She stares into my calculating eyes. She sees the total absence of mercy. The defiance in her expression softens, melting into something fierce and trusting. She nods once. A single, jerky motion.
"Come back," she commands, throwing my own authority right back at me.
"Count on it."
I kiss her hard. A punishing, bruising claim that tastes like adrenaline and promises of extreme violence. I pull away beforeI lose the ability to leave. I turn my back on the most beautiful thing in my life and walk out the bedroom door.
I pull the oak door shut behind me. The lock clicks into place with a solid, echoing thud.
The hallway of the Costa compound is cold. The ancient limestone walls radiate a damp, historical chill. The vaulted ceilings swallow the sound of my combat boots as I move toward the grand staircase. The compound is a fortress. Stone walls, iron gates, twenty-four-hour surveillance. It was built to withstand a siege. It was built because, the night our blood spilled in the streets, we vowed never to let the wolves inside again.
That night.
The memory hits me with the force of a freight train, unbidden and sharp. I was ten years old. The silence in this exact hallway was deafening. My father was dead. My uncle Igor was dead. My mother was gone, and even mourning her had to happen quietly.
I learned the math of grief at ten years old. I learned that love is a liability unless it is weaponized. I have spent my entire adult life turning my mind into a ledger of numbers and probabilities, calculating every risk, mitigating every vulnerability, treating people like assets on a spreadsheet to ensure my brothers never bled again.
And now, I have handed my entire heart to a woman with a sharp tongue and a chaotic soul. I have made myself vulnerable. I have given the Bellantis a target.
The muscles in my neck strain. The discipline I rely on is humming at its breaking point, every clause in my head re-titled with one word. Her.
I reach the landing of the grand staircase. The shadows near the ancestral portraits shift.
Turi steps out of the gloom.
He wears a dark wool suit, impeccably tailored, his silver hair catching the dim light of the hallway sconces. His weathered face is calm. His kind eyes track my movements, cataloging the combat gear, the boots, the lethal tension rolling off my shoulders in waves. Turi was Carlo's best friend. He raised us. He is the steady, quiet center of the Costa family chaos.
"Trouble, figlio?" Turi asks, his voice carrying the patient weight of a man who has seen every shape this house can throw.
"Jeff bolted." I do not stop walking. Turi falls into step beside me, his stride smooth and silent. "Rourke is moving on the West Loop hub. They are searching for the ledgers."
Turi lets out a slow sigh. "The boy was foolish. Fear makes men do foolish things. Does he have the ledgers with him?"
"Unknown. Rourke has the hub locked down. We are going to break the lock."
Turi glances at the oak door at the end of the hallway. My bedroom. "The girl?"
"She stays." The warning in my tone is undeniable, including to the man who raised me. "She does not leave that room. Put two guards at the top of the stairs. Nobody approaches the east wing without my explicit authorization."
Turi nods, a faint, knowing smile touching the corners of his mouth. He sees the shift. He sees the ring on her finger is no longer a prop. "I will stand the post myself, Enzo. She is safe here. Go do what needs to be done."
The steady calm in his weathered face slows the spiraling chaos in my head. "Thank you."
I leave Turi on the landing and descend the stairs rapidly. I bypass the main foyer, bypassing Matteo's industrial kitchen where the scent of roasted garlic usually lingers. I head straight for the basement door. The air grows colder, heavier, smelling of stale coffee and ozone.
The war room is buried beneath the compound. No windows. Reinforced steel door. Absolute security.
I push the steel door open.
The room is bathed in the harsh, blue glare of a dozen LED monitors covering the far wall. The screens display live feeds from the West Loop transit hub, traffic cameras, and satellite imaging. The hum of the server towers fills the space with a constant, vibrating energy.
Matteo stands at the central tactical table. He wears a dark chef's coat over combat pants, a brutal juxtaposition of his two roles. He is calmly, methodically stripping down a SIG Sauer rifle, cleaning each component with the same exacting patience he uses on a knife edge or a pan of risotto.
Dante paces the length of the room. He moves like a caged predator. His dark hair is rumpled. He smells faintly of cordite, wet copper, and the lingering warmth of Gemma’s kitchen. Not long ago, Dante was a broken, feral enforcer drowning in PTSD. Now, he is a lethal weapon anchored by his woman. He recognizes the energy I bring into the room instantly.
Dante stops pacing. His eyes lock onto mine. He takes in the shoulder holster, the rigid tension in my jaw, the total absence of my usual calm calculation.
"You look like you want to murder someone just for breathing," Dante observes. "I thought you were the Fixer. Where is the spreadsheet, Enzo? Where is the risk assessment?"
