Monday morning arrived gray and cold.
Isla woke at 5 a.m. to find Killian already awake. Staring at the ceiling.
"Did you sleep at all?" she asked.
"No. Couldn't. Kept thinking this was the last time I'd wake up in our bed for seven years. The last time I'd see you like this. The last—" His voice cracked. "The last morning."
They got up together. Showered together. Got dressed in silence.
Killian wore a simple suit. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screamed crime lord.
Just a man about to surrender to federal prison.
Isla wore black. Because it felt appropriate. Because she was mourning what they were about to lose.
Downstairs, Luca waited with the car.
"Boss. Mrs. Archer." His voice was rough. "It's time."
The drive to the federal building took twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of silence. Of holding hands. Of trying not to fall apart.
Of failing.
