The name echoes in the silent stairwell. Even in the legitimate business circles of Chicago, the Costa family name carries weight. It is synonymous with old money, untouchable power, and a trail of bodies that somehow never make the evening news. They are a ghost story whispered across the North Side.
"You're mafia." The words taste like ash in my mouth.
Nico doesn't flinch. He doesn't deny it. "I’m a soldier. My family is at war. The people who own the building you were near last night are the Bellantis. They’re animals. They bomb buildings to send messages. They kill civilians because they can."
The word 'bomb' strikes a match inside my skull.
My breath stops.
The memory hits me with physical force. The concussive blast rattling my teeth. The heat scorching the back of my neck as I dove under the reception desk. The screaming. The endless screaming.
I stagger back a step. My hand hits the wall. My medical bag slips from my shoulder and crashes onto the hardwood floor.
Nico moves instantly.
He crosses the distance between us before I can even blink. He doesn't grab me. He doesn't restrain me. He drops to a crouch at my level. One hand braces on the banister behind me, the other hovers near my elbow. He puts himself between me and the corner of the landing, a wall of muscle and heat between my spiraling panic and the rest of the world.
"Breathe." His command is sharp, cutting through the static in my ears.
I shake my head, my eyes squeezing shut. "I can't. The fire. They burned it down."
"Who burned it down?" Nico leans closer. The heat radiating off his body is immense. It grounds me. It forces the memories back.
"My old clinic." The words tear out of my throat, raw and jagged. "Two years ago, across town in a completely different neighborhood, my first clinic went up in flames," I whisper, the memory burning my throat.
"Someone threw a firebomb into the building next door. The blast blew out my walls. I lost everything. I spent two years running from that chaos, saving every dime to start over somewhere new. I picked this neighborhood, this exact clinic, because it felt safe. I built rules. I don't break them."
The silence holds, heavy and absolute. When I finally open my eyes, Nico is staring at me, his feral rage radiating from his pores. He connects the dots with brutal clarity. He recognizes the horrific irony—that in my desperate flight to escape the mafia’s crossfire, I unwittingly leased a new space sharing a brick wall with another masked Bellanti property.
"Bellanti," the name rips out of Nico's mouth like a deadly curse. "The monsters you ran from across the city are the exact same bastards operating right through your new wall."
"Your rules kept you alive." Nico's hand grips the banister. The knuckles turn white under his ink. "But they aren't going to save you today. I am."
"I don't need a savior." I push against his chest. It feels like pushing against a solid oak tree. "I'm fine. I'm handling it."
"You’re shaking." Nico observes calmly, absorbing my resistance without moving an inch.
"Because you’re suffocating me." I snap, tipping my head back to meet his gaze.
Nico stares down at my mouth. For one heartbeat, the protective barrier slips, revealing something unhinged underneath. He wants to devour me. He wants to lock me in a windowless room and stand outside the door with a rifle. The weight pressing off him is suffocating, yes, but it is also intoxicating. It’s a heavy blanket of security.
I hate that I want to lean into it.
"I'm your shadow now." Nico states, his voice dropping into a register that hums low in my belly. "You don't go to the grocery store without me. You don't walk to your car without me. You don’t open your door unless I’m standing on the other side of it. Do you understand?"
"You can't just mandate my life."
"I just did." Nico drops his hand from the wall. He steps back, immediately giving me the space I demanded, yet somehow still dominating the environment. He reaches down, picks up mymedical bag, and slings it over his injured shoulder without a wince. "Car keys."
I stare at him. "Give me my bag."
"Car keys, Priya." Nico extends his hand, palm up. The tattoos on his wrist flex.
Stubbornness wars with logic in my brain. Logic tells me he is a killer. Logic tells me to run. But logic also tells me that the Bellantis bombed the building beside my clinic, and if they think I’m a loose end, I’m already dead.
I reach into my pocket. My fingers tremble as I pull out my key fob. I slap it into his open palm.
Nico's fingers close around mine. His skin is rough, calloused, and blistering hot. A shock of electricity arcs up my arm.
