Chapter 3
Catalina
The paper cup I filled from the thermos burns against my palms. It's a cheap, flimsy thing, radiating heat I desperately need.
Black coffee sloshes inside, still steaming from the thermos he set on the floor.
The bitter, acidic steam rises into my face.
It smells like cheap diner roast and salvation. I take a slow, scalding sip.
The caffeine hits my empty stomach with a vicious punch.
It grounds me. It reminds me I'm alive. I'm standing in a decommissioned speakeasy tunnel beneath the freezing Chicago River.
My family wants me dead. The lethal man blocking the only usable exit just declared I belong to him.
The rusted iron grate at the dead end does not count as an exit.
He stands by the heavy steel door. He set the black metal space heater on the stone floor a moment ago, plugged it in, and stepped back.
The coils are already glowing, ticking as they warm up.
He just watches me. The silence in this subterranean tunnel sits on my chest like a wet stone.
Water drips somewhere deep in the tunnel system.
The rhythmic splash echoes off the arched brick ceiling. I refuse to break his stare. He thinks he can grunt a possessive claim and I'll nod and comply. He expects me to swoon or cower. I have dealt with monsters my entire life. Brooding mafia enforcers don't intimidate me. They just annoy me.
My boots scrape against the uneven stone as I step away from him. The tunnel is roughly forty feet long and fifteen feet wide. It is a stone box. A tomb from the prohibition era. Rusted iron pipes run along the weeping brick walls. Shadows cling to the corners, thick and impenetrable.
I begin at the far left wall. I place my hand against the cold stone and walk the perimeter. One step. Two steps. Three. I slide my palm over the uneven mortar, cataloging moisture levels, testing the stability of the ancient brick. I'm not panicking. I'm running protocol.
He watches me do it. His frame stays still, but everything underneath it is grinding teeth and white knuckles. The scent of motor oil and smoke hits my senses, cutting straight through the mildew and damp earth. It's intoxicating. It scrambles my survival instincts.
I force myself to ignore it. I count my steps. Four. Five. Six. I reach the corner. The mortar here is crumbling. I dig my thumbnail into the gray dust. It flakes away easily. A structural weakness. Not enough to dig through, but enough to note. You always note the weaknesses.
"What are you doing?" His voice is a low, dangerous rumble. It vibrates right through the soles of my boots.
"I'm mapping the perimeter." I do not look over my shoulder. I continue to drag my hand along the back wall. Seven. Eight. Nine. "It's a standard tactical assessment. You should appreciate it."
"You're looking for a way out."
I pause. I turn my head slowly. He is a terrifying sight in the dim, flickering light of the single overhead bulb. His eyes are black in the shadows. The muscle in his jaw twitches. His jaw tightens like he's chewing glass.
The look on his face says I'm treating his sanctuary like a prison, says he expected better. Says he expected my trust. The arrogance is astounding. I barely know this man. I handed him the keys to a major Bellanti route. I betrayed my blood. He expects me to blindly trust a Costa.
"There's one door." I gesture to the steel slab behind him. "You're standing in front of it. You're well over six feet of pure muscle, heavily armed. I'm unarmed. I'm not looking for a way out, I'm assessing my environment. There's a difference."
"You're pacing like a trapped animal."
"I'm pacing like a woman who survived a lifetime inside the Bellanti compound." I turn fully to face him. I cross my arms over my chest, careful not to spill the hot coffee.
"Do you know how you survive in a house full of vipers?
You map the exits. You memorize the squeaky floorboards, note which doors lock from the inside and which ones can be picked with a hairpin, calculate the distance between your bedroom and the nearest staircase.
You never sit with your back to the door.
You never accept a drink you didn't pour yourself.
Unless the man pouring it is the only thing standing between you and a Bellanti bullet. "
He stares at me. The anger in his expression shifts. It doesn't soften. Fabio Costa doesn't do soft. It just sharpens, narrows, locks on me. Whatever this is in him, lethal, possessive, something darker, it makes the small room feel too small.
"Nobody is going to hurt you here." The words are a vow.
"You don't know that." I take another sip of my coffee.
The bitterness is perfect. "My family is a machine.
They don't stop. They don't forgive. If they know I ran, they are already hunting.
