I march out of the war room and head straight for the kitchen. The open-concept space is illuminated only by streetlights filtering through the barred windows. I find a bag of roast coffee beans on the counter beside an old drip machine with a built-in grinder. It looks newly bought, still sitting beside the receipt.
I dump the beans into the hopper. The grinder roars to life, shattering the silence of the apartment. Good. Let it be loud. Let it drown out the lingering ghosts in my head. The smell of bitter, roasted coffee fills the air, cutting through the sterile, metallic scent of the safehouse.
I brew a cup of black coffee. I don’t add sugar. I don’t add milk. I want the bitterness. I need the bite.
I carry the mug to the kitchen island. I pull out an iron barstool, sit down, and cross my bare legs. I place the mug on the granite counter. And I wait.
The clock reads 4:02 AM when the steel door finally groans.
The deadbolt slides back with a harsh, metallic scrape. The door opens.
Nico steps inside.
He is a terrifying sight. The calculated, clinical soldier is gone. In his place stands a force of nature that just leveled a city block. His black tactical gear is covered in gray brick dust and wet splatters of crimson. Blood. It stains his knuckles. It smears across the geometric tattoos wrapping his forearms. His close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair is streaked with gray brick dust. The tribal ink crawling up the left side of his throat pulses with the beating of his carotid artery.
His deep brown eyes are feral. They scan the room with terrifying speed, sweeping the corners, checking the sightlines. He reaches back to slam the door shut.
His gaze snaps to the kitchen. He locks onto me.
He freezes.
He stops breathing. His eyes drop to my bare legs, travel up the shirt clinging to my curves, and finally settle on my face. He's looking for tears. He's looking for huddled-in-the-corner. He won't find either.
I pick up my mug. I take a slow, deliberate sip of the black coffee.
"You're bleeding on the floor," I say. My voice is flat.
Nico blinks. The energy radiating off him stutters. He looks down at his boots. Drops of blood drip from his vest onto the hardwood. He looks back up.
"Priya." His voice scrapes the silence.
"Don't 'Priya' me." I set the mug down. The ceramic clinks sharply against the granite. "You missed a spot on your knuckles. Looks like someone's teeth. You might want to wash that before you catch something."
He drops a bag onto the floor. The canvas hits the wood with a thud. Metal clanks inside. Weapons. He strips off his Kevlar vest, tossing it onto the sofa, ignoring the blood transferring to the leather. He takes a step toward the kitchen.
"Stop right there." I point a strict finger at him.
He stops. The obedience is startling, but the obsession burning in his eyes ruins the effect. He looks like a starving wolf being told to sit by a piece of steak.
"You read the files," he says. It is not a question. The soldier puts the pieces together instantly.
"I read the files." I cross my arms. "The Costa family. The twenty-year war. The ghost signatory. The trackers. The hitmen. I read it all. Very impressive corporate structure. You guys should really look into a better HR department, though. Your turnover rate seems violent."
"You’re using sarcasm to mask a trauma response. Your heart rate is elevated. Your pupils are dilated."
"I'll diagnose my own nervous system, thank you very much," I snap. "You’re a mafia hitman who apparently moonlights as a demolition expert. The building next to my clinic is currently missing its front doors."
He takes another step forward. The space between us shrinks. The smell of cordite, smoke, and fresh blood rolls off him in waves. "It was an active armory. It posed a direct threat to you. I eliminated the threat."
"You lied to me." The words crack like a whip.
Nico stops at the kitchen island. He places his blood-stained hands flat on the granite. He leans toward me. His eyes are pitch-black in the dim light. "I omitted data."
"You lied," I repeat, my voice dropping an octave. "You told me the attack was a random sector sweep. You knew exactly why they were there. You knew exactly how close they were. You knew my entire life, my clinic, my patients, everything I built, was one wrong move away from becoming collateral damage again."
"And I stood between you and the bomb," he says. The edge bleeds into his voice. "Nothing touched you. Nothing will ever touch you."
"That is not the point, Nico!" I slam my hand against the counter. The sting flares in my palm, but I welcome the pain. It keeps me grounded. "I rebuilt my life from their crossfire once. Two years ago. My clinic nearly burned to the ground because of a Bellanti turf war. You read my file. You knew that. You knew exactly what the Bellanti name meant to me."
