The phone vibratesagainst the vinyl of the therapy table.
The sound is a harsh, mechanical buzz that cuts through the heavy air of the clinic. Five seconds ago, Nico's hand was between my thighs. I was melting into a puddle of raw, mindless desperation under the calloused slide of his fingers. Now, the atmosphere in the room snaps like a dry twig under a combat boot.
His posture changes instantly. The hungry man who just brought me to a violent climax vanishes. He snatches the encrypted phone from the table. The screen casts a blue glow over the angles of his face. His eyes scan the text.
The muscle ticks in his cheek.
He shoves the phone into his pocket and grabs his tactical rig from the chair. He moves with a terrifying economy of motion. No wasted steps. No hesitation. He is a chambered round.
He throws his jacket over his shoulders, ignoring the untreated bullet graze I was supposed to be examining. He steps into myspace and grips my upper arm. His fingers are tight, bordering on painful, but completely steady.
"We’re leaving.”
The command leaves no room for debate. He doesn't ask. He dictates.
I blink away the haze of my orgasm. My brain struggles to catch up to the sudden shift in reality. I slide off the table on shaking legs. My slacks drop the rest of the way to the linoleum. I kick free of them in a panicked daze, leaving them and my boots on the floor. My legs are trembling beneath the hem of his bloodstained tactical shirt. I’m wearing nothing but torn lace and a mafia enforcer’s bloodstained tactical shirt.
"My clinic," I start to say, my professional instincts warring with the primal panic radiating from his grip. "I have to lock the doors. The alarm?—"
"The alarm doesn’t matter.” He drags me toward the back exit. "Walk fast, Priya. Don’t stop. Don’t look out the front windows."
The tone of his voice is a bucket of ice water down my spine. This is not the heat he used while mapping the sensitivity of my body. This is terrifying authority.
We move down the narrow hallway toward the alley exit. My bare feet slap against the cold linoleum. His scent surrounds me, heavy and dominant in the sterile air of my clinic. He keeps his body positioned slightly behind mine, a human shield made of muscle and violence.
He kicks the heavy steel security door open. The cold Chicago morning hits my bare legs like a physical slap.
"Get in the car." He shoves me toward my sedan idling in the alley.
I scramble into the leather seat. The engine is already purring. He must have remote-started my car the second he read that text. He stalks around the front of the hood, his eyes scanning the shadows, his right hand resting casually over the heavy lump tucked beneath his jacket.
He slides into the driver's seat. The doors lock with a sharp thud.
Tires screech from the main street. The sound of engines roaring to a sudden halt echoes through the brick canyon of the alleyway. Doors slam. Boots hit the pavement.
My clinic. They are at the front of my clinic.
The phantom smell of smoke coats my tongue. Ash and burning drywall. The memory of the Bellanti firebombing claws up my throat. I rebuilt from the ashes. I spent years constructing a rigid, predictable life to ensure I would never be collateral damage again. Now, armed men are swarming my front door.
My hands grip the edge of the leather seat. A harsh tremor works its way up my arms.
Nico slams my sedan into reverse. We shoot backward down the narrow alley at a terrifying speed. The compact car frame whines, but he guides the wheel effortlessly, relying entirely on the mirrors and his own lethal instincts.
"Who is it?" My voice sounds thin, foreign to my own ears.
"Bellanti strike force." He spins the steering wheel. The sedan whips around the corner, tires protesting against the frozen asphalt. "Vincenzo intercepted their comms." A beat too long. "They moved on the building."
"To my clinic." Anger cuts through the rising panic. Good. Anger is useful. Anger is a shield. "You brought a mafia war to my physical therapy clinic."
"The war was already at your door before I got there." He accelerates down a side street, weaving flawlessly through the thin morning traffic. "The Bellantis own the building next to yours. I didn't put them there. Let them hunt me. But your clinic is sitting against their operation, and that makes you exposed."
"I don't do crossfire." My fingernails dig into my palms. "I survived a Bellanti firebombing once. I'm not doing it again because some stubborn mafia goon decided to play bodyguard."
He cuts a sharp glance toward me. The streetlights flash across his face, illuminating the harsh stubble along his jaw and the geometric ink wrapping his throat. He doesn't apologize. He doesn't offer empty reassurances.
"You are not collateral, Priya." His voice is low and lethal. "You’re mine. They will burn before they touch you."
The certainty in his declaration leaves me speechless. He states it like a law of physics. Gravity pulls down. Water is wet. Priya belongs to Nico.
