"Rule number two." I point to the ring on her finger. "That stays on. Always. You do not take it off to shower. You do not take it off to sleep. It is a beacon. It tells every person in this city that you are under the absolute protection of the Costa family. It tells them you belong to me."
"For the cover." She specifies, her chin tilting up in defiance.
"For the cover." I lie smoothly.It is not for the cover. It is permanent. She is never taking that ring off. I will weld the platinum to her bone before I let another man look at her.
"And rule number three?" She asks, crossing her arms under her breasts, pushing the lush curves higher.
"You follow my lead." I stand up from the table. My shadow cuts across the table and falls over her. "In public, we are wildly, obsessively in love. We cannot keep our hands off each other. The more distracted we look, the less Rourke will suspect we are running an intelligence operation right in front of him. You will smile at me. You will touch me. And you will make it look authentic."
She stands up to meet me. She is significantly shorter, her head barely reaching my chest even in her heels. The size difference is staggering. Every angle of the room rearranges itself around her smaller frame, and my body recalculates ten new ways to put myself between her and every exit. The physical reality of her in my territory spikes my protective instincts into the red zone.
"I am an excellent actress." She steps closer, invading my personal space. The mint and sweet basil scent envelops me. "I can pretend to tolerate you perfectly."
My voice lowers to the register I use when a deal stops being negotiable. I step into her, closing the distance. The tips of her breasts brush against my suit jacket. She gasps, her eyes widening as the unyielding wall of my body meets her soft curves.
"You will not have to pretend." I murmur, looking down into her dark, defiant eyes. "Because by the end of this operation, you are going to realize exactly where you belong."
She does not back down. She holds her ground, staring up at me with a breathless kind of fury. "You’re arrogant."
"I am precise." I correct her. "I've accounted for every angle."
Every variable except her. I am lying to her and I am lying to myself. I am a man free-falling through the air, claiming I planned the descent.
A sharp knock on the wooden door interrupts the tension.
"Enter." I command, stepping back from Natalia just enough to allow air between us, though my body protests the separation violently.
The door opens to reveal Turi. The older man stands in the threshold, his silver hair neat, his weathered face composed. He radiates the quiet, steady loyalty that has kept this family functioning since the night our parents died. Carlo's best friend. The man who raised us when the blood washed away our childhoods. He calls Dominic 'figlio'. He is family.
"Enzo." Turi's kind eyes flick from me to Natalia, assessing the sudden shift in the room's atmosphere. A knowing smile touches the corners of his mouth. "The car is ready. The storm is getting worse. I suggest you move the young lady before the streets flood."
"Thank you, Turi." I nod, gathering the files from the table in one smooth motion. I slide them into my leather briefcase and snap the locks shut.
Natalia grabs her leather briefcase from the chair. She moves with a chaotic, unchoreographed grace. She bumps her hip against the table, curses under her breath, and rights herself. I watch the sway of her hips. I memorize the exact angle of the curve.
"Ready to go, darling?" I ask, letting the fake affection drip into my voice for Turi's benefit.
She shoots me a venomous glare, masked instantly by a bright, artificial smile. "Of course, sweetheart. Lead the way."
I step behind her, placing my hand flat against the small of her back. The contact is electric. Even through the fabric of the crimson dress, the heat of her skin scorches my palm. Shestiffens for a fraction of a second before relaxing into the touch. An instinctual surrender.
We walk out of the private room, moving through the dimly lit corridors of Il Corvo. Turi trails behind us, a silent guardian. The restaurant is quiet tonight, the storm keeping the usual clientele away. The rich scent of garlic and roasting meat drifts from the kitchen. The espresso machine hisses in the background.
I keep my hand firmly planted on her spine. Claiming her. Guiding her. Every step we take toward the exit cements the reality of the situation. I am bringing a civilian into a warzone. I am using her as bait. The calculation is flawless. The logic is sound.
But my chest feels tight. A suffocating pressure building behind my ribs.
I open the wrought-iron front door of Il Corvo. The Chicago storm hits us instantly. Wind howls down the West Loop streets, driving sheets of freezing rain against the pavement. The streetlights flicker, casting long, distorted shadows across the wet concrete.
My armored SUV sits idling at the curb, the engine a low rumble.
"Go." I instruct her, raising my jacket over her head to shield her from the rain.
She ducks under my arm, sprinting the few feet to the passenger side. I open the ballistic steel door for her, ushering her inside. She slides onto the leather seat, pulling her dress down over her thighs.
I shut the door, cutting off the wind. I walk around the front of the vehicle, the rain soaking through my suit in seconds. I do not care. The cold water is a welcome shock to my overheated system. I slide into the driver's seat, pulling the door shut behind me.
The interior of the SUV is silent. Sealed. Insulated from the chaos outside.
