaning bills before the heavy front foyer doors slammed shut. Sloane took that exact cue to flutter her eyelids open from the rug, groaning as if waking from a fainting spell induced by cheap theatricality. "Corso?" she mumbled, dragging the sleeve of her grease-stained gray sweatpants across her cheek. "Did the ceiling fall down again? I told you this Airbnb has termite issues. We need to leave a one-star review." Corso instantly dropped to one knee beside her. The lethal chill that had made the room feel like an industrial freezer vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, doting agony. "It was just a gas pipe pop, sweetheart. Poorly installed ventilation. The landlord's insurance covers it. Are you hurt? Did you bump your head?" He smoothed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers were warm, steady, and calloused precisely where an operative rested the balance of a high-recoil custom sidearm. Sloane stared into his concerned hazel eyes, calculating bullet trajectories behind her pupils. *He’s The Phantom.* The ghost who had wiped out the entire North Sector syndicate in four minutes flat. The shadow who had cost her a three-million-credit retrieval bounty in New Kyoto. She was legally wed to the single most dangerous living asset in the Korsaka underworld. And he had just offered to make her scrambled eggs. "I'm fine," Sloane deadpanned, sitting up slowly. "Just emotionally bruised by your mother's opinion of my leisurewear. I need food, or I’m going back into a coma." "Breakfast for lunch," Corso declared cheerfully, springing to his feet with fluid grace that defied a man claiming to work in freelance software quality assurance. "Wagyu skirt steak, pasture eggs, truffled chives. The grocery app gave me a first-time discount code." "Right. A coupon code for three-hundred-dollar beef." While Corso headed toward the commercial-grade kitchen island, Sloane went to work. If her new husband was Korsaka’s apex predator, this house was no longer a temporary nap haven. It was a forward base under live siege. She lagged behind, casually toeing a monofilament trip-wire she had salvaged from her ankle holster into position beneath the corner of the marble counter. She set the trigger to drop a heavy copper skillet directly onto the back of his neck if tripped. Corso didn't even glance down. He pirouetted smoothly on his heel to reach for a ceramic bowl, his back toe brushing the wire at the exact angle required to disable the spring tension before the catch could snap. The copper pot remained still. *Reflex tier: Sub-zero,* Sloane noted internally, narrowing her eyes. She leaned against the edge of the granite island, pretending to admire the polished chrome faucet while watching his hands. Corso drew an eight-inch Damascus steel chef’s knife from the block. *Chop. Chop. Chop-chop-chop.* The blade moved in a hypnotic, staccato blur. He held the spine reversed between thumb and ring finger, angling each downstroke at an exact thirty-four-degree diagonal. The chives sheared into micro-disks with surgical geometry. Sloane’s throat went dry. She recognized that cut. That exact reversed-grip wrist snap was the movement that had stripped an encrypted data-drive from her tactical harness in a rainy high-rise stairwell twelve months ago. She had spent three weeks nursing a bruised clavicle from that fight, swearing she would split his skull the next time their paths crossed. *He was slicing vegetables with the technique he used to butcher black-ops squads.* "You have great wrist control," she drawled, picking at a seam on her sleeve. Corso beamed, turning the pink, marbled beef onto a sizzling iron pan. "Lots of keyboard ergonomics training. Carpal tunnel is real, Sloane. I do wrist stretches every morning." "Uh-huh. You must type very aggressively." The chime of the security gate intercom buzzed, saving Corso from further scrutiny. A shrill, panicked voice sputtered through the audio panel: "Sloane! It’s Gordo! I brought... the bread warmer you left at my garage! You know, for the carbs! Let me in, the front lawn has automated machine gun nests hidden in the decorative shrubs!" Sloane tapped the wall terminal, granting access. "That's my IT guy," she told Corso. "He's neurotic. Ignore him." "Any friend of yours is welcome," Corso said, plating the steak