I nod. I don't argue. Sarcasm is my weapon of choice, but I am not stupid. We are directly beneath Bellanti territory. The South Side shipping warehouses belong to their enemies. If a patrol spots us coming out of the ground, we are dead.
Vincenzo grips the rusted rungs. He scales the ladder with terrifying, silent agility. No scraping boots. No heavy breathing. He is a ghost moving through the industrial skeleton of the city.
He reaches the top. He braces one shoulder against the iron grate. Muscle bunches beneath his shirt. With a sharp, silent exhale, he shoves upward.
The rusted metal protests with a loud, ugly scrape.
Vincenzo freezes. The grate is open just enough to allow access to the street. He hangs there on the ladder, his head tilted, listening to the city above. He does not move. He barely seems to breathe.
Seconds drag into minutes. The freezing wind whips down the shaft, cutting through the thin denim of my jeans and the sweater beneath his flannel. I wrap my arms around my chest, shivering violently, but I do not make a sound.
Finally, he moves. He pushes the grate the rest of the way open, sliding it silently over the wet asphalt. He hoists himself out of the hole, disappearing into the city night.
A second later, his head appears back in the opening. He reaches down.
I climb the freezing, rusted rungs. My hands are numb by the time I reach the top. I grab his forearm. His grip locks around my wrist. He pulls me straight up and out of the tunnel, dragging me onto the rain-slicked pavement of a deserted alleyway.
The shock of the city hits me all at once. The piercing wail of police sirens a few blocks away. The rhythmic thud of a train moving along the elevated tracks. The smell of wet garbage and diesel exhaust.
Vincenzo slides the iron grate back into place with his boot.
He turns to me. He steps directly into my space, backing me against the brick wall of the alley. The rough stone bites into my shoulder blades. His hands settle at my ribs. One big palm anchors at my waist, the other fists the loose fabric at my hip. The feral, possessive energy rolling off him is suffocating.
His eyes drop to my mouth, then track slowly down the length of my body, over the flannel layered tight around me. He is anchoring his mind to my physical presence, using my heat to stave off the devastating reality of the digital footprint we just left behind in the vault.
I reach up. I press my palm flat against the center of his chest, right over the steady thrum beneath his ribs. He breathes rough against my hair.
"I'm here," I say quietly.
His jaw clenches. The muscle jumps in his cheek. He drops his head near my collarbone, breathing me in like my scent is the only thing keeping him anchored. The gold chain at his neck slides forward and the cross pendant settles cold against my collarbone. His breath is hot and ragged against my skin. He stays there for five long, agonizing seconds, inhaling the warm amber scent of my skin like oxygen.
Then he exhales. The Chicago dark sharpens his focus again. The feral protector locks down the emotion, replacing it with cold, calculating violence.
He pulls away. He grabs my hand, threading his fingers tightly through mine.
"We need a car," He says flatly.
He leads me out of the alley. We move quickly, hugging the deep shadows of the brick buildings. The South Side in the dead hours before dawn is a wasteland of locked doors, chained fences, and cracked sidewalks. The rain begins to fall harder, icy drops stinging my cheeks.
Two blocks down, an old, boxy sedan sits parked beneath a burned-out streetlamp.
Vincenzo approaches the driver's side door. He does not hesitate. He wraps his tactical jacket around his elbow and strikes the window in a sharp, precise blow directly near the corner frame. The tempered glass cracks instantly, crumbling inward without a loud crash.
He reaches through the hole, unlocking the door. He sweeps the broken glass off the driver's seat with the cuff of his jacket, then leans under the steering column.
I stand watch on the sidewalk, the freezing rain soaking my hair. I scan the empty street. Shadows morph into threats. Every passing pair of headlights a block over makes the adrenaline spike in my veins.
A sharp crack of sparking wires. The engine coughs, sputters, and roars to life.
Vincenzo slides into the driver's seat. He leans over and kicks the passenger door open from the inside.
"Get in."
I scramble into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut against the howling wind. The heater is broken. The air inside the car is just as freezing as the street, smelling heavily of stale cigarette smoke and damp upholstery.
Vincenzo drops the car into gear. He pulls out onto the street, keeping the headlights off until we are three blocks away from the theft site. He merges onto the arterial road heading north, blending flawlessly into the sparse, late-night industrial traffic.
I watch him from the passenger seat. The ambient light of the passing streetlamps washes over his profile in a rhythmic, strobe-like sequence.
