The tension bleeds out of his frame, replaced by amusement. He turns on his heel. His combat boots thud against the floorboards. He moves with economy, wasting no motion, every step calculated and balanced. Even injured, he is the most dangerous thing in this city.
I follow him into the stark, metal-clad kitchen. The safehouse is devoid of warmth. No rugs. No pictures. No soft lighting. It is a bunker disguised as an apartment. It matches the man.
Nico unbuckles the tactical vest. The Velcro rips loudly in the quiet room. He drops the armor onto the linoleum. The plates hit the floor with a bone-rattling crash. He pulls the ruined black shirt over his head, wincing as the fabric drags across the scrape on his shoulder. He tosses the ruined garment onto the counter.
The expanse of his bare torso forces a ragged sigh out of my lips. Tribal and geometric sleeve tattoos cover both of his arms, twisting and locking together in violent, beautiful precision. Scars crisscross his torso. Some are old and faded to silver. Others are pink and angry. He absorbed decades of violence because his family taught him how to survive it.
He sits on the metal stool. He rests his hands on his spread thighs. He waits.
I retrieve the trauma kit from the secure cabinet above the sink. The metal clasp snaps open loudly. I pull out antiseptic wipes, gauze, and a basin. I run the tap, waiting for the water to turn lukewarm. The mundane task grounds me. The rushing water drowns out the chaotic spiral of my thoughts.
The black keycard feels like a lead weight in my pocket.
I turn back to him. I carry the basin and the supplies to the battered steel counter. I step right into the V of his spread thighs. His knees instantly bracket my hips. The move is subconscious. He needs me trapped. He needs to know exactly where I am.
I dip a clean rag into the warm water. I wring it out. I press the damp cloth against the scrape on his jaw.
He hisses through his teeth. His hands twitch on his thighs, fighting the instinct to grab my wrists. He forces himself to remain still.
"Stop acting like a baby. It's just water." I wipe away the crust of blood and soot.
"I'm not a baby." He bites out the words.
"I'm assessing your terrible bedside manner."
"My bedside manner is legendary. My patients love me." I move the rag down his strong neck, tracing the edges of the ink. "My patients also generally avoid engaging in heavy artillery fire before their appointments."
The corner of his mouth twitches. The attempt at a smile dies before it fully forms. The darkness returns to his eyes. He tracks my movements. He watches the way my warm brown fingers contrast against his tattooed skin.
"They breached the compound." His voice is flat. The mask is back, the one he wears to deliver bad news.
My hand pauses over his collarbone. "You said it was a distraction."
"It was." He swallows. The prominent Adam's apple bobs sharply. "They hit the compound gates on the North Side to pull us away from the South Side. They wanted our eyes on the wrong end of the city. We neutralized the threat."
"Neutralized." I scoff, tossing the pink-stained rag into the basin. "Such a clean word for a very messy reality."
"They’re dead, Priya. Every man who stepped onto Costa land is dead." He delivers the body count with zero remorse. He states itlike a weather report. Rain is falling. Bellantis are dead. The sky is blue.
I tear open an antiseptic wipe. The sharp chemical smell of alcohol cuts through the heavy scent of his arousal and violence. I press the pad against the torn skin on his shoulder.
He doesn't flinch.
"And the access pattern?" I ask quietly.
His stillness breaks. His hands shoot up, gripping my hips bruisingly. His thumbs dig into the soft flesh of my waist through the shirt. The grip is iron, a silent demand for my undivided loyalty.
"Vincenzo’s tracking the data pattern." Nico refuses to look away from my eyes. "The anomaly is still active. The compound is secure for now."
"But you gave me the keycard anyway."
Neither of us speaks. The hum of the old refrigerator fills the void. The tactical monitors in the next room cast a faint blue glow across the hallway.
"I gave you the card because you belong there." He pulls me an inch closer. My stomach brushes against his bare chest. "You belong with me. My home is your home. My family's protection is your protection."
I drop the antiseptic wipe onto the counter. I reach into my pocket. My fingers close around the hard plastic. I pull the black keycard out and hold it up between us. The Costa crest is embossed in the center, matte black on gloss black.
"Do you know what this looks like to me, Nico?" I keep my voice steady. "It looks like a target."
