"Do not drink whatever Matteo is brewing in that pot," Catalina advises, her tone dry and calculating. "It tastes like motor oil and revenge. The good coffee is in the pantry. Second shelf on the left. Hide a bag in your room or Dante will steal it."
I take a sip of the chamomile. The tension in my neck finally begins to unravel. "Noted."
A third woman sits on one of the high metal stools. The pilot from the files. Reese—Santi's partner. She holds a heavy tumbler of amber liquid. A folded sectional aviation chart rests beside her elbow on the counter. She doesn't smile. Her fierce, assessing gaze sweeps over me, taking in the bloodstained tactical shirt, the bare legs, the messy hair, and the bulky Kevlar vest strapped over the whole thing.
Reese raises her glass a fraction of an inch. The look in her eyes is solidarity. It is a look that sayswelcome to the chaos.
These women don’t coddle. They don’t gasp or fuss. They accept the violence, and they accept me simply because I am standing at Nico's side. They understand the cost of loving a monster, and they have all paid it willingly.
Nico shifts his weight, blocking a line of sight from one of the compound guards stationed near the back door. His hand slides higher up my spine, his thumb pressing against the rigid edge of the Kevlar.
"We’re going upstairs," Nico announces to the room.
Matteo finally speaks. His voice is a low command. "The perimeter is locked down. We review the surveillance feeds in two hours. Get her settled."
Nico doesn't respond. He turns me toward a secondary staircase leading out of the kitchen.
We climb the stairs in silence. The second floor of the mansion is a long run of identical oak doors and heavy carpet. The silence up here is oppressive. It is the quiet of a tomb, designed to muffle the nightmares of the men who sleep behind these doors.
Nico stops at the end of the eastern corridor. He slides a black keycard through the lock mounted beside a heavy, reinforced steel door. The reader flashes green. Heavy deadbolts retract with a series of loud clicks.
He pushes the door open and ushers me inside.
The room is stark. The bedroom of a soldier, not a prince. A king-sized bed sits in the center, flanked by tactical gear, weapon safes, and dark mahogany furniture. Blackout curtains cover the windows. The air smells of him—that intoxicating blend of salt, iron, and sun-baked earth.
Nico kicks the door shut behind us. The deadbolts engage automatically, sealing us off from the rest of the compound, from the war, from the entire world.
He stands in the center of the room, staring at me. The adrenaline of the extraction has finally faded, leaving behind a raw, crackling intensity. He takes a slow, deliberate step toward me.
"Take the vest off," he commands softly.
I reach for the Velcro straps, ripping them free. The Kevlar drops to the floor with a dull thud.
Nico closes the remaining distance. His hands grip my waist, lifting me effortlessly. He sits me on the edge of the mahogany dresser. He steps between my knees, pinning me in place. His hands slide up my ribcage, his thumbs resting just beneath my collarbones.
"You stood your ground," Nico says. His voice is rough, reverent. "Dante. Matteo. The house. You stared right back at them."
"I told you," I say, resting my hands against his chest. "I'm not a hostage. I hold the keycard. I belong here."
A violent shudder wrecks his frame. The confession destroys the final remnants of his armor. He lowers his head, burying his face in the crook of my neck. He inhales deeply, dragging the scent of my skin into his lungs.
"Twenty years," he whispers against my collarbone. "Of cold. Of waking up in this room, looking at the door, waiting for the next attack. You’re the first warm thing I’ve ever brought inside these walls."
For once, I stop analyzing him. I just hold on. There is no analyzing this. There is only the overwhelming, crushing weight of his devotion. I slide my fingers into his hair.
"I'm right here," I tell him fiercely. "I'm not going anywhere."
He lifts his head. The obsession in his eyes is blinding. He sweeps his thumbs across my cheekbones, his grip tightening just enough to claim without bruising.
"Mine," he rasps. A vow. "My woman. My life."
He drops his hands to my hips and drags me forward against the edge of the wood. The evidence of his arousal presses intimately against the juncture of my thighs through the thin barrier of his trousers and the hem of his shirt. A sharp gasp escapes my lips. The heat pooling low in my stomach flares back to life, erasing the exhaustion of the night.
"The perimeter is fully secure," Nico says, his gaze dropping to my mouth. He crowds into my space. "There are no cameras in this room. No strike teams. No one gets through that door without going through me."
He grips the hem of my shirt.
"I'm going to strip you out of these clothes," he continues, his voice dropping an octave, hot against my skin. "I'm going to put you in the center of my bed. And I'm going to claim you so hard you forget how to breathe."
The Costa-Bellanti war rages beyond these walls, but inside this room, the only certainty is the untamed beast obsessed with making me his.
Nico pulls the borrowed fabric away and drops it to the floor.
The End
