Nico stares at the center monitor. The rigid, aggressive set of his shoulders suddenly drops by a fraction of an inch.
A tall man steps out of the lead SUV. He wears a tactical jacket. Even through the grainy surveillance feed, the sharp, ruthless lines of his face are unmistakable. He moves with a coiled, terrifying precision.
"Dante," Nico says. The single word is a low, gravelly rasp.
He lowers the barrel of the rifle. The safety clicks back into place. He turns to face me. His eyes trace the chaotic state of my hair, the flush lingering on my chest, the bloodstained shirt I am desperately trying to pull closed.
"The perimeter is secure," Nico says. He crosses the short distance between us. His large hand cups my jaw. His scent radiates from his heated skin. "My family sent an extraction team. The safehouse is compromised. We’re leaving."
My fingers fumble with the ragged edges of the shirt, knotting the torn fabric at my waist. Sarcasm is my oldest, most reliable armor. "I guess the honeymoon phase in the mafia lasts exactly four minutes."
The corner of his mouth twitches. The obsession burns right back into his eyes. He leans down, pressing a claiming kiss against my mouth. His thumb strokes the skin beneath my ear.
"The honeymoon phase is going to last for the rest of your natural life," Nico murmurs against my lips. "Right now, we move."
He turns away, instantly shifting back into a tactical commander. He pulls on his pants, then drags a clean black t-shirt over his head, concealing the violent scars and the ink. He tosses a Kevlar vest onto the workbench beside me.
"Put that on."
I stare at the reinforced body armor. "Nothing says romance quite like a bulletproof vest."
"Humor is a defense mechanism," Nico counters. He checks the magazine of a sidearm and slides it into a shoulder holster. "Put the vest on, Priya. We’re driving through a war zone."
I scoop the master keycard off the edge of the workbench where Nico set it aside before he tore the shirt over my head. I tuck the plastic securely into the shirt's breast pocket. I secure the heavy Velcro straps of the vest around my ribs. The weight of it is suffocating.
It is a physical reminder that the danger outside this room is real. My fingers press flat against the plastic edge of the master keycard through the fabric. The card that grants me protected access inside the Costa perimeter. The card that permanently ties me to this lethal, beautiful, damaged man.
I chose this. I’m not a hostage. I’m his partner.
We exit the armory vault. The air in the hallway is stale, laced with the metallic tang of old blood and the sharp chemical bite of brick dust still clinging to Nico from the Bellanti armory beside my clinic.
Dante Costa stands in the center of the safehouse living room. Two other heavily armed men flank the front door. Dante's eyes lock onto Nico, sweeping over his younger brother with clinical efficiency to assess for injuries. Then, his gaze shifts to me.
There is no warmth in Dante's expression. He is a predator assessing a new variable in his territory. I straighten my spine. I refuse to look away. I have spent my life rebuilding from the ashes of mafia violence. I will not be intimidated by a man in a tactical jacket, no matter how terrifying his reputation is.
Dante gives a single, sharp nod. The assessment is over. I passed.
"The South Side armory network is burning," Dante says to Nico. His voice is a low, dangerous edge. "Matteo wants you at the compound. Now."
"The cars secure?" Nico asks, his hand planting firmly at the small of my back. The heat of his palm seeps through the Kevlar and cotton, branding me.
"Fully armored. Convoy formation." Dante turns on his heel. "Move."
The transition from the claustrophobic safehouse to the armored SUV is a blur of coordinated tactical movement. Nico keeps his body positioned between me and the open street the entire time. He shoves me into the backseat of the middle vehicle, climbing in right behind me and slamming the heavy, reinforced door shut.
The locks engage with a heavy, metallic thud.
The convoy accelerates. The engine roars through the reinforced floor. The tinted windows turn the neon lights of the Chicago skyline into smeared, bloody streaks of color.
Nico pulls me across the leather seat. He tucks me against his side, his arm wrapping around my shoulders like an iron band. His other hand rests on my bare thigh below the hem of his shirt, thumb drawing slow circles against my skin. He needs the contact. The twenty-year grief, the constant grinding paranoia—it all requires an anchor. I am that anchor.
"Are you hurt?" Nico demands, his voice barely audible over the hum of the tires.
"I'm fine." I analyze the rigid line of his jaw. My physical therapist training kicks in, reading the tension holding his muscles hostage. "You're the one with a bullet wound in your shoulder. You just cleared an armory and carried me around a vault. Your rotator cuff is going to require extensive rehabilitation."
A low sound escapes his throat. "I don’t care about my shoulder. I care about you."
"If your shoulder gives out, you can’t shoot properly. If you can’t shoot, you can’t protect me." I lift my chin in challenge, glaring at him in the darkness of the cabin. "Logic, Nico. Try to use it."
