Chapter 3 #2
A harsh sound escapes his throat. It takes me a second to realize it's a laugh.
It's rough, like a sound his throat has forgotten how to make.
It transforms his face. The rigid, terrifying lines around his mouth soften for one second.
It turns him devastatingly handsome and twice as dangerous in the same breath.
"You have a sharp tongue." He walks over to the space heater. He bends down and checks the black cord where it runs into the generator strip. The orange coils brighten, pushing more heat into the freezing air. Heat begins to pump into the freezing air. "It's going to get you in trouble."
"My mouth is the only reason I am alive.
" I sit on the edge of the cot. The springs groan in protest. The wool blanket is scratchy and smells like dust. "My mouth provided the 43rd Street dock intel, negotiated this sanctuary, and is currently keeping you distracted from snapping my neck. I think it is doing a fantastic job."
"Your neck is fine." He drags a heavy metal folding chair from the corner.
It scrapes loudly against the stone. He places it directly in front of the iron door.
He sits down. The chair looks absurdly small beneath his massive frame.
He spreads his long legs, resting his elbows on his knees.
He commands the room from that single position.
"Your mouth is a different story. Keep pushing me. See what happens."
The threat is sexual. It is not subtle. The deep timbre of his voice vibrates right between my thighs.
My core clenches tightly. Dampness gathers between my legs, uninvited.
I cross my legs immediately. I fold my hands in my lap.
I project calculated stillness. I will not let him see the physical effect he has on me. I am a master of masking my reactions.
"I'm not pushing you." I maintain a perfectly level tone. "I'm establishing the ground rules of our forced cohabitation. I have three rules. I'm an autonomous human being, not a pet. I need my bag, it has my change of clothes and my encrypted hard drive. Stop looking at me like I'm dinner."
"First rule's a non-starter," he counters immediately, his voice low and hard.
"You are in my territory. My territory, my rules.
Second rule stands. I already swept your bag.
The hard drive is secure. The clothes are clean.
I will bring it in a minute. Third rule is denied.
I'll look at you however I damn well please. "
My jaw tightens. He's impossible. Six-foot-seven of arrogance with a gold chain and a glare. I glare at him across the dimly lit space. The orange glow from the heater casts sharp shadows across his scarred, tattooed skin.
He's been built for one thing his whole life, standing between his family and the men who want them dead.
And he is currently guarding my door. The cognitive dissonance is staggering.
The Bellanti men guard doors to keep women trapped inside.
Fabio Costa is standing at this one to keep the monsters out.
"Did you find anything interesting in my bag?" I ask dryly. "Aside from the volume of treasonous data, of course. Did my choice of sensible knitwear offend your delicate mafia sensibilities?"
"You pack light." He ignores my sarcasm entirely. "One spare pair of boots. Three pairs of socks. Two black sweaters. One pair of tactical pants. Cash, passport, drive, all stripped and catalogued. No jewelry. No sentimental items. No pictures. You packed like a shadow preparing to vanish."
"I am a shadow." I look down at my hands. The defiance drains out of me for a brief, vulnerable second.
"The moment I stepped out of the Bellanti compound, Catalina Bellanti died.
My father will burn my clothes; my uncle will strike my name from the family trust; my cousins will pretend they never knew me.
I am erased. The only thing I have left is the intel in my head and the clothes in that bag.
Sentimental items are liabilities. Pictures are targets.
You don't bring targets when you run for your life. "
He goes still. The predatory energy shifts again.
The possessiveness stays. But something else lands underneath it now, his shoulders drop a fraction, his hands flex like he wants to use them on someone else's throat for me.
I hate revealing my vulnerability. I hate showing him the bruises on my soul.
But his silence demands it. His intense, unblinking focus pulls the truth right out of my throat.
"You're not erased." The words are a low, solemn vow. "They don't get to erase you. They don't get to dictate your existence anymore. You're standing in my safehouse, breathing my air. You're real. You're here."
"For how long?" I challenge him. The fear bubbles up, cold and toxic.
"How long until Dominic Costa decides I'm more valuable as a hostage?
How long until Matteo Costa decides my blood is too toxic to tolerate?
You're one man, Fabio. A very large, very terrifying one, but you're not the Don.
Dominic is. You don't make the final call. "
His jaw locks. The muscles in his neck bunch tight. The mention of his family does something to his face. His eyes go somewhere old. His eyes go somewhere old. I see the flash of something feral in his eyes. The rage of a man who's been holding it in too long.
"Dominic doesn't control this room." The low rumble of his voice is deadly. "Matteo doesn't cross my line. They know what happens when they push me. I've spent two decades following orders. Two decades swallowing my rage to keep the peace. That ends today. It ends with you."
