He stares at me. The feral obsession in his eyes intensifies, thickening the air between us. He leans down, biting the sensitive curve of my neck.
"You are going to drive me insane," he whispers against my skin.
"It's a short trip."
The convoy exits the highway, climbing into the North Side. The urban decay of the South Side gives way to sprawling estates and heavy foliage. The transition is jarring. We’re leaving the war zone and entering the fortress.
The SUVs slow down. Through the windshield, wrought-iron gates emerge from the darkness. Ten-foot-high limestone walls stretch out in either direction, crowned with razor wire and high-resolution surveillance cameras. This is the Costa family compound. This is the epicenter of the Chicago underworld.
The gates swing open silently. The convoy rolls onto the pristine, circular driveway.
The main house is a restored limestone mansion. Breathtaking, imposing, terrifying. Less a home, more a fortified embassy. Armed guards patrol the perimeter, blending into the shadows of the manicured hedges.
The vehicle stops. Nico shifts instantly. He kicks his door open, steps out, and offers his hand.
I place my palm in his. His grip is crushing. He pulls me out of the SUV and tucks me securely against his side. His hand returns to the small of my back, a solid, unyielding brand. He doesn't let go. He guides me up the wide stone steps toward the oak front doors.
"Stay close to me," Nico orders.
"I have a bulletproof vest strapped to my chest. I'm not wandering off to check out the landscaping."
The oak doors pull open before Nico even reaches for the handle.
The interior is a staggering display of wealth and preparation. Vaulted ceilings, dark mahogany floors, and crystal chandeliersclash violently with the reinforced steel plating visible along the doorframes. The air smells like expensive espresso, woodsmoke, and the faint, metallic scent of gun oil. A crystal vase sits on the foyer console, packed with fresh pink peonies. The petals are bigger than my fist. Someone has been here this morning.
Nico doesn't pause in the foyer. He marches me directly down a long, wide corridor. His stride is long, demanding that I walk faster to keep pace. His hand remains a vice at the base of my spine.
Voices echo from the end of the hall. Deep tones cut through by sharper, melodic women's voices.
We step through a wide archway and enter the compound's industrial kitchen.
The room is massive, outfitted with commercial-grade stainless steel appliances, double ovens, and a butcher-block island in the center. Nico told me this kitchen is Matteo's domain. The beating heart of the Costa family. It is also currently packed with the most dangerous people in the city.
The conversation dies the second Nico and I cross the threshold.
Every head turns. The collective weight of their stares is heavy.
I lock my knees. I lift my chin. I will not shrink under their scrutiny.
Matteo Costa stands at the six-burner stove. He is a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and radiating authority. He holds a wooden spoon in his right hand. He doesn't say a word. He simply observes.
Across the room, Vincenzo Costa leans against the stainless steel refrigerator. He is the quiet one. The tactician. His eyeslock onto mine. He doesn't smile, but he dips his chin in a single, respectful nod. The acknowledgment is silent, heavy, and profound.
Nico pulls me tighter against his side. His body coils with the need to establish his claim in front of his family.
"This is Priya," Nico states. The declaration rings through the silent kitchen. It is not an introduction. It is a warning. "She is staying."
A woman steps away from the island. She is gorgeous, with sharp, intelligent eyes and a calm demeanor that directly counters the violent energy of the men in the room. An open laptop sits on the butcher block beside her, screen mid-line of green code. A heavy espresso cup rests on top of a leather-bound notebook. She has to be the tech genius from Nico's files. Imani. Vincenzo's partner.
Imani doesn't ask questions. She doesn't offer hollow platitudes. She picks up a ceramic mug from the counter, walks directly into Nico's fiercely guarded personal space, and slides the mug into my hands.
The ceramic is warm. The scent of chamomile and honey wafts up.
"Drink," Imani says softly. "The adrenaline crash is going to hit in about ten minutes. The sugar helps."
I grip the mug. The warmth bleeds into my cold fingers. "Thank you."
Another woman steps forward. I recognize her from the files—Catalina, the Bellanti princess who defected to the Costas. She has a razor-sharp edge, her posture marking her as a womancomfortable surviving inside a war zone. . She leans her hip against the butcher block.