with tweezer-level precision. "I'll make him a plate." Thirty seconds later, Gordo Flinn scuttled into the kitchen. He was sweating through a lime-green Hawaiian shirt, carrying an enormous chrome appliance under one arm like an unexploded bomb. His gaze darted frantically across the vaulted ceilings, the bullet-scarred hallway, and finally locked onto Corso Brill. Gordo stopped dead. His knees visibly knocked together. "Hey. Hi. Hello, Mr. Husband. Sir." "Call me Corso!" Corso said with a wide, bright smile, extending a hand covered in cooking oil before wiping it on a dish towel. "Gordo, right? Sloane mentions you fix her electronics." "I do! I fix things! I don't break them! Please don't kill me!" Gordo squeaked, his voice pitching up an octave. He slammed the appliance onto the counter between them. It looked like an oversized retro toaster, but Sloane instantly spotted the subtle aperture of an infrared biometric scanner built into the crumb tray. "Gordo built us a housewarming gift," Sloane said smoothly, leaning over the counter to give Gordo a subtle, shut-up-or-die glare. "A high-efficiency toaster." "It’s calibrated," Gordo stammered, frantically fiddling with the dials to aim the hidden sensor grid directly at Corso’s chest. "It, uh, measures thermal density to ensure the toast never burns. If you just stand right there, Corso, and look into the slot—" "Oh, the heating element on these vintage coils is notoriously unstable," Corso interrupted gently. Before Gordo could hit the scan trigger, Corso reached out with a single titanium butter knife. In three blindingly fast flicks of his wrist, he popped the front casing, slid out the central heating core, sheared the concealed fiber-optic feed to Gordo’s biometric array, and reseated the chrome shell. He pushed the toaster back. It was now just a collection of dead screws and sliced copper. "There," Corso said sweetly, dusting his hands. "Ground wire was loose. Could have started a fire. You have to be careful with cheap scrap metal, Gordo. Safety first." Gordo stared at his ruined five-thousand-credit biometric scanner. Then he stared at Corso’s friendly, smiling face. A thin whimper escaped his throat. He slowly backed toward the pantry door, his hands raised in surrender. "I need to use the bathroom. Or dig a trench. Whichever is closer." "Down the hall to the left," Corso offered politely. Sloane stepped closer to Corso, the air between them thick with bristling static. She crossed her arms, her tactical mind running through a dozen scenarios. If she drew her ceramic blade right now, could she take him down before he cleared his hip holster? Or would the sheer kinetic shock level the kitchen? Corso met her gaze. His smile softened, turning uncharacteristically tender, almost possessive. "You're looking at me like you want to dissect me, Sloane." "Just wondering where a guy who clips coupons learns how to defuse military-grade wiring with a butter knife," she said softly. "YouTube tutorials," he replied without missing a beat, stepping into her personal space. He smelled like cedarwood, high-end cordite, and garlic butter. "You'd be amazed what you can learn when you're bored." "Is that so?" "Very much so." His hand hovered inches from her waist, lingering with an undeniable, heavy warmth that made her combat instincts scream in confusion. *CRASH.* The reinforced ballistic window facing the manicured rear terrace imploded in a spray of tempered glass and dark crimson spray. A man tumbled across the island floor, skidding through spilled olive oil and trailing thick, dark blood across the imported tile. He wore the tactical harness of the Ironfang Syndicate, shredded by heavy-caliber rounds. Gordo shrieked from the hallway. Sloane and Corso dropped their civilian facades simultaneously, their bodies shifting into lethal, low-center combat postures within a fraction of a second. The dying man reached out a trembling, gore-soaked glove, clutching at Corso’s polished leather shoe. His lungs rattled with a terminal heave as his eyes darted wildly between Corso's frozen frame and Sloane’s crouched, ready-to-strike stance. "Phantom..." the bleeding man choked out, dark foam bubbling on his lips. "Mercer... the Underboss knows. Fifty million on both of you. He knows you're in the same room."

Domestic Espionage