Chapter 9 #2
Fabio is dangerous. But he's a dangerous man who stands in front of me, not behind me. He is the first place in twenty-four years that has ever felt safe. He is the first place that has ever felt like it belongs to me.
I choose to stay.
I stop fighting his hold. I let my head drop against his chest. His heart hammers against my cheek, a steady, violent drumbeat.
His arms wrap around me, crushing me against his frame. He exhales a harsh, ragged breath, burying his face in my damp hair. He holds me like I'm the only solid thing left on the planet.
Dante clears his throat in the front seat.
"Matteo's going to ask questions," Dante says quietly. He does not sound angry. He sounds resigned. "He's running point on a siege. Dominic's mobilizing the North Side perimeter. When I pull through those gates with a Bellanti in the back seat, they're going to want answers."
Fabio does not look up from my hair. He does not loosen his grip on me.
"Tell Matteo to lower his weapon before I break his jaw," Fabio says. The threat is casual, final. "Tell Dominic to stand down." Telling the Don to stand down. My pulse spikes at the weight of it.
Dante sighs. "Give me something to work with, brother. You know how they get. They need a classification."
Fabio finally lifts his head. He meets his brother's eyes in the rearview mirror.
"She's mine," Fabio says. His voice is a low, vibrating rumble that travels straight through my ribs. "She is staying with me. She sleeps in my bed. She eats at my table. Anyone who has a problem with it can handle it with me in the training yard. That's the end of it."
The silence in the SUV is unbroken.
Dante nods once. "Understood."
That's it.
No arguments. No mafia posturing. Fabio claims me to the enforcer of the Costa family, and Dante simply accepts it. The weight of that acceptance presses down on my chest. It is so foreign. In my family, every alliance was temporary. Every claim was a vulnerability to be exploited.
Here, a claim is an iron shield.
I close my eyes, letting the steady hum of the tires against the pavement lull my shattered nerves. Fabio continues to rub my arms, his large hands working the freezing dampness out of my bones. He doesn't speak again. He doesn't need to.
We drive through the dark streets of Chicago.
The city blurs past the tinted windows. The neon signs and streetlights bleed into a continuous stream of color.
I don't map the route. I don't count the turns.
I don't calculate the distance to the enemy stronghold.
For the first time in my life, I surrender control.
Thirty minutes later, the SUV slows down.
We approach the North Side. The architecture shifts. The buildings grow larger, older. We turn onto a private, tree-lined street.
At the end of the block, the stone walls rise into the night sky. Wrought-iron gates stand closed. Floodlights illuminate the perimeter. Armed men in tactical gear patrol the grounds, their silhouettes sharp against the imposing structure of the restored limestone mansion.
The Costa compound.
The enemy fortress.
My stomach drops. The reality of crossing this threshold hits me hard. I am a Bellanti. My family's blood is literally on the hands of the men standing guard at those gates.
Dante flashes the headlights.
The guards do not open the gates immediately. Two men step forward, assault rifles held at the low ready. They approach the driver's side window. Dante rolls it down just enough to be seen.
"Status," Dante says.
"Bellanti strike force hit the west wall twenty minutes ago," the guard replies, his voice tight. "Santi and Enzo pushed them back. Two dead on our side. Five dead on theirs. They retreated, but they are regrouping. Matteo has the compound on full lockdown."
"Open the gates," Dante orders.
The guard hesitates. He shines a flashlight into the back seat. The beam hits Fabio's face, then slides over to me.
The guard freezes. The flash of recognition is unmistakable. He knows exactly who I am. He tightens his grip on his rifle.
Fabio snarls. The sound rattles off the windows. He twists across the seat and over me, blocking the light with his shoulder.
"Get that light out of my car before I take your eyes," Fabio roars.
The guard stumbles back, quickly clicking the flashlight off. "Apologies, Fabio. I didn't—"
"Open the fucking gates," Fabio snaps.
The guard nods frantically and signals the gatehouse.
The iron gates slowly grind open.
Dante rolls the window up and drives through.
We pass the outer wall. The restored limestone mansion looms ahead, an imposing fortress of power and violence. The grounds are swarming with activity. Men in tactical gear move with brutal efficiency.
Dante parks the SUV near the side entrance, right next to the industrial kitchen doors.
He kills the engine. "Matteo's inside. I'll go first. Give me thirty seconds to clear the room."
Dante steps out of the car.
Fabio turns to me. The anger from dealing with the guard vanishes. He reaches up, his knuckles gently brushing against my cold cheek.
"You're safe here," he says softly. It's a promise etched in stone. "Don't flinch. Don't look away from them. You belong here now."
I take a deep breath. I nod.
He pushes the door open and steps out into the frigid night air. He turns back, offering me his hand.
I look at his large, calloused palm. A killer's hand. The same hand that hasn't let go of me.
I place my hand in his.
His fingers close around mine, warm and solid. He pulls me out of the SUV and tucks me securely against his side. His arm wraps around my waist and locks there.
We walk toward the side entrance.
The air smells like cold stone, wet pavement, and the sharp tang of gunpowder drifting from the wall. The reality of the mafia war presses down on my chest with every step.
But anchored against Fabio's side, surrounded by his scent of motor oil and smoke, my chest stops caving in.
I feel fortified.
Dante pushes the metal doors open. The bright, sterile lights of Matteo's industrial kitchen spill out into the night.
I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and walk into the lion's den.
