I count the room without meaning to: Matteo at the stove, Reese on her stool with the espresso, Santi's hand on her shoulder, Gemma's mug parked on the marble between two of Matteo's knives, the low hum of women's voices carrying through the open doorway from the war-room hallway. A family.The Costa women hold the geography of this kitchen as surely as the men hold the perimeter.
Lucia Costa sweeps into the kitchen, visiting from Pine Valley, snow still melting on her shoulders.
She is a striking contrast to the massive, brooding Costa men around her. Beautiful, sharp-eyed, carrying an air of quiet authority that only the one daughter of a mafia dynasty could possess. She wears a tailored winter coat and a bright red scarf, bringing a blast of cold, fresh air into the room with her.
"Good morning, heathens," Lucia announces, marching straight to the island. She stops short when she sees me sitting behind Vincenzo.
Her eyes widen, tracking the oversized flannel, the messy state of my hair, and the incredibly territorial way Vincenzo is blocking me against the marble.
"Well," Lucia says, a slow, brilliant smile spreading across her face. "This is new. And overdue."
Vincenzo just grunts, chewing his bacon, ignoring his cousin’s commentary.
"I'm Lucia," she says, extending a neatly manicured hand past Vincenzo's massive shoulder. "You must be the tech specialist who finally broke the machine."
I reach out and shake her hand. Her grip is surprisingly strong. "Imani. And the machine wasn't broken. Just stuck in a loop."
Lucia laughs, a bright, clear sound that cuts through the loaded atmosphere of the kitchen. "I like her. Keep this one, Vincenzo. She's significantly smarter than you are."
"I'm keeping her," Vincenzo states, his voice leaving zero room for debate. He finishes his plate, sets it on the marble, and turns fully toward me. "We're going upstairs."
"I haven't finished my coffee," I protest, though I am already sliding off the stool.
"Bring the cup."
He doesn't wait for me to argue. He wraps his arm securely around my waist, lifting me slightly off my feet, and marches me out of the kitchen. I manage to grab my ceramic mug just before I am hauled away. I hear Lucia's faint laughter echoing behind us, mingling with the low hum of Matteo's voice.
Vincenzo navigates the labyrinthine halls of the Costa compound with the instinctive ease of a man who has paced these floors in his darkest hours. We move past an ornate chapel with tall oak doors, past a study lined with leather-bound books, and finally climb a wide stone staircase to the second floor.
We walk down a long hallway lined with closed doors. The air up here is cooler, quieter. The domestic noise of the kitchen fades, replaced by the insulated silence of the residential wing.
Vincenzo stops in front of a heavy oak door at the far end of the hall. He pushes it open and guides me inside.
The room is a stark reflection of the man, the rare aboveground space he keeps when he surfaces from the bunker. Minimalist. Utilitarian. A king-sized bed sits in the center, made with crisp, dark gray sheets. There is a squat oak dresser, a comfortable leather armchair in the corner, and a wall of reinforced windows looking out over the sprawling, snow-covered training yard behind the main house.
He closes the door, throws the steel deadbolt, and steps into my space.
He takes the empty espresso mug from my hand and sets it on the nearby dresser without looking at it. Then, his hands find my waist. He lifts me effortlessly, carrying me across the room until my back hits the cold glass of the window.
The shock of the cold pane against my spine makes me gasp, but Vincenzo folds his body forward over mine, chest to chest, his warmth bleeding into my skin, sealing me against him.
"Mine," he breathes against the skin of my neck.
His mouth presses to my temple, a rough, desperate friction. He isn't pushing for sex. This isn't the feral, violent claiming of the War Room table. This is something deeper, something profoundly emotional that he doesn't have the words to express. He just needs to feel me breathing. He needs the tactile confirmation that I am real, that I am here, that I chose to stay.
My arms wrap around his broad shoulders, fingers sliding into the short crop of his hair. I pull his head down, burying my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the clean linen and ozone scent that is starting to feel like home.
"I'm here," I whisper fiercely. "I'm not going anywhere, Vincenzo. You're stuck with me."
"I locked the vault door," he murmurs, the words vibrating against my collarbone. "I cut the power. I trapped you."
“And I fixed the wires,” I remind him, rubbing my thumbs against his tense neck muscles. “I found the access panel. You tore open the service route. We got out. Together.”
He pulls back just enough to look at my face. His eyes are sharply focused, no dead channel, no noise. The damaged, touch-averse boy who sat in a hallway for six hours a lifetime ago is quieter now. The Ghost remains, the spy who lives in the static, but he is tempered, anchored by the amber scent of the woman standing in his arms.
His fingers trace the line of my jaw, gentle and reverent. The calluses on his thumb snag on my skin, a physical reminder of the violence he is capable of, the violence he will unleash on anyone who tries to take me from this room.
I look past his shoulder, out the reinforced window.
