"Do not cry." His voice is a rough, jagged command.
"I will do whatever I want," I snap, dropping my hand. My voice wavers. "You don't get to dictate my emotions. You already dictated my location."
"Tears don't provide cover. They just blur your sight."
I whip my head around to glare at him. "Are you out of your mind? They don't provide cover? They just blur my sight? My entire life was just blown to pieces by automatic weapons. Excuse me if I need a minute to process the fact that I am officially unemployed and hunted by the mob."
Dante stares at me. The blank lack of comprehension in his dark eyes is almost comical. He operates on a different frequency. Bullets, blood, survival. Emotions are obstacles to him.
"I have money," he states.
"I don't want your money." I wipe my cheeks fiercely with the back of my hand. "I want my truck back."
"The truck is scrap."
"You are horrible at comforting people."
"Comfort isn't in my repertoire. Security is."
"Clearly." I huff out a harsh breath. I look away from his intense gaze, staring straight ahead at the grimy wallpaper. "So what is the plan, Terminator? We sit in this dust bowl forever? Someone has to know we are here. Someone has to be looking for you."
"My brother Matteo expects another check-in." Dante rests his forearms on his thighs. The gold watch gleams. "When I miss it, he will lock down the compound. He will send sweepers to the alley."
"Then we call him. There has to be a way to get a signal."
"No." The word is final.
"Why not?"
"Because the Bellantis have eyes on the street. They have ears in the precinct. If Matteo sends men to extract us, it creates a convoy. A convoy is a target. I will not put you in a moving vehicle until I am sure the streets are clear."
"So no one except Matteo knows we are here." The panic begins to bubble up again. The isolation of this fourteenth-floor grave.
Dante shifts. His shoulder brushes mine. A jolt of heat arcs across my skin at the brief contact.
"Turi might guess," Dante says quietly. The rough edge of his voice softens just a fraction.
"Who is Turi?"
"Family." Dante looks down at his hands. "He raised us. My brothers and me. After… after the old guard fell. Turi is the only one who knows all my fallback points. He is the trusted elder. If the Bellantis track us here, Matteo will coordinate the extraction quietly. No convoys. No noise."
The way he talks about this Turi softens the harsh lines of his face. A brief glimpse of the boy beneath the tattooed, traumatized man.
"He raised you?" I ask, my curiosity overpowering my anger for a second. "All of you?"
"There were seven of us—just boys." Dante's lips twitch. It is almost a smile. "He earned every gray hair on his head. He calls Dominicfiglio. Son. He kept us breathing when the rest of the city wanted us buried."
"Mafia politics," I mutter. "Sounds exhausting."
"It is survival." Dante's head snaps up. The brief moment of vulnerability vanishes. The tactical machine reboots. He stands abruptly, the mattress bouncing with his departure. "We need to clear the secondary rooms. I need to secure the perimeter."
"You already paced the entire room ten times."
"I need to check the bathroom lines. The hallway exits. The adjoining suite." He is already moving. His voice is tight. The hypervigilance is spiking again.
I watch him march toward the bathroom. He is rigid. A ghost is eating at him—an invisible weight I can’t name. He stops in the doorway, his hand gripping the rotting doorframe. His knuckles strain against his skin. He leans forward, his chest expanding rapidly.
He scents the air, nostrils flaring.
