"I don't need to be kept in a padded box."
"You’re staying in this building. You’re staying behind my locked doors. That’s not a negotiation."
Her chin tilts up. Defiant to the end. "I have patients tomorrow. I have a clinic to run."
"Your clinic is closed tomorrow."
"You don't get to dictate my life."
"I dictate your survival." I push off the counter and cross the small space between us. I stop right at the edge of the sofa. I loom over her, my large frame blocking out the weak street light. I trap her in my shadow. The predator instinct roars in my blood. "You rebuilt your life once. You built that clinic from scratch. I respect that. But you’re not walking into an unsecured sector until I say it’s safe."
She glares up at me. Her anger is beautiful. It is vibrant and fiery and so goddamn alive. "And when will it be safe?"
"When I have eliminated every threat on the board."
The kettle whistles, a sharp, piercing shriek cutting through the silence of the room. I don't break eye contact. Neither does she. We are locked in a battle of wills, her rigid independence colliding with my refusal to let her go.
I turn back to the stove. I kill the burner. I pour the boiling water into a ceramic mug I found in the cupboards. I drop a tea bag in. I carry the mug back to her and hold it out.
She takes it. Her fingers brush against mine. The contact sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to my gut.
"Drink," I command.
She sips the hot liquid. The warmth brings some color back to her face. She pulls her knees up, curling into a small, defensive ball under the blanket. The blanket shifts up her thighs, exposing a stretch of smooth, golden skin. I force my eyes away. If I keep looking at her legs, I will put her right back on the desk.
"You're a very frustrating man," she murmurs. Her eyes drift shut. Exhaustion is finally winning the battle.
"I’m a very thorough man. There’s a difference.”
I stand watch over her until the mug slips from her fingers. I catch it before it spills, setting it on the scarred coffee table. She slumps sideways onto the cushions, her breathing evening out into the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep.
I adjust the blanket, tucking it securely around her shoulders. I brush a stray lock of hair away from her face. My knuckles tracethe line of her jaw. The skin is soft. I am calloused, scarred, covered in ink and blood, and she is perfection.
"Sleep, Priya." I whisper the words into her hair. "Safe. Mine."
I turn my back on the sofa and walk out of the kitchen. The temporary domestic peace dissolves the second I cross the threshold back into the war room.
The screens are exactly as I left them. Glowing. Taunting.
I sit in the metal chair in front of the monitors. I crack my knuckles, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the silent room. I pull up the encrypted Costa communications channel. I type a command, routing the connection through three proxy servers to mask the origin point. The security protocols are heavy. The leak pattern inside the Costa compound still haunts Vincenzo’s data models. Old access. Familiar routes. Someone close enough to know how we move.
I can’t trust the standard channels. I open a direct, localized ping to Matteo.
Need a full scrub on the commercial real estate on 44th and Halsted. Specifically the structure adjacent to the physical therapy clinic.
The response comes three minutes later. Matteo is always awake. The burden of leadership means he sleeps less than I do.
MATTEO: That’s a Bellanti shell holding. Why are you still on the South Side armory structure, Nico? Your overwatch tasking was the clinic perimeter.
NICO: I pulled the South Side auto-shop armory file weeks ago and never closed it. The West Loop is static. This sector went active today.
MATTEO: Explain active.
NICO: They moved a strike team through the area today. I extracted a civilian asset from the blast radius.
A long pause on the encrypted line. Matteo is analyzing the data. He is calculating the risk.
MATTEO: You compromised your overwatch for a civilian?