"You're going to declare war on your own family for a Bellanti?" I stare at him in disbelief. "You're insane. That's a terrible strategic decision. It's mathematically disastrous. You'll isolate yourself. You'll lose your support network."
"I don't care about the math." He leans forward.
The metal chair creaks loudly. "I care about the woman sitting on that cot, about keeping you breathing.
If I have to burn the city down to do it, I will strike the match myself.
Stop trying to analyze this. Stop trying to calculate the odds.
You can't quantify what's happening between us. "
"Nothing's happening between us." I lie smoothly.
It's a blatant lie. The air between us is so thick with sexual tension I can barely breathe.
"This is purely an adrenaline response. We are in a high-stress, life-or-death situation.
It mimics the symptoms of attraction, elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, skin flush. It's biology, not destiny."
"You talk too much." He stands up suddenly. The chair scrapes backward. He stalks across the room and closes the distance in three strides.
Panic spikes in my chest. I scramble backward on the cot. My back hits the brick wall. There is nowhere to go. He stops right in front of my knees, close enough that I have to crane my neck to keep his eyes. His thighs bracket mine where they dangle off the cot.
The heat coming off his body is overwhelming. My gaze travels up his chest, his throat, his sharp jaw—all the way to his face. He's too close. I can see the tiny, pale scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Motor oil and smoke and sun-warmed metal. His scent settles on my skin.
One rough knuckle hooks under my chin. He tips my face up to his. The pressure is feather-light. It leaves no room for hesitation.
My eyes meet his. The darkness in his gaze is consuming. It strips away all my sarcasm. It shatters my clinical detachment. I'm exposed. Every defense I brought into this room is gone under his stare.
"This isn't adrenaline." His voice drops to a raw, guttural whisper. He leans forward. His face stops a breath from mine. His hands stay fisted at his sides. He doesn't trap me. He doesn't crowd me closer. He just stays right there.
He just stays right there, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his mouth. "This isn't a stress response. Don't insult me by pretending it is. You feel it the way I feel it. You're sitting there calculating escape routes because you're terrified of how much you want to surrender."
My breath catches in my throat. My chest heaves.
I can't form a coherent sentence. My brilliant, highly educated brain short-circuits.
He's right. About every single word of it.
I am terrified. I have never surrendered control in my life.
Surrender equals death in my world. But looking up at him now, at the way he's holding himself together for me, surrender looks like salvation.
"I can't." The words crack as they leave my mouth. I hate the weakness in my tone. I hate the desperation. "I can't do this. I can't trust you. If I'm wrong, I die. It's that simple. If I give you my trust and you betray me to your family, I die. The math doesn't allow for blind faith."
"Then don't trust me yet." He does not pull back. His face hovers mere inches from mine. His hot breath washes over my lips. The proximity is torture. My core clenches violently. Wetness floods my panties. I want to close the distance.
I want to taste the violence on his mouth. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from moving. "Keep mapping the exits, calculating the odds, throwing your sharp, sarcastic insults at me. Keep your armor on. I don't care. I've got enough certainty for both of us."
He draws back. The loss of his heat is a physical shock. He steps away, breaking out of his own gravity. He turns his back to me and walks to the iron door.
"Get some sleep." He doesn't look back. He grabs the handle of the steel door.
"I'll get your bag. When I come back, I'm locking this door from the inside.
I'll be sitting in that chair until the sun comes up.
Nobody gets through that door unless they go through me first, and nobody gets near the grate unless they get through my men. "
He pulls the door open. The rusted hinges scream in protest. The corridor of the speakeasy yawns beyond the threshold. He steps through. The door slams shut behind him. The metallic clang echoes like a gunshot in the small room.
I'm alone. The space heater ticks quietly.
The orange glow casts long shadows across the floor.
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against my thighs to steady them.
I close my eyes and drag in a ragged breath.
The scent of motor oil and smoke still lingers in the air.
It clings to my clothes. It coats my lungs.
I am compromised. The Bellanti playbook has failed me. I mapped the room, counted the steps, noted the structural weaknesses. But I missed the most dangerous variable in the room.
I missed what happens when the monster guarding the door decides he'd rather die than let you out of his sight.
I lie back on the thin, scratchy wool blanket.
I stare up at the weeping brick ceiling.
The water drips steadily in the distance.
The iron door remains shut. He is coming back. He is going to lock us in together.
I should be terrified. I should be plotting my immediate escape.
Instead, a slow, terrifying warmth spreads through my chest. For the first time in my life, I'm not the one guarding my own back. I pull the thin blanket up to my chin. I listen to the deliberate, echoing footsteps returning down the hall.
The Costa enforcer is coming back to his post. And heaven help the fools who try to cross his line.