“You can’t protect me forever,” she whispered. Dante’s chest tightened painfully. No, he probably couldn’t, but he’d die trying.
“You’d be surprised what I’d do for you,” he said quietly. Lark froze, and the room suddenly felt too small, too hot, and too dangerous. Dante saw the exact second she realized he meant it. And the terrifying part was, so did he.
Rocco
Rocco Bertoni had spent years learning how to blend in with monsters. He had learned to smile when they smiled, drink when they drank, and pretend their jokes didn’t make him want to put bullets in their heads. Undercover work wasn’t about becoming someone else. It was about burying who you really were deep enough to survive. Most days, Rocco was good at it, but today was not one of those days.
He sat in a black SUV across the street from the Santos compound, watching armed guards rotate shifts while rain hammered against the windshield. Beside him, Agent Miles cursed quietly over a tablet. “This place is Fort fucking Knox.” Rocco barely heard him. His focus stayed on the estate behind the massive iron gates because somewhere inside that prison was Rafael Santos. The man responsible for destroying his family.
Rocco could still remember the smell of blood in their house fourteen years ago. Still remembered his mother screaming. Still remembered seeing Santos walk calmly through the chaos like death itself while nine-year-old Rocco hid beneath a bed, trying not to breathe. Santos had murdered his father over a debt, andthen he burned everything else to the ground. Rocco had spent his entire adult life waiting to return the favor.
“You listening to me?” Miles asked.
“Yep,” Rocco lied.
“You’re not,” Miles said. Rocco finally looked over, and Miles sighed. “We got movement on one of the shell companies. Santos is laundering through a shipping port near Navy Pier.”
“Good,” Rocco said.
“Good?” Miles snapped. “That’s all you got?”
Rocco shrugged lazily even though violence simmered beneath his skin. “Means we’re getting closer.”
“Or it means he’s feeding us breadcrumbs,” Miles grumbled. That was possible too. Santos didn’t stay alive this long by being stupid. The guy was paranoid, brutal, and ten steps ahead of everyone around him, which made tonight interesting. Because for the first time since Rocco started digging into the syndicate, Santos had invited outsiders into the compound, and that meant opportunity.
“Any word on who the guest is?” Rocco asked.
Miles shook his head. “No ID yet. Facial rec came up empty.” That bothered Rocco because people like Santos only sat down with three kinds of men—politicians, killers, or traitors. Sometimes all three.
Rocco glanced at the estate again just as headlights appeared beyond the gates. A black sedan rolled inside, then another, and another. “Showtime,” Miles muttered. Rocco grabbed the burner phone sitting in the console beside him. One text sat unread on the screen.
UNKNOWN: Santos is moving his daughter tonight.
Rocco’s jaw tightened. The daughter was Lark Santos. He’d heard whispers about her for months but had never actually seen her. Santos kept her hidden better than his money. The rumors around Chicago were dark as hell, too. Some people claimed Santos planned to marry her off to secure an alliance. Others thought he kept her isolated because she knew too much. Rocco didn’t know the truth yet, but he knew men like Santos, which meant the girl was either leverage or collateral damage waiting to happen. Neither ended well.
“You still think getting inside is the best play?” Miles asked quietly.
Rocco smirked humorlessly. “You got a better idea?”
“No, I just think this mission’s getting personal,” Miles said. He didn’t want to tell the guy that it was too late for that. It had always been personal. Rocco opened the SUV door before the other agent could say anything else. Rain soaked him instantly as he stepped onto the sidewalk.
“You’re really doing this tonight?” Miles called after him.
Rocco adjusted the cuffs of his dark suit calmly. “Santos invited businessmen to dinner.”
“You’re not a businessman,” Miles reminded.
Rocco smiled coldly. “No,” he agreed. “But the identity I stole is.”
Twenty minutes later, Rocco walked through the front gates of the Santos compound carrying forged credentials and enough fake history to fool most federal databases—most, but not all, which meant tonight could go catastrophically wrong.
The guard at the gate checked his ID briefly before speaking into an earpiece, and Rocco stayed relaxed. He made sure that his breathing was steady, his shoulders loose, and he made no sudden movements.
The guard handed back the ID a second later. “Mr. Santos is expecting you, Mr. Moretti.” Rocco nodded once and steppedinside. The Santos mansion looked exactly like he imagined—massive, cold, and built with blood money and fear. Men with concealed weapons lined the hallways while expensive art hung on the walls like the family was trying to buy culture to cover the stench of death underneath it all. A blonde hostess led him toward the dining room.
“You’re one of the investors?” she asked nervously.
“Something like that,” he lied. She swallowed hard and hurried away the second they reached the doors. Conversation inside quieted as soon as the doors opened. Rocco stepped into the room and immediately cataloged exits, weapons, guard positions—then he saw her. Lark Santos sat halfway down the table, wearing a black dress that exposed the smooth line of her throat and shoulders. Diamonds glittered around her neck like chains disguised as jewelry.
