"She's not going anywhere, Enzo," Dante says quietly from the seat next to me.
I snap my head toward him. My brother is staring out the opposite window, his expression unreadable in the dark cabin.
"She's sitting in your room right now," Dante continues, his voice low enough that Matteo up front cannot hear. "She's waiting for you. Gemma did the same thing. When you burn the world down for them, they don't run. They stay."
I swallow hard. The tight knot in my ribcage loosens a fraction. Dante knows. He lived this exact violent transition.
The SUV slows as we approach the iron gates of the Costa compound. The high stone walls loom in the darkness, rain washing over the security cameras. The gates swing open, admitting us into the sanctuary. The restored limestone mansion stands like a fortress against the storm.
The vehicle stops at the main portico. I do not wait for the driver to open the door. I shove it open myself and step out into the freezing rain.
Turi is standing under the oak awning of the front entrance. His weathered face is lined with worry, but his kind eyes soften when he sees me walking up the steps. He holds a wool towel in his hands.
"Figlio," Turi says gently, his voice carrying the grief of a surrogate father who just watched his son walk through hell. He steps forward and drapes the towel over my shoulders. "You are covered in blood."
"Is she safe?" I demand. My voice is ragged, raw from the smoke and shouting. I do not care about the blood. I do not care about the cold.
Turi nods slowly, a knowing smile touching the corners of his mouth. "She is in your room. She has been pacing for an hour. She refused to eat the food Gemma brought up. She is waiting for you."
The final piece of my logic shatters.
I bypass Turi. I stride through the grand foyer, my combat boots leaving trails of dust and water on the immaculate marble floors. I leave Matteo and Dante at the foot of the stairs. I do notgo to the basement war room to assess the fallout of the blown operation.
I take the grand staircase two steps at a time. The ancient, cold halls of the east wing blur past me. The only thing I can focus on is the oak door at the end of the corridor. My bedroom. My territory.
I reach the door. I grip the brass handle. My knuckles are bruised and split. My mother’s platinum band is dulled with concrete dust on the chain inside my collar. I am a violent, terrifying mess.
I push the door open.
The warm glow of the bedside lamps spills into the hallway. The scent hits me instantly. Mint and sweet basil. It crashes over me, extinguishing the smell of smoke and death. It is the scent of life. It is the scent of my home.
Natalia is standing in the center of the room.
She is wrapped in the dark duvet from the bed. It drapes over her curves. Her dark hair is a beautiful, chaotic mess around her shoulders. Her bare feet are planted firmly on the hardwood floor.
She looks up when the door opens. Her sharp eyes widen as she takes in the state of me. The torn combat shirt. The tactical vest. The blood smeared across my jaw. The concrete dust coating my hair.
She doesn't scream. She doesn't back away.
She looks past the monster. She looks straight at the man who just threw away everything to keep her safe.
Her gaze drops to my left hand. She sees the bruised knuckles. Then, she slowly raises her own left hand. The diamond ring—my mother's ring—catches the light. She hasn't taken it off. She hasn't run.
Dante was right. She stayed.
"You're bleeding," she whispers. The cynical, corporate armor she usually wears is gone. Her voice trembles, thick with raw emotion.
I step into the room and kick the oak door shut behind me. The lock clicks into place with a loud, absolute finality. The war outside does not matter. The destroyed ledgers do not matter. The wrath of the Bellanti bosses does not matter.
I cross the room. I do not calculate my approach. I do not worry about frightening her with what I look like right now.
I drop to my knees on the hardwood floor right in front of her.
The tactical vest is heavy, but I ignore it. I wrap my arms around her waist, burying my face against her stomach. I pull her flush against my chest, gripping her curves with a desperate strength. I breathe her in. Mint and sweet basil. I fill my lungs with her scent, letting it chase the ghosts of the tunnel out of my mind.
Her hands hesitate for a fraction of a second. Then, her soft fingers tangle in my dusty, salt-and-pepper hair. She holds me. She anchors me to the earth.
"I blew the operation," I say against her skin. My voice is broken, stripped of all authority and pride. "Rourke’s upload is gone. The fake engagement is over. The cover story is dead."
