"I am a South Side food truck owner." I offer a small, sad smile, thinking of the charred remains of La Diosa. "I chop cilantro and negotiate with meat vendors. I don't know how to be a mafia princess."
"You don't have to be anything but mine." He stands up, towering over me in the steamy room. He reaches for the hem of his ruined undershirt and strips it over his head. The fabric is stiff with blood and grease. He tosses it into a corner.
I grab a plush white washcloth from a stacked pile on the vanity. I run it under the hot water, squeezing out the excess. I turn back to him. He stands perfectly still, a lethal weapon submitting completely to my care.
I press the hot cloth to his left shoulder, wiping away the smear of dried blood from the stairwell fight. He hisses slightly as the rough terrycloth drags over a shallow knife graze.
"Sorry." I dab at the wound more gently.
"It's nothing." He tracks my every movement. His dark eyes devour my face, mapping my features as if memorizing them for a test he cannot fail.
I clean his chest, washing away the dirt and the grime. I trace the compass knotwork on his right arm, following the fine lines of ink with the warm cloth. I wipe the soot from his neck. Every time I touch him, his muscles twitch, as if he is fighting to hold back the feral hunger simmering right below the surface. He is giving me this moment. He is letting me anchor him.
"La Diosa is gone." The words slip out before I can stop them. The grief over my business finally hits me, suffocating. "I spent four years building that truck. Four years of permits, saving every dime, burning my hands on the flat top. The Bellantis took it in five seconds."
Dante's jaw locks. The tactical enforcer snaps back into place for a fraction of a second. "I will buy you a new truck. I will buy you a fleet of them. I will build you a restaurant right in the middle of their territory and line the roof with snipers."
A genuine laugh bursts out of my chest. The sheer absurdity of his protective aggression cuts right through my grief. "Snipers on a taco restaurant."
"If that is what you want." He is completely serious. "I have the money. I have the men. Name your territory, Gemma."
"I build my own empire, Costa." I toss the ruined, filthy washcloth into the sink and grab a clean one. "I appreciate the offer, but nobody buys my success for me. I will rebuild. I will deal with the insurance. I will get a new flat top."
"Fine." He concedes the point, but his eyes gleam with possessive pride. He loves my fierce independence. He worshipsmy defiance. "You build the empire. I will just fund the security detail. Non-negotiable."
"We can negotiate the snipers." I wipe the last smear of grease from his cheekbone. "You are clean."
He looks down at his bare chest, then back at me. He reaches out and gently traces the curve of my hip. "You need a shower. You are covered in the same hotel dust."
"I will wash the grease off later." I step back, creating a tiny sliver of space between us. The air in the bathroom is dense, charged with the last two days. "You need to eat. And you need to lie down."
A sharp knock echoes from the main room.
Dante instantly drops into a defensive crouch. He snatches his weapon from the counter in a blur of motion. The peaceful, domestic moment shatters instantly. He presses his back against the wall next to the bathroom door, aiming down the sights toward the suite's entrance.
"Identify." Dante barks the command, his voice echoing with lethal authority.
"It is Turi, figlio." The warm, gravelly voice bleeds through the oak door. "Matteo sent me from the kitchen. The perimeter is secure. The southern gate is locked down. I brought provisions. The girl must eat."
Dante does not lower the weapon. He sweeps his gaze across the room, analyzing the angles, verifying the lack of secondary threats. He nods sharply to himself.
"Stay here." He orders me in a harsh whisper.
I ignore the command. I follow him out of the bathroom. He shoots me a warning glare, but he doesn't have the energy to fight my defiance right now. He steps up to the door, peering through the reinforced security peephole. He disengages the seven locks with mechanical precision. The deadbolts click and slide.
He opens the door exactly three inches.
Turi stands in the brightly lit hallway. The older man has silver hair, a weathered face, and kind eyes that crinkle at the corners. He wears a simple dark suit. He holds a silver tray loaded with covered plates, a carafe of coffee, and two bottles of water.
"You look terrible, Dante." Turi offers a gentle, grandfatherly smile. "But you are alive. And you brought her home."
Turi's eyes shift to me, standing just behind Dante's shoulder. He nods respectfully.
"She is mine, Turi." Dante does not mince words. He claims me right there in the doorway, broadcasting the absolute truth to the elder who raised him.
"I can see that." Turi's smile widens. "Matteo made enough pasta to feed the entire compound. Eat. Sleep. The family council meets tomorrow. Dominic is returning from the eastern territory. We go to war in the morning."
Dante takes the tray. "Already done." Turi pats Dante's tattooed bicep. "Rest, boy. You have done your job."
