We reach the main floor. The smell of roasted espresso beans and caramelized sugar drifts down the hallway.
Enzo does not head for the stairs. He turns toward the industrial kitchen.
"I need coffee before I collapse," I mutter into his neck.
"You will have whatever you want," he replies.
He kicks the swinging kitchen door open. The stainless steel room is brightly lit. Turi stands by the industrial espresso machine, tamping grounds into a portafilter. The silver-haired elder wears a tailored vest, looking too awake for six in the morning.
Turi glances over his shoulder. He takes in the sight of Enzo carrying me. He sees the wreck of my hair, the way Enzo’s black button-down swallows my curves, and the blood still drying on Enzo's knuckles from the transit hub.
Turi smiles. It is a slow, deeply satisfied smile.
"Buongiorno," Turi says. He pulls the espresso shots. The rich, dark liquid pours into two tiny ceramic cups. "I see the tactical extraction was a success."
"The transit hub is gone," Enzo says. He does not put me down. He walks right up to the marble island, holding me against him. "Matteo has Jeff in the basement. Rourke is dead. Rourke’s upload is ash."
Turi does not look surprised. He slides a cup of espresso across the marble toward us. "And the lawyer?"
Enzo looks down at me. "The lawyer stays."
Turi nods approvingly. "Figlio. You finally stopped playing cards and started living."
The swinging door bangs open again. Dante Costa stalks into the kitchen. The lethal enforcer wears gray sweatpants and a tight black t-shirt. He carries an empty baking sheet. He drops it onto the counter with a loud clatter.
"Gemma needs the oven recalibrated," Dante grunts, not looking up. "She is testing the new empanada recipes for the Grand Continental's opening menu. If the temperature fluctuates by even two degrees, she is going to murder me."
Dante finally looks up. He sees Enzo holding me in nothing but his black button-down. Dante's eyes flick to Enzo's face, then to the diamond ring on my finger.
Dante leans against the counter. He grabs an apple from a wire basket and takes a massive bite. "You blew the operation."
"I blew the operation," Enzo confirms. He does not sound remotely apologetic.
"Good," Dante says through a mouthful of apple. "The transit hub was a liability anyway. Matteo is already yelling at the wall in the study. Give him an hour to cool off before you go in there."
Dante points the half-eaten apple at me. "Tell Gemma I need her to look at a catering contract later. She trusts your aggressive corporate bullshit."
"It is not bullshit, Dante," I snap back, my lawyer instincts flaring. "It is liability protection. And tell your gorgeous woman I will review the contract after I sleep for fourteen hours."
Dante grunts in acknowledgment. He turns and walks out, yelling for Turi to come fix the oven before his woman actually kills him.
The chaos of the Costa family swirls around me. For the first time in my life, I do not want to run from it. I want to anchor right in the middle. I spent years building walls and assuming everyone was out for themselves. Enzo tore those walls down with terrifying, calculated precision and replaced them with the kind of devotion that has its own armed perimeter.
Enzo sets me down on the edge of the marble island. He picks up the espresso cup and holds it to my lips. I drink the bitter, scalding liquid. It wakes up the exhausted corners of my brain.
He finishes the second cup himself. He sets it down with a sharp clink.
"Come with me," he says.
"Are we going to bed? Because my legs are officially on strike."
"In five minutes."
He takes my hand. The warmth of his calloused palm sends a rush of heat low through my belly. He leads me out of the kitchen, down a different hallway. We pass his usual study. We bypass the main staircase. He takes me to the sealed north end of the East Wing.
This section of the East Wing has been closed off since I arrived—separate from the chapel and the family suites, walled away behind its own set of doors. Dust motes dance in the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows. White canvas sheets cover antique furniture. The air smells like old wood and disuse.
He stops in front of a pair of towering double doors. He pushes them open.
