9
Gemma
The steel deadboltslides home with a metallic thud that echoes through the cavernous suite. Seven locks line the reinforced oak door. Dante engages every single one. The Costa compound is a literal fortress wrapped in limestone walls, iron gates, and endless banks of surveillance cameras. The entire perimeter is guarded by armed men. The man beside me does not care.
He moves away from the door. His boots leave faint, dusty prints on the immaculate dark hardwood floor. The slick black grease from the Grand Continental elevator cables still coats his denim. Dried blood from four dead Bellanti hitmen flakes off his knuckles. He ignores the king-sized bed dominating the center of the room. He ignores the sprawling leather sofa situated in front of a cold stone fireplace. He goes straight for the walk-in closet, his weapon drawn, clearing the empty space.
My food truck is a pile of charred, twisted metal on a South Side street. My independence died in a hail of Bellanti bullets forty-eight hours ago. My entire life fits into a canvas duffel bag currently sitting by my feet. A normal woman would bescreaming into a pillow right now. A normal woman would be demanding a taxi to the nearest police station. I just cross my arms and watch the man sweep the room for phantom threats.
He kicks the bathroom door open. The sterile, expensive scent of bleach and eucalyptus wafts out, quickly overpowered by the sharp, metallic tang of the violence he brought inside. That scent belongs to me now.
Dante moves methodically. He checks the shower stall. He checks the space behind the solid marble vanity. He secures the blast-proof windows lining the eastern wall, testing the reinforced latches with force. His wide build blocks out the ambient light bleeding in from the compound grounds. The armor and compass knotwork inked down his right arm flex with every movement. The skull tangled in dark roses on his left arm shifts as he holsters his weapon. The gold watch on his wrist catches the glare of the recessed lighting. He is a man trapped in a fortress of his own making.
He finishes his sweep and turns to face me. The icy, professional shield he used to wear like a second skin is permanently gone. The man staring back at me is stripped bare, vibrating with an exhaustion so deep it radiates off his shoulders.
"The room is secure." His voice is a gravelly rasp.
"I know." I drop my bag on the floor. "This entire property is secure. Matteo bypassed the security gate for us. We are in the safest building in Chicago."
"Nowhere is safe." He paces toward the window, dragging a hand over his hair. "The Bellantis know we survived the hotel. They know you are with me. They will escalate. I need to brief the guards on the perimeter. I need to check the southern gate."
"You are not going anywhere." I step directly into his path.
He stops. His chest heaves. The small, ragged scar on his right upper chest peeks through the torn, bloody collar of his undershirt. He looks down at me, the possessive fire burning hot and dangerous in his dark eyes. A lesser woman would flinch. I just plant my hands on my hips.
"You are bleeding." I point a trembling, grease-stained finger at his left side. "You are covered in elevator grease and dead guy. You have not slept in two days. If you step outside this room to yell at your security team, you will pass out in the hallway. I refuse to drag your giant body back in here."
"I do not sleep until the threat is neutralized." He crowds into my space. The move is purely instinctual. He needs to loom over me to ensure I am still here, still breathing, still untouchable.
"The threat is outside the gates." I reach up and flatten my palms against his chest. "I am inside. You promised me total control over my own life, big guy. I am using it right now. You are going into that ridiculously expensive bathroom. You are taking off those ruined clothes. You are letting me clean you up."
He stares down at me. The rigid tension in his jaw fights against the absolute devotion in his gaze. He wants to argue. He wants to tear the compound apart stone by stone just to rebuild it stronger around me.
"Bossy." The word rumbles deep in his chest.
"You have no idea." I push against his solid muscles. He does not budge a single inch, but he finally drops his chin in a gesture of absolute surrender.
We walk into the bathroom together. The space is larger than my first apartment. Floor-to-ceiling slate tiles, a glass shower enclosure, and a sunken soaking tub. I turn on the brass faucets, letting the steaming hot water fill the deep basin. Steam immediately fogs the mirrors.
"Sit." I point to the edge of the tub.
He sits. He looks out of place in the pristine, luxurious bathroom. He is a creature built for back alleys and violence, currently perching on the edge of a billionaire's custom marble tub. He slowly reaches down and unlaces his combat boots, kicking them aside.
I step between his knees. The forced proximity does not spark the high-tension tease of the dead-zone hotel. This is something entirely different. This is grounding intimacy. He drops his head forward, resting his forehead against my stomach. His arms wrap around my hips, pulling me flush against him. He just breathes. The ragged, uneven inhales of a man who finally put his weapon down.
I sink my fingers into his hair. I gently scratch his scalp, feeling the tension bleed out of his rigid neck muscles.
"You called Matteo." I keep my voice soft, letting the sound of the running water fill the silence.
"I did." He turns his face, pressing his cheek against my stomach.
"You told him the truth. About the phone call. About the night you lost everything."
"I told him everything." Dante pulls back just enough to look up at me. The haunted, borrowed trauma of the rainy alley is gonefrom his eyes. The panic attacks triggered by phantom cordite have lost their anchor. "For twenty years, I thought I failed Carlo because I wasn't there. I thought I needed to be the unfeeling guard dog to make up for my weakness. You shattered that."
"You were trapped on that couch." I trace the line of his rugged, messy beard. "While your world ended. That helplessness is a terrifying thing to carry. You don't have to carry it alone anymore."
He grips my hips tighter. The possessive claim in his touch is absolute. "I claimed you on that call. I told my brother you are mine. The entire compound knows. The family knows. You are untouchable, Gemma."
