"Which is exactly why I kept the full truth from you." His voice is lethal and quiet. "If I'd told you how deep their operation ran, how close the weapons cache was to your walls, you would've run. You would have packed a bag and disappeared. I couldn't allow that."
"You don’t get to allow or deny my choices!" I slide off the barstool. I stand up, forcing him to look down at me. I don't back away. I invade his space, leaning close to the edge of the granite. "I'm not a piece of machinery. I'm not an asset. I'm a human being. I survived them once. I get to choose whether or not I stand in the line of fire again. You took my agency away. You made me completely blind to the danger in my own life."
Nico's hands curl into fists against the granite. His knuckles turn white. The blood smears against the stone. "Your agency would have put you in the wind. The Bellantis use micro-trackers. They use digital surveillance. If you ran, you would have been an unprotected variable. They would have hunted you down just to get to me."
"So you locked me in a bunker and went to slaughter them instead?"
"Yes." The answer is absolute. No hesitation. "The first team inside that armory is dead. Their immediate weapons cache is destroyed. The load-bearing wall shared with your clinic is intact. But the full operation is not neutralized yet."
I stare at him. The terrifying competence of the man is overwhelming. He went next door, murdered an entire heavily armed squad of mafia soldiers, and made sure not to damage the drywall of my physical therapy practice.
The absurdity of the situation makes a hysterical laugh bubble up in my throat. I choke it down.
"You are insane," I whisper.
"I am efficient," he corrects. He walks around the kitchen island.
I immediately take a step back, my spine hitting the refrigerator. "Personal space, soldier. Don't try to crowd me right now. I'm furious with you."
He ignores the command. He steps directly into my space. The heat radiating off his body surrounds me. He lifts a blood-stained hand and fists the collar of his shirt just below my throat. The grip is deliberate, with dominance.
"You are angry," he murmurs, looking down at my mouth. "Your anger is entirely valid. My silence was a breach of trust."
I blink. The sass dies on my tongue. I prepared myself for a massive, aggressive argument. I expected him to gaslight me, to demand obedience, to tell me I was being irrational. Instead, he simply agrees with me.
"You... you admit you were wrong?" I ask, my voice faltering slightly.
"Tactically, I was correct," he counters smoothly. "My silence kept you anchored in a secure location. It prevented a chaotic flight response. The logic stands." His eyes snap back up to meet mine, hot and blinding. "But emotionally, it was a violation of your autonomy. I acknowledge the damage."
"Did you read a therapy textbook on the way home from the bloodbath?" I ask, staring at him in shock.
A dangerous smirk cuts across his mouth. The first time I've seen anything close to a smile on his face. It changes his harsh features, making the air in my lungs vanish. "I pay attention, Priya. I study my targets. And you are the only target that matters now."
"I'm not a target."
"You’re mine.” He leans closer. The smell of smoke and blood mixes with his deep, masculine scent. "You’re furious because I lied. You’re justified. Scream at me. Hit me. Break the dishes. Do whatever you need to do to process the anger. But don’t think for one single second that you’re leaving this building."
I press my hands against his solid, scarred chest. The muscle beneath his t-shirt is hard as iron. He doesn't budge. "I'm not collateral damage, Nico. I won't play the blind, helpless woman waiting in the tower while the mafia war burns the city down around her."
"You will never be collateral." He reaches up with his free hand. He avoids touching my skin with his bloodied knuckles, instead using the clean back of his wrist to brush a stray curl of hair away from my cheek. The touch is shockingly gentle coming from a man who just leveled a warehouse. "You are the center. The warrevolves around you now. My family protects what belongs to us. And you belong to me."
I look up into his eyes. The unyielding certainty in his gaze is terrifying. And thrilling.
I should run. The logical, clinical part of my brain screams at me to push him away, to walk out the door, to flee the Costa family and their inherited violence. But the deeper, truer part of me knows the truth. I have been running for two years. I have been hiding behind rigid routines and clinical detachment, pretending the world is safe.
The world is not safe. The world is full of firebombings and syndicates.
But this man. This lethal, emotionally stunted thing who pins me against appliances and wages war to protect my drywall. He is a fortress.
"If you ever lie to me again," I say, my voice steady, my eyes locked on his. "I'll medically dissect your good shoulder. I know exactly where the nerves cluster. I can make you cry."
The smirk returns. He leans his forehead against mine. "Understood."
"And you need a shower. You smell like a crime scene."
"Join me," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low purr that drags down my spine.
"Absolutely not." I push him back. He yields, taking a half-step back to let me breathe. "You lost your privileges when you omitted data. You get to wash the mafia off your skin all by yourself. I'm going back to sleep."
