"Smart," I reply, leaning my weight back against his solid frame for just a second. "But your secondary routing node needs a firmware update. I saw the bottleneck when I was inside the network."
A low sound rumbles in his chest. Quiet, precise, pure territorial approval. He likes that I see his world. He likes that I don't shrink from the edges of his paranoia. Most women would run screaming from a man who lives his life off the grid, anticipating assassination attempts before his morning coffee. Me? I just want to optimize his load balancers.
We reach the base of the main staircase. The steps are wide, cut from pale limestone, polished smooth by decades of combat boots. The scent of the compound hits me before we even reach the top. It is a startlingly domestic contrast to the reinforced steel and lethal men occupying the space. Simmering garlic. Rich, dark-roasted espresso. Freshly baked bread and the sharp, bright tang of lemon-scented wood polish.
"Let's head to the kitchen," Vincenzo murmurs, stepping up right behind me. He takes the stairs at my pace, keeping his body positioned between me and the open space below. A human shield. My personal, lethal shadow.
We emerge into the main level. The scale of the Costa compound is staggering. Vaulted ceilings, exposed oak beamsthick as roof trusses, arched windows fortified with what is undoubtedly ballistic glass. The winter sky of Chicago presses gray and heavy against the panes, promising a bitter freeze. Inside, the ambient temperature is dialed to a steady warmth. Fortified. Controlled. As close to safe as a place like this can get.
We turn a corner and walk into the industrial kitchen.
The room is a masterpiece of stainless steel and black marble. Dual eight-burner commercial ranges, a massive butcher block island the size of a small car, and copper pots hanging from an overhead rack. It looks less like a family kitchen and more like the staging area for a Michelin-star restaurant.
Matteo Costa stands at the stove.
He wears a dark dress shirt, sleeves rolled up over thick forearms corded with muscle and ink. He wields a wooden spoon with the same casual, terrifying competence he probably uses to dismantle rival syndicates. He doesn't turn around when we enter, but his shoulders shift. He knows who just walked into his domain.
"There's espresso in the machine," Matteo says, his voice a deep, commanding baritone. "Food is ten minutes out. Sit."
It is not a request. It is a directive from the underboss in his own kitchen.
I open my mouth to fire back a sarcastic remark about not taking orders from a man wearing an apron over a bespoke holster, but Vincenzo's hand shifts to my hip. A gentle, warning squeeze. Not a demand for silence, but a steadying presence.
"She'll sit. I stand," Vincenzo answers for us.
He pulls me toward the vast marble island, keeping me tucked tightly against his side. His short dark hair catches the warm overhead lighting. His eyes scan the room with the precise, mechanical efficiency of a radar sweep. He is cataloging threats, even in his own kitchen. Even among his own blood. The gold cross pendant at his throat catches the light, a starkcontrast to the violence etched into every line of his lean, cut body.
I hop up onto one of the tall wrought-iron barstools. Vincenzo doesn't take the seat next to me. Instead, he steps into my space, turning his back to me and settling his weight against the edge of the stool.
His broad shoulders square to the room, his body positioned as a physical barrier between me and the rest of the kitchen. The blunt, possessive stance makes a hot, primal thrill spike in my blood. He isn't hiding me. He is claiming me in front of the most dangerous people in the city.
A woman walks into the kitchen through the opposite archway.
She moves with a fierce, quiet grace, her boots making almost no sound on the limestone floor. Dark hair, sharp features, and eyes that miss nothing. The faint chemical bite of aviation fuel still clings to her flight jacket. A helicopter sat on the pad when we came up the stairs, rotors still ticking as they cooled. The pilot, then. This has to be Reese, Santi's partner, the only flyer in a compound full of ground-bound killers.
Reese doesn't offer a beaming smile. She doesn't rush forward with open arms or squeal in delight. She walks straight to the commercial espresso machine, pulls two ceramic mugs from the warming rack, and expertly works the steam wand.
She turns around, walks over to the island, and slides one of the steaming mugs across the black marble toward me.
"Black," Reese says, her tone flat, stripped of pretense. "Double shot. Sugar is in the silver tin if you need it."
I wrap my hands around the hot ceramic. The bitter, dark scent of the roast clears the last lingering fog of exhaustion from my brain. I take a sip. It is strong enough to strip paint, and pure bliss.
"Thanks," I say, meeting her gaze dead-on.
Reese gives a single, sharp nod. "You survived the basement. Good." She glances at Vincenzo's lean frame shielding my legs. "He usually doesn't let anyone past the steel door. You must be special."
"I fixed his network," I reply dryly, taking another sip. "He's just keeping me around for free IT support."
The corner of Reese's mouth twitches upward. A micro-expression of approval. "Keep him in line, Imani. These men forget how to act like humans if you don't remind them occasionally."
"I'll make him a spreadsheet," I say easily. "Behavioral optimization."
Reese actually smirks at that before picking up her own mug and retreating toward the far end of the kitchen, claiming a stool in the corner. She asks no unnecessary questions. She demands no explanations about where I came from or the danger I bring. The women in this family operate on a different frequency. They don't panic. They endure. They adapt.
The thud of combat boots announces the arrival of another Costa.
A man who can only be a Costa walks into the room, the same granite jaw and dead-calm stillness, and Reese's posture tells me this is Santi.
