Vincenzo stops moving. His hands freeze over the keyboard.
The silence is absolute. A vacuum sucking the air out of the room. We are two brothers standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into an abyss that will consume our family. We do not name anyone. We do not look at each other. Looking at each other means acknowledging the knife in our backs.
Vincenzo slowly reaches up and closes the terminal window. The screen goes black. The ghost retreats into the machine. The subject is closed.
We cannot act on a ghost. Not today. Not with blood on the grass outside.
"The perimeter is holding," Vincenzo says. His voice is devoid of emotion. A reset. "We are locking the gate. Nobody in or out without Matteo's direct authorization."
I nod. I leave the basement. I walk back up the stairs.
The compound is a fortress. It is supposed to be impenetrable. It is supposed to be the safest place in Chicago. And I cannot stand to be inside it for another second. The walls are poisoned.
My blood is pulling me back. South. To the fortified second-floor safehouse near her clinic. To the scent of cardamom. To her.
I walk down the east wing hallway. My boots thud against the hardwood. I stop at Matteo's secondary office. The one with the heavy safe. I spin the dial. Seventy-two. Fourteen. Thirty-six. The tumblers click into place.
I pull open the steel door. The smell of oiled metal and old paper wafts out. Stacks of cash. Passports. Clean burner phones. I ignore all of it.
I reach into the back. I pull out a small, velvet-lined box. Dust coats the lid. Inside is a black keycard. Heavy plastic. Embedded with a military-grade microchip.
Every Costa brother has the right to grant one protected access card. Limited doors. Inner gates. Safehouse routes. Enough to bring one person inside the perimeter.
The card has sat in this safe for years. Unassigned. Waiting for a name.
I grip the plastic edge. The edges bite into my thumb. My hands are calloused. Stained with dirt and gunpowder. The contrast against the pristine plastic is sharp.
I am bringing her inside. Not just into the safehouse. Into my life. Into the blood. Into the war.
It is an irreversible gesture. Once I hand this to her, there is no stepping back. She becomes a target. She becomes family. I am giving her the keys to a kingdom of violence. But it is the only way to keep her alive. If she is on the outside, she is collateral damage. If she is on the inside, she is royalty. Untouchable.
I shove the card into my tactical vest. I slam the safe shut.
The drive back to the South Side is a blur of acceleration and aggressive lane changes. I push the SUV to its limit. The engine screams. The morning traffic is building. Commuters drinking coffee in their sedans. I weave through them with ruthless precision. My siren is off, but my aggression forces them out of the lane.
The sun glares off the Chicago River. The water is a murky, metallic gray. The city is beautiful and rotting at the same time. Just like my legacy.
Every mile still between me and the South Side safehouse stretches a phantom wire attached to my ribs. The wire pulls taut. A primal agony. My woman is unguarded. She is locked in a steel box, but she is alone. Discipline demands I focus on the road ahead. The animal demands I turn the truck around to check my blind spots. I compromise by driving at a speed that risks flipping the armored vehicle.
I don’t slow down until I hit her block. The morning sun is breaking through the clouds, casting long, harsh shadows across the pavement. The street sits silent in the early morning light.
I park in the alley. I approach the rear entrance. The brick walls of the building cast deep shadows. I check the alley. No fresh tiretracks. No discarded cigarette butts. The ground is sterile. The electronic deadbolts are still engaged. The green light confirms no breaches.
I swipe my keycard and punch the code. The steel door unlocks with a loud, mechanical clank. The best sound I have ever heard. It means the fortress held.
I take the stairs two at a time. The primal need to put my hands on her overrides every thought. My muscles ache. The adrenaline crash hovers on the periphery. I ignore it.
I punch the code into the safehouse door. It swings open.
Priya is standing exactly where I left her. In the center of the room.
Her hair is messy. The wool blanket has slipped to her elbows. The dim monitor light makes her skin look warm. Her scent hits me the second the door opens. A brutal shock to my nervous system. My chest expands. The air is suddenly breathable.
Her eyes scan me. Fast and assessing. The physical therapist looking for new blood. New injuries.
"I'm whole." My voice is rough. I drop the AR-15 onto the metal desk. It clatters loudly against the steel.
I cross the room in three strides. I do not ask for permission. I wrap my arms around her waist and haul her flush against me.
