Chapter 2 #2
I turn toward the door. The descent back into the earth feels different now. Before, I was walking away from an enemy combatant. Now, I'm walking toward my woman.
My boots hit the stone stairs. The thermos swings in my left hand.
The space heater is tucked under my right arm.
The air grows colder the deeper I go. The dampness presses against my skin.
The River Speakeasy was designed to hide illicit alcohol from the feds almost a century ago.
A labyrinth of limestone and iron beneath the water table. Now, it's my sanctuary.
I reach the bottom of the stairs. The iron door stands as I left it. The rusted deadbolt is engaged. No sound bleeds through the other side.
Is she pacing? Is she mapping the walls? Is she sitting on her leather bag, terrified of the man who locked her in?
My jaw tightens. She doesn't need to be terrified of me. She needs to understand that I'm the only thing standing between her and a shallow grave.
I set the space heater down on the stone floor. I set the thermos next to it. I grip the deadbolt.
My knuckles drag against the rusted iron. I pause. The feral energy inside me is barely contained. I need to get it under control before I open this door. If I walk in there looking the way I feel, she will run.
The instinct to back her into the limestone wall, to press against her curves, to bury my face in her neck and inhale until I pass out, hits me like a fist. It's overwhelming. It takes every ounce of discipline Dominic beat into me over the last two decades to keep my boots planted on the floor.
She is curvy. She is soft where I am hard.
She is a Bellanti princess who grew up inside the machine.
She knows their armory routes. She knows their schedules.
She knows enough of their secrets to get herself killed.
That knowledge is suffocating her. I see Maria in the set of her jaw.
The same dead-end fight, the same locked spine.
Terror masking itself as sass, desperation hiding behind sharp demands.
She is terrified. But she is doing it anyway. She is standing inside the fear.
That makes her stronger than half the men I have killed.
I press my forehead against the cold iron door.
The metal leeches the heat from my skin.
My chest rises and falls in slow, deep rhythm.
Two decades of rage. Two decades of wanting to destroy the Bellanti name.
It all evaporates the second this particular Bellanti looks at me.
I am a traitor to my own grief. I do not care.
I would trade every memory of the parents I buried for five minutes of Catalina's surrender.
The thought is blasphemy. It is a betrayal of the Costa blood.
I accept the damnation.
If Matteo finds out I'm harboring a Bellanti, he'll demand her head. If Dante finds out, he'll bring his tactical knives to the speakeasy. And Santi already knows enough to become a problem. He wouldn’t even need to be in the same zip code.
They will have to go through me.
The image of the Costa men trying to take her flashes through my mind. My muscles bunch. A lethal, terrifying calm washes over me. I will fight my own blood—break Matteo's jaw, disarm Dante, hunt Santi through the streets of Chicago. I will go to war with my own family to keep this woman breathing.
The lock Dominic put on me is broken. I'm out. The roaring lion on my bicep feels like it's burning into my skin. The beast is loose. It has found its mate.
I pick up the space heater. I grab the thermos. My thumb hits the latch of the deadbolt. I slide the rusted iron back. The sound is deafening in the narrow corridor. A harsh, metallic shriek that announces my return.
I grip the handle. The metal is freezing. I push the iron door open.
The hinges groan. The darkness of the tunnel gives way to the dim, flickering light of the single emergency bulb I left burning.
She is there.
Catalina.
My eyes sweep over the room. I expect to find her cowering, crying. I expect the fragile breaking of a woman who just realized she handed her life to a monster.
Instead, she is standing dead center of the room. Shoulders back. Spine straight. Her chin tilted up in a gesture of pure defiance. She's mapping the room. Her eyes track the exit, the limestone seams, the rusted vents. She's methodical. Brilliant. Lethal in her own right.
The scent of her crashes over me in a tidal wave.
My blood roars.
"I verified your intel," I say. My voice is a low, guttural growl that bounces off the damp walls. I step into the room. The walls feel closer the second I cross the threshold.
She doesn't flinch. She holds her ground.
I set the space heater on the floor and plug the cord into the generator strip. The machine hums to life, the coils glowing orange against the freezing air. I place the thermos of coffee on the rusted table.
"Terminal four is hot," I continue, stepping closer to her. "You told the truth."
Catalina stares up at me. Her dark eyes are wide, but the defiance doesn't waver. "I told you I was an asset. I don't lie to men who hold the keys to the door."
"You're no longer an asset, Catalina." The words drag out of my throat, the possessive claim ringing with finality.
Her eyes narrow. Confusion cuts through the dark of them. "Then what am I?"
I stare into the face of the enemy—at the woman who just gave me her family's throat. I stare at my ruin.
She has nowhere to go. Not because I've locked her in, but because I'm between her and every direction she could move. I don't touch the wall. I don't touch her. I take up all the space.
"Mine."