"I won't." Flat. Immediate. "Not unless you ask me to."
Heat crawls up my neck before I can stop it.
An actual blush. I haven't blushed since I was sixteen years old, and I am not doing this right now. Not in a stairwell. Not with a Moretti. Not while my father's men are thirty seconds from kicking down a door.
I look down at my bag strap and make a production of adjusting it. Buying myself two seconds to get my face back under control.
When I look up, he's already watching.
He noticed. Of course he did. And the worst part is what's in his eyes right now. Not smugness. Not victory. Interest. Thefocused, unhurried interest of a man who just filed that reaction away for later use.
Shit.
"You're coming with me."
It's not a question. It's just a fact he's decided on.
Behind me, above me, the stairwell door slams open.
Heavy footsteps. Multiple. Moving fast.
I look up.
Then back at Luca.
His expression doesn't change. He just watches me, dark eyes patient, waiting for me to catch up to what he already knows.
The footsteps get louder.
Damn it.
4
LUCA
"Move."
I grab her wrist, and she yanks back like I've burned her.
"Don't touch?—"
"Move or get carried." I'm already pulling her down the stairs. "Three seconds. Pick."
She moves.
Smart woman.
The service tunnelruns beneath the hospital's east wing. Concrete. Fluorescent lights. Smells like industrial cleaner and bad decisions. My men swept it twenty minutes ago.
Serafina keeps pace without being told, gym bag against her chest, running like someone who's spent years being ready to run.
Above us, somewhere inside the hospital, gunfire cracks.
She doesn't stop. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't make a sound.
I notice. I shouldn't, but I do.
"Left." I put my hand on her lower back to steer her at the junction. Barely contact. Just direction.
