Chapter 28
Gianni
The bed was cold when I woke, the other side empty. No warmth. No weight. Just sheets that had already lost her shape.
I got up and crossed the hall. Her door was open.
I found her in her room.
I knew something was wrong the second I stepped inside and looked at her. The air felt wrong—tight and unsettled. Her face was a mask of fury. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
She laughed, sharp and hollow, like the sound scraped its way out of her chest instead of her throat.
“I don’t know, Gianni. Why don’t you tell me?” she shot back.
My gaze slid to the open wardrobe, to the clothes pulled out of place and left hanging wrong. It didn’t take long for it to make sense. The pieces fell into place, sharp and immediate—then the weight of it settled in my chest, heavier than the realization itself.
“What’s going on?”
Her eyes burned. “You lied,” she said. “You’re going to hand me back to him.”
My jaw locked hard enough to hurt. “Mikayla—”
I reached for her without thinking, sliding a hand around her waist the way I had before. A grounding touch. A reflex. She slipped out of it easily.
She turned to face me, eyes bright in a way that set every alarm in my body ringing. This was not the soft, vulnerable Mikayla I knew. She was wound tight, and she was absolutely simmering with fury.
She folded her arms across her chest, like she needed the barrier between us.
“Were you planning to trade me back to Archie?”
The question landed where it was intended to cause maximum damage. I didn’t answer immediately, because I refused to lie to her.
Her mouth twisted. “There it is.”
“Mikayla—”
“Just answer the question.”
“Yes,” I said.
The word tasted like acid on my tongue.
Her breath stuttered. Her face drained, then flushed, then went rigid like something inside her had snapped clean in half.
“So it’s true,” she whispered. “I was collateral.”
“No,” I said immediately. “You were leverage. There’s a difference.”
She stared at me like I’d just proved her point.
“You don’t get to rebrand it,” she said, voice rising. “You don’t get to soften it because you decided that suits your own selfish goals!” She spat.
“I never decided to—”
“Stop,” she snapped. “Just stop talking.”
I took a step closer. “Let me finish.”
“You think I’m expendable!” she shot back.
“That’s not true.”
“I hope it was worth it, Gianni. I hope your conscience keeps you up at night.”
Her words came out sharper now. Louder. She was pacing, hands threading through her hair, breath coming fast.
“I knew it,” she said. “I had a feeling. This was all too convenient. You just happened to be there when I ran from the church. You just happened to catch me.”
I stiffened. “Careful.”
“Did you hit me on purpose?” she demanded.
The room went dead quiet.
“What?” I said sharply.
“Did you?”
“No,” I said without hesitation. “This was not planned.”
But doubt had already taken root. I could see it in her eyes, spreading, poisoning everything it touched.
“You planned this,” she said, voice cracking now. “You planned me.”
“That’s not true.”
“You used me.”
“I was going to trade a position, not a person,” I said. “And I didn’t go through with it.”
She didn’t let me finish.
“You don’t get credit for what you didn’t do,” she screamed. “You don’t get to decide you’re not a monster because I found out and you didn’t go through with it.”
Her voice broke completely then, the sound raw and ugly and devastating. She shoved at my chest when I moved toward her, hands shaking, fury and hurt tangling together.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Mikayla—”
“Don’t.”
I stopped dead.
That single word landed harder than the accusation. Harder than the look in her eyes. It felt like she’d drawn a line and dared me to cross it.
She sucked in a breath, sharp and shaky, like she was barely keeping her head above water. “I’m leaving in the morning.”
“No,” I said at once. Too fast. Too honest. “You’re not.”
Her eyes lit up, all fire and fury. “I’m not your prisoner.”
“It’s not safe,” I snapped back. “The second you step outside, Archie will know. He’ll come for you.”
“Then you’ll let me go,” she shot back. “Because if you don’t, that makes you the same kind of monster he is.”
The words slammed into me.
“You think I’m like him,” I said quietly.
She didn’t deny it. That silence was louder than anything she could’ve said.
