We reach the back door of the lead sedan. I open it for her.
She slides onto the leather seat. I climb in beside her, slamming the armored door shut. The world goes quiet inside the cabin.
The driver puts the car in gear. The convoy moves out, speeding through the dark streets of Chicago, heading north toward the stone walls and iron gates of the compound.
Gemma rests her head on my shoulder. Her hand slips into mine.
I look out the window at the passing city lights. The Bellantis started a war tonight. They took her livelihood. They tried to take my life.
They will burn for it.
I pull out my phone one last time. I send a text to Turi.
Clear a secure wing. No interruptions.
The reply comes instantly.
Done, figlio. Welcome home.
I put the phone away. I look down at the beautiful, curvy, fierce woman sleeping against my arm. The scent of sweet orange and warm cumin fills the car.
I am Dante Costa. I am thirty-six years old. For the first time in my life, I am awake.
Mine.
That's all there is to it.
I spend the entire ride watching her. Protecting her. Protecting our future.
She lived on the South Side. Exposed. Vulnerable. Running a business on a corner where stray bullets fly.
Never again.
I will build her a fortress. If she wants to cook, she will cook. But she will do it under my protection.
The iron gates of the Costa compound loom ahead. Towering stone walls topped with razor wire. Cameras tracking our approach. The gates swing open smoothly, revealing the sprawling restored limestone mansion. The floodlights illuminate the training yard, the chapel in the east wing, the fortified garage.
The car rolls to a stop.
I don't wait for the soldiers to open the door. I shove it open myself.
The cold air hits us again. I step out, pulling Gemma with me. She blinks against the harsh security lights, taking in the sheer scale of the operation. Armed guards patrol the perimeter.
The front doors of the mansion open.
Matteo walks out onto the portico.
He is flanked by two capos. He looks exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes speak of the endless war. But as he looks at me, his shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. Relief.
I walk up the steps, keeping Gemma firmly at my side.
Matteo stops in front of us. He looks at the blood drying on my black undershirt. He looks at my bruised knuckles. Then, he looks at Gemma.
Usually, a stranger brought into the compound is subjected to an interrogation. They are stripped of phones, patted down, thrown in the basement war room.
Not her.
Matteo extends a hand to her. A sign of profound respect.
