Iron gates loom out of the rain. Stone walls rise like a medieval defense system transplanted into the middle of the North Side of Chicago. Surveillance cameras pivot smoothly, tracking our approach like sniper rifles. This isn't a residential property. It is a military installation masquerading as a restored limestone mansion.
"Tell me this place at least has decent Wi-Fi," I mutter, gripping my briefcase.
"It has an encrypted satellite uplink."
The heavy gates part. The tires crunch over the gravel drive. The mansion comes into full view. It is stunning. Gothic architecture, sweeping lines, dark windows that reveal nothing of the interior. It is beautiful. It is also a cage.
The vehicle stops. Enzo cuts the engine.
Before I can reach for the handle, Enzo's door opens. He steps out into the downpour. A second later, my door swings open. The cold Chicago rain instantly attacks my hair, ruining my blowout in three seconds flat. I step out, shivering in my thin dress.
I do not get two steps before Enzo is there. His hand closes around the curve of my waist.
The heat of his palm burns through the damp fabric of my dress. He isn't guiding me. He is claiming the space around me. His body shields me from the wind, a human wall of muscle and expensive tailoring. The grip on my spine sends a violent shiver down my legs. I try to step away, needing personal space. His fingers tighten, anchoring me to his side.
"Walk," he commands quietly.
We cross the threshold. The oak doors shut behind us, cutting off the sound of the storm. The lock engages with a solid, metallic thud.
The foyer is massive. Dark wood, marble floors, a sweeping staircase. A wide crystal vase of fresh coral peonies sits on the entryway console—Sienna's signature, I will learn later—the only soft thing in the entire space. It feels like stepping into a stronghold that someone has been quietly trying to soften from the inside.
An older man stands near the archway leading to the main hall. He wears a tailored vest over a crisp shirt. Silver hair frames a weathered face. Warmth gathers in the crinkles around hiseyes, a stark contrast to the controlled threat of the man holding my waist.
"Ah," the older man says, stepping forward. His voice is rich and warm. "The new arrival."
"You remember Turi from Il Corvo," Enzo says. He does not remove his hand from my back. "He manages the compound. He raised us."
Turi offers a warm smile. He looks down at my left hand, his gaze resting on the diamond for a fraction of a second. A quiet, fatherly softness moves across his face. "Welcome to the madness, signorina. Dominic is waiting in the war room, but Matteo insists on dinner first. He is terrorizing the kitchen as we speak."
"We’ll be down shortly," Enzo says, dismissing the elder with a sharp nod.
"Take your time, figlio." Turi's smile deepens. He turns and disappears down the hall.
Enzo marches me toward the stairs. His hand remains fused to my lower back. Every step we take together feels too synchronized. I am used to dragging men through depositions, forcing them onto my terms. Enzo dictates the pace, the direction, the very air in the room.
We reach the second floor. The hallway stretches out, lined with heavy mahogany doors. Up here, even our footsteps seem muted by the thick walls.
Enzo opens the last door on the right. He ushers me inside and follows, shutting the door behind us. The click of the latch echoes in the large space.
I take three steps before I freeze.
The bedroom is enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the dark grounds. A king-sized bed dominates the center of the room, covered in slate linens. There are no floralpillows. There is no guest luggage rack. An oak desk sits in the corner, stacked with encrypted laptops and tactical folders.
The air in here is overwhelming.
I turn slowly on my heel. Enzo stands by the door. He removes his suit jacket, tossing it over a leather chair. The holster strapped over his chest is stark black against his white dress shirt. The grip of a sleek firearm rests exactly over his ribs.
"Where is my room?" I ask. My voice sounds too thin.
Enzo rolls up his right sleeve, the stark white cotton contrasting with his unmarked, tanned forearm. The muscles there are lean and corded. "You are standing in it."
"This is your room."
"Yes."
"I’m not sleeping in your bed, Costa. Fake engagement or not, I draw the line at sharing a mattress with a man who calculates risk assessments during dinner."
Enzo unbuckles his holster. He sets the weapon on the nightstand with a thud. He turns back to me. His eyes drop to my mouth, linger for a dangerous second, then rise back to meet my furious glare.
