A bullet grazes my left shoulder. Searing heat rips across my skin. The skull and roses tattoo is painted with a fresh stripe of blood. The pain flares, sharp and blinding. It only makes the monster inside me roar louder.
I lunge forward before he can adjust his aim, striking the barrel of the M4 with my forearm to knock it off target. The smell ofburning flesh mixes with the cordite. I do not let go. I rip the weapon downward, forcing the muzzle toward the floor.
He struggles, his eyes wide with terror behind his tactical goggles as he stares up at me.
I drive the combat knife into the soft gap between his ceramic plates. Right beneath the ribcage. I twist the blade sharply upward, puncturing the lung and seeking the heart.
He chokes. A fountain of blood erupts from his mouth, spraying across my face and my beard. The hot copper coats my lips. He sags against me, his hands weakly grasping at my arms.
I step back, pulling the knife free. He collapses onto the ruined carpet. The M4 clatters to the floor next to him.
The hallway falls silent. The only sounds are the ragged wheezing of the dying men and the steady drip of blood onto the floorboards. The air is dense with dust and smoke.
I stand in the center of the carnage. My chest heaves. Blood drips from my left hand where the hot barrel burned my skin. Blood streams down my left shoulder from the bullet graze. I am covered in the blood of four men.
The tactical assessment runs a diagnostic. Threat neutralized. Perimeter clear. Injuries sustained: minor lacerations, second-degree burn on the left palm, superficial bullet graze on the left deltoid. Combat effectiveness remains at ninety-five percent.
I only have one objective left.
Gemma.
I turn toward the penthouse suite. The oak door is riddled with bullet holes, but it holds. I kick it open. The hinges finally give way, and the door crashes to the floor inside the room.
I step over the shattered wood. The penthouse is filled with dust, but the bed remains untouched.
I walk toward the frame. My footsteps echo in the quiet room. I am drenched in the violence she was trying to escape, a brutal reminder of the world I inhabit. I am the brutal, unforgiving reality of the Costa family war. She has every right to be terrified of me. She has every right to crawl away and hide.
I drop to my knees beside the bed. I lift the rotting velvet ruffle.
"Gemma," I say. My voice is still a guttural rasp.
She is pressed against the far wall beneath the bed. Her knees are pulled to her chest. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her legs. Her dark eyes lock onto mine. They drop to my bloody chest. To the knife in my right hand. To the blood dripping from my beard.
Her eyes track the blood covering my skin, taking in the violent reality of the weapon Matteo forged.
I wait for the scream. I wait for her to scramble backward, to treat me like a stranger. The rejection will tear out my spine, but I will accept it. I will keep her safe, even if she despises me.
She uncurls her legs. She crawls forward over the dusty floorboards. She moves toward the light. Toward me.
She reaches the edge of the bed. She sits up, ignoring the filth covering the floor. She does not flinch from the blood. She does not cower from the violence radiating off my skin in waves.
She lifts her hand. Her fingers are trembling slightly, but her gaze is steady. She presses her palm flat against the center of my bloody chest. Right over my racing heart.
The touch sends a violent shockwave through my nervous system. The feral beast inside me quiets instantly. The roaring inferno calms to a steady, manageable burn. She is touching the monster. She is anchoring the weapon.
"Are you hurt?" she asks. Her voice is soft, but it holds no fear. Just a fierce, demanding intensity.
"Scratches," I grunt. I drop the combat knife. It clatters against the hardwood. I reach up and cover her hand with my bloodstained one. I do not care that I am getting her dirty. I need her heat. I need her connection. "You are safe."
"You're bleeding, Dante." She looks at the graze on my shoulder. She looks at the burn on my left palm. "They shot you."
"They missed the important parts." I stare into her eyes. "Are you hurt? Did any debris hit you?"
"No. I'm fine." She traces the line of my collarbone, her fingertips sliding through the smear of someone else's blood. "You killed them all."
"Yes." I do not apologize. I will never apologize for the bodies I drop to keep her breathing. "I will kill a thousand more if they look in your direction."
She swallows hard. The sassy, independent food truck owner from the South Side is staring directly into the abyss of mafia violence, and she is not blinking. She is accepting the shadows. She is accepting me.
