Turi steps back. Dante kicks the door shut. He immediately re-engages all seven locks. The metallic thuds sound different this time.Not a trap. A shield.
Dante carries the tray to the small, circular table near the window. He sets it down and pulls off the silver covers. The smell of rich marinara, roasted garlic, and fresh basil floods the room. My stomach gives a violent, undeniable growl. I haven't eaten since the drive-by.
"Sit." He pulls out a chair for me.
I sit. He piles a heaping portion of pasta onto a plate and slides it in front of me. He pours a glass of water. He does not serve himself. He simply stands behind my chair, his hands resting on my shoulders, standing guard while I eat.
"You need to eat too." I point my fork at him over my shoulder.
"I will eat when you are finished." He rubs his thumbs over my collarbones, a soothing, rhythmic motion that betrays his need to touch me.
I eat. The food is incredible, a rich, comforting anchor after forty-eight hours of terror and violence. Matteo Costa is a terrifying Underboss, but the man belongs in a Michelin-starred kitchen. I finish half the plate before pushing it away.
"Your turn." I stand up, forcing him to take my seat.
He inhales the remaining food with the efficiency of a soldier taking on fuel. He doesn't taste it. He just consumes it. He drains a bottle of water in one long pull. The exhaustion is catching up to him quickly. His movements are losing their razor-sharp edge. The adrenaline crash is imminent.
"Bed." I point to the mattress in the center of the room.
He stands up. He walks over to the bed, analyzing the layout. The headboard sits against the western wall. The mattress offers a clear, unobstructed view of the reinforced door and the walk-in closet. Dante grabs the down pillows and begins rearranging them.
He builds a fortified position on the right side of the bed. It allows his dominant hand a clear draw to the nightstand where he places his weapon. It gives him the optimal line of sight to the entrance.
I watch him do it. I watch the hypervigilance dictate his every action. The coldness is gone, but the tactical instincts remain. This is the man he is. Even now, he is securing the room. He calculates every angle of attack while fluffing a pillow, unable to rest without the upper hand.
He finishes his arrangement and sits on the edge of the mattress. He looks at me, waiting. The territorial instinct in his gaze wars with a sudden, stark vulnerability. The tense set of his shoulders makes him look like he is waiting for me to judge him, waiting for me to decide the paranoia is too much, the violence is too much, the baggage is too deep.
I walk to the left side of the bed. I pull back the dark duvet. The sheets smell like expensive linen and compound antiseptic.
I climb into the bed. I drag my pillows over, ignoring the plush symmetry of the original arrangement. I push my pillows right up against his fortified position.
"What are you doing?" His voice is rough, completely wrecked by the simple action.
"I am claiming my side." I pat the mattress beside me. "Get in."
He swings his legs up. He lies down on his back, his chest rising and falling. His dark eyes remain fixed on the reinforced door. His hand rests inches from his weapon.
I roll onto my side. I slide my arm across his chest, draping my leg over his thighs. I press my face into his neck, inhaling the scent of his skin. I anchor myself to him.
He flinches at the contact, a full-body shudder ripping through his frame. He turns his head, burying his face in my hair. His arms come around me, locking me against his side with a desperate, crushing grip.
"You are staying." It isn't a question. It is a ragged, desperate realization.
"I am staying." I press a kiss against his pulse point. "I accept the locks. I accept the room sweeps. I accept the fact that you have to face the door. I accept all of it, Dante. You protected me in that hotel. You carried me down those cables. You tore apart your own soul to keep me safe. I am not running."
The silence stretches out, charged with my vow. The man holding me stops breathing for three full seconds. The tactical armor, the borrowed trauma, the steel-eyed calm—every wall he ever built shatters permanently.
He shifts his weight. He rolls onto his side, breaking his line of sight with the door for the first time. He turns his back to the entrance. He puts himself between me and the rest of the world, making his own body the final lock on the door.
He looks down at me. The exhaustion vanishes from his dark eyes. The feral, obsessive hunger takes over. The protector is gone. The man remains. And the man is staring at my curves like he is going to consume me alive.
"You’re not going anywhere.” He whispers the vow against my lips, a possessive promise that burns right through my skin.
I tilt my chin up, ready for the fire.
Mine.
10