I dragged a hand through my hair, anger winding tight in my chest—not at her, but at the trap we were standing in. At the timing. At the way everything I’d done to protect her had twisted into proof against me.
“You walk out of here,” I said low, dangerous, “and you won’t last a day.”
She straightened, wiping at her face like she hated the tears. “Then that’s on me.”
I stared at her, really looked. The set of her jaw. The way she wouldn’t meet my eyes now, like if she did, she might break.
“I don’t want you to go, Mikayla,” I said, my voice rough. My heart stuttered hard in my chest. I could stop her. God help me, I could. Lock the doors. Keep her here. Tell myself it was for her own good. I would do anything to protect her—anything except turn into the thing she already feared.
“I don’t care what you want, Gianni,” she said flatly. “This is about me. And I don’t trust you anymore. So I can’t stay.”
“Fine,” I said.
Her head snapped up.
“If you’re set on leaving,” I went on, cold settling where panic had been, “I won’t stop you.”
Her shoulders dropped—just a little.
“But you’re wrong about one thing,” I added. “I wasn’t planning to give you back. Not anymore.”
She shook her head. “It’s too late.”
I turned for the door before I said something I couldn’t undo.
As I left, the anger burned hot and useless in my chest—not because she didn’t trust me, but because I understood exactly why she couldn’t.
And because I had no idea how to keep her alive once she walked out of my house in the morning.
I didn’t sleep.
Not for lack of trying. Not for lack of exhaustion. I lay down, stared at the ceiling, closed my eyes, opened them again. Over and over. When that failed, I got up. When standing still made it worse, I paced.
Back and forth across my room.
Window to door. Door to window.
Every step felt like a countdown.
Morning was coming whether I wanted it to or not, and with it the moment Mikayla would walk out of this house believing I was just another man who’d decided her worth behind closed doors.
I could stop her.
The thought came uninvited and stayed longer than I liked.
I had enough men. Enough control. Enough authority in this house to make it impossible for her to leave. I could justify it easily—safety, intelligence, timing. I could tell myself it was temporary. Necessary.
I didn’t.
Because forcing her to stay would only prove her right.
I’d already betrayed her trust once. I wouldn’t do it again. Even if every instinct I had screamed at me to lock the doors and keep her where I could see her breathe.
I dragged a hand down my face and leaned against the wall, head tipping back.
How had she found out?
The question surfaced briefly, automatically. A tactical reflex. Loose mouths. Poor timing. One of the men talking when they shouldn’t have been.
It didn’t matter.
It changed nothing.
She was always going to find out. If not tonight, then tomorrow. Or next week. Or the moment Archie decided to remind her exactly how valuable she was to him.
And when she did, it was always going to hurt.
That part was on me.
I’d used her. Not cruelly. Not carelessly. But deliberately. I’d justified it every step of the way by telling myself I was protecting her, keeping her close, making sure she was safe while I handled the problem she represented.
What I hadn’t done was tell her the truth.
Not all of it.
She knew Archie and I had history. She knew there was bad blood, unfinished business. I could have told her everything. The deal. The territory. The fact that Provence wasn’t just land—it was leverage, balance, the end of a war that had been bleeding outward for too long.
I hadn’t.
Because somewhere, deep down, I’d known that the moment she understood what was at stake, she’d understand something else too.
That she was the single most valuable bargaining tool I had.
And I hadn’t wanted to see the look on her face when she realized it.
I pushed away from the wall and crossed the room again, restless energy coiling tighter with every step. Regret was useless. Self-flagellation even more so. There were no clean hands in this world, and I’d never pretended mine were any different.
I could kick myself for the miscalculation. For thinking I could keep the lines separate. For believing I could fight a war and fall for a woman without the two colliding.
I didn’t.
Because this wasn’t over.
Archie Popovich was still out there. Provence was still on the table. And Mikayla—whether she believed it or not—was still in danger the moment she stepped beyond my gates.
I had a war to win.
And I had a woman to save.
Even if she never forgave me for it.
Especially if that was the price.