The server pings again. Priority one. Encrypted alert.
Corporate law never prepared me for this specific brand of post-coital interruption. Normally, a late-night email from a senior partner means a ruined weekend. A flashing red light in a mafia bunker means someone is probably going to die.
Enzo stiffens against me. The fixer boots up inside him instantly, every calculation rerouting toward me before it touches the threat. He shifts his weight, reaching blindly for the keyboard on the edge of the table without breaking eye contact with me. His eyes remain focused on my face. He refuses to look away. He refuses to put the wall back up.
His scent wraps around me in the damp, cool air. Worn playing cards, sandalwood, and a sharp hit of whiskey neat. It sinks deep into my skin, marking me just as thoroughly as the bruises forming on my hips.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs. His voice is precise and quiet, the contractual register he uses when something matters.
He keeps one hand at the small of my back while reaching for the keyboard, his body still angled between me and the cold air of the war room. His black button-down hangs loose on my shoulders, the bottom three buttons fastened where he closed it himself. His hands had been impossibly gentle against my sensitized skin, treating me like glass even after he took me apart like a storm.
He types a sequence of commands with one hand. The monitors on the far wall flicker to life. Streams of encrypted code scroll rapidly down the screens. The digital signature glows bright green at the bottom. Santi.
“Santi,” I say. My voice sounds too breathless. I clear my throat, trying to summon the ruthless woman I used to be. “Is it the transit hub fallout?”
Enzo scans the data. “No. It is bigger. Vincenzo cracked the Bellanti retaliation accounts. Santi confirmed the courier route from the ground—the offshore shells they plan to use to fund the incoming strike.”
I shift closer to the monitors, my legs still dangerously unsteady beneath me. Enzo catches my waist, steadying me witha firm grip. I lean against his side, letting the heat of his skin ground me.
“Show me,” I demand.
Enzo pauses. He looks down at me. Yesterday, he would have locked me in a bedroom and worked the board alone, every contingency calibrated behind a closed door. The Fixer carries the weight by himself.
He steps aside, pulling me with him toward the glowing monitors. He brings me into the war.
I scan the cascading data. Rows of corporate entities, offshore routing numbers, and obscure legal structures fill the screens. My mind snaps into focus. This is my territory. Predatory men hiding behind expensive paper. I spent seven years cleaning up messes like this for arrogant billionaires.
"Look at the routing sequence on the Cayman accounts," I point at the third monitor. "They are bouncing the funds through a maritime logistics firm. Bellanti Shipping LLC. But the holding company is registered in Delaware under a blind trust."
Enzo tracks my finger. "Can we freeze it?"
"No. They have flag-of-convenience clauses and diplomatic-pouch loopholes buried in the shipping manifests. Standard cartel evasion tactic." I narrow my eyes, my brain working faster than the servers. "But look at the dates. The transfers require a dual-signature release every forty-eight hours. If Jeff was their inside man at the transit hub, they were using his digital authorization to legitimize the local distribution."
Enzo's chest rumbles against my back. He pulls me tighter against him. "And the transit hub just went down. Jeff is in Matteo’s custody. Rourke’s upload is ash."
"Exactly," I say. A wicked smile stretches across my lips. "They cannot authorize the release. The money is stuck in escrow. The hitmen on retainer go unpaid. You did not just blind them, Enzo. You froze the entire revenue stream funding their immediate retaliation."
He turns me around. He grips my face in both hands. His thumbs trace my cheekbones. The pure, unadulterated awe in his calculating eyes makes my stomach execute a flawless backflip. He looks at me like I just handed him the world on a silver platter.
"You are a terrifying woman, Natalia Kim," he says.
"You literally walked into a collapsing building for me two hours ago. I think we are evenly matched."
He kisses me. It is hard, fast, and aggressively devoted. He tastes like whiskey and possession. The kiss is a promise. It seals the chaotic, beautiful destruction we just caused together.
"I am sending this data to Matteo's terminal," Enzo says. He turns back to the keyboard, executing the transfer with sharp, deliberate keystrokes. "He and Santi can map the frozen accounts. The immediate threat is neutralized."
"So we are off the clock?" I ask.
He kills the monitors. The war room plunges back into darkness. He sweeps me up into his arms, lifting me off the floor as effortlessly as if I weigh nothing. I yelp, instinctively wrapping my arms around his neck.
"We are off the clock," he confirms.
He carries me out of the underground vault. We pass the steel door. We ascend the stone spiral staircase. The cold, ancient walls of the Costa compound echo with his deliberate footsteps. He carries me with the steady pride of a strategist walking off the board with the only piece that ever mattered.
Dawn breaks through the narrow, arched windows of the first-floor corridor. Pale gray light spills across the Persian rugs and suits of armor. The compound is silent. The war outside these stone walls rages on, but inside, an impenetrable peace settles over my shoulders.
I rest my head against his collarbone. The diamond ring on my left hand—his mother’s engagement ring—catches the morning light. It flashes brilliantly. The contract that put it there is ash. The cover story burned with the transit hub. But the ring stays where it is. I am never taking it off.