If they find this tunnel, they will flood it, burn it out, do whatever it takes to make an example out of me. "
"Let them try." He steps forward. The movement is terrifyingly fast for a man his size. "Let them come. I'll slaughter every single one of them in the dark. I'll stack the bodies at the door. You're not going back."
The certainty in his voice hits low in my belly and pulls. I hate it. I hate that my body reacts to his feral dominance. I'm a highly educated, fiercely independent woman. I orchestrated a massive defection. I stole encrypted ledgers. I risked execution.
I should be immune to the aggressive, territorial posturing of a mafia enforcer. But his attention does not lift. It pulls me under. He looks at me like I'm the only thing that matters in the city. It's terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. I swallow hard against the dryness in my throat.
"You’re very confident for a man standing in a rotting prohibition tunnel." I force a smirk. I use sarcasm like armor. It's the only defense I have left. "Are all the Costas this dramatically possessive, or is it just a personal quirk?"
"I don't share." He takes another step toward me. The space between us shrinks. The freezing room stops feeling freezing. "I don't play games. I told you what this is. You're mine. You stay behind me. You stay alive. That's the end of the negotiation."
"I didn't agree to be claimed." I lift my chin. I refuse to step back. "I agreed to an intelligence exchange. Asylum for data. I'm an asset. I'm a guest. I'm not your property."
He stops two feet away from me. He towers over me. His broad chest rises and falls with controlled breaths. He looks down at me with those dangerous eyes.
"You smell like the enemy." His voice drops to a raw whisper.
"You talk like the enemy. You have the blood of the men who murdered my family running through your veins.
You should be a target. I should have tied you to a chair the second you stepped into this tunnel.
I should be dissecting every word you say for a trap. "
"Then why aren't you?" I challenge him. The air between us crackles. "Why did you bring me coffee and a heater, plug it in, lay out a blanket? Why are you looking at me like you want to devour me?"
"Because I'm losing my fucking mind." The confession is torn out of him. It's raw and jagged. He lifts a hand. He stops just inches from my cheek. He does not touch me. The restraint costs him dearly.
The tendons in his neck bulge. "I look at you and I don't see the Bellanti crest. I just see you—a woman who walked into the jaws of hell and demanded a cup of coffee. You're fearless. You're insane. You're mine."
My skin flushes hot. The proximity is overwhelming. His heat radiates against my cold face. I want to lean into that massive, scarred hand. I want to let him touch me. The urge is primal. It defies every logical protocol I have established for my survival.
I pull my face back a fraction of an inch. I maintain my boundaries. I have to. If I surrender to this immediately, I will be consumed. The Costas are a devouring force. I will not trade one prison for another, even if this one is built out of obsessive protection.
"I'm not fearless." I keep my voice steady. "I am terrified—just very good at hiding it. It's a survival mechanism. Don't confuse strategy with bravery."
"I know what you are." He finally drops his hand.
He clenches it into a fist at his side. "You're exhausted.
You're freezing. You're running on pure adrenaline.
Drink your coffee. Sit down. Stop measuring the walls.
They're three feet thick. The crumbling mortar in the far corner doesn't go anywhere, I checked.
Nobody's getting through them. Nobody's coming in.
I'm the only thing you have to worry about. "
"That's my point." I step sideways, sliding out from the wall of his frame. I walk toward the small, military-style cot pushed against the right wall. It's covered with a thin gray wool blanket.
"You're highly volatile. You hate my family, and you have decades of justifiable rage festering inside you.
I'm the perfect target for that rage. The fact that you've redirected it into some twisted, territorial claiming instinct doesn't make me feel safer.
It makes me feel like I'm standing inside a powder keg with a lit match. "
He tracks my movement. He turns slowly. "If I wanted to hurt you, Catalina, you would already be bleeding."
The use of my first name sends a sharp spike of heat through my center. He says it like a threat. He says it like a promise. The way he says it now is different from every other time, slower, weighted, sunk into the bones of the word. Something private cracks open between us.
"Fair enough." I set the empty coffee cup on the floor near the cot. "But you have to admit, this is a wildly unstable dynamic. I am the enemy defector. You are the vengeance-driven enforcer. We are locked in a damp tunnel. You keep telling me I belong to you. It is a lot to process before lunch."