Matteo Costa stands at the stainless-steel island. He's covered in sweat and soot, a tactical vest strapped tightly over his chest. He holds a tablet in one hand and a radio in the other. He looks up as we enter.
His eyes lock onto me. The resemblance between him and Fabio is striking, but through the fear pounding behind my ribs, Matteo's eyes read calculating, cold, stripped of mercy. He's the underboss. The man my files said orchestrates the slaughter.
Matteo drops the radio onto the steel counter. The clatter rings loudly in the quiet kitchen.
"You brought a Bellanti into my kitchen," Matteo says. His voice is dangerously soft.
Fabio doesn't stop walking. He pulls me directly into the center of the room, standing right in front of his older brother. He uses his frame to block Matteo's direct line of sight to my chest, keeping me slightly behind his shoulder.
"I brought my woman into our family's house," Fabio corrects him. The volume is low, but the threat is deafening. "She gave us the dock intel. The terminal was hot. She is the reason we knew about the shipments."
“We are actively at war, Fabio. She is a liability." Matteo stares at Fabio. "Her family just assaulted our walls. Sealed intel got out from inside. We're actively in siege, Fabio. She's a liability."
"She's mine."
Matteo's jaw clenches. He looks at Dante, who stands silently by the door. Dante simply crosses his arms and leans against the wall, refusing to intervene. He accepted the claim back in the SUV.
Matteo looks back at Fabio. The two massive men stare each other down. The tension in the kitchen is a physical weight, pressing against my eardrums. Decades of grief, rage, and brotherhood hang in the balance.
I step out from behind Fabio's shoulder.
Fabio immediately tries to push me back, but I stand my ground. I refuse to hide behind him. If I'm going to live inside these walls, I won't do it as a cowering prisoner.
I meet Matteo's cold stare.
"My family put a tracker in my bag and a fake broadcast on your network to get me killed," I say clearly, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "My bloodline wants me dead just as much as they want you dead."
Matteo doesn't blink. He absorbs the information, every line of him recalculating.
"She is an asset," Matteo finally says, turning his gaze back to Fabio. "We put her in a secure room. We debrief her. We extract every piece of intel she has on their infrastructure."
"No," Fabio says.
Matteo frowns. "What do you mean, no? She knows their security protocols."
"I mean no." Fabio steps forward, closing the distance. He towers over the steel island. "She's not an asset. She's not a prisoner. She's not a piece on your strategy table, Matteo. She's done bleeding for her last name. She's done surviving alone."
Fabio reaches back, his hand wrapping around my wrist. He pulls me forward, tucking me firmly against his side again.
"She goes upstairs with me," Fabio dictates. "She stays with me. You don't debrief her. You don't interrogate her. If she wants to give you intel, she'll give it to you. But nobody forces her to do a damn thing. Are we clear?"
Matteo stares at his younger brother. He searches Fabio's face, looking for any sign of hesitation.
He finds none. Whatever Matteo is reading off Fabio, it leaves no room to argue.
Matteo slowly exhales. The rigid tension leaves his shoulders. He picks his radio back up from the counter.
"Clear," Matteo says quietly. He looks at me, offering a single, respectful nod. "Welcome to the compound, Catalina."
The relief hits me so hard my legs give out under me.
Fabio catches me instantly. His arms sweep under my knees and behind my back, lifting me off the ground before I can even hit it.
I gasp, grabbing onto his wide shoulders.
"I can walk," I protest weakly.
"You're freezing and exhausted," Fabio grunts, adjusting my weight against his chest like I weigh nothing at all. "You're done walking for the night."
He turns away from Matteo and carries me out of the kitchen.
We move through the limestone mansion. The architecture is stunning. Vaulted ceilings. Wood paneling. Antique rugs over hardwood floors. It smells of old money and lemon polish, with a thread of gun oil under it all.
We pass guards in the hallways. They all avert their eyes. Word travels fast in a compound this size.
He carries me up a sweeping staircase to the second floor. The sounds of the war room fade behind us, replaced by the hush of the private wing.
We reach a solid oak door at the end of the hall. Fabio shoulders it open without breaking stride.
He carries me inside and nudges the door shut behind us with his heel.
The lock clicks into place.
The sound is final. It's the world outside getting cut off. The war, the Bellantis, the tracking devices, the freezing river. All of it goes quiet behind that oak door.
I look around the room. It's massive, dominated by a king-sized bed dressed in dark linens. The walls are soundproofed, the way every senior Costa room is. A stone fireplace dominates one wall, a fire already crackling merrily in the hearth.
It's a fortress within a fortress.
Fabio slowly lowers me to my feet. He keeps his hands securely on my waist, ensuring I have my balance before he lets go.
He looks down at me. The adrenaline and the tactical rage have vanished from his eyes. Something darker takes their place. Something I don't have a file for.
The primal, scorched obsession of a man who just claimed his woman against the world.
He reaches out, his rough fingers tracing the line of my jaw. His knuckles barely register against my skin, those same hands raw from what he did at the river.
"You stayed," he whispers, his voice rough with emotion.
"I stayed," I answer softly.
The corner of his mouth twitches. The tactical jacket slips off my shoulders, pooling on the floor at our feet. The fire's heat finally reaches my skin.
He closes the last of the distance between us. The heat coming off him sinks into my chilled skin. His eyes move over my face slow, like he's memorizing the fact that I'm standing inside his room.
My breath catches. The math has nothing left to say.
There's only him. And I'm where I belong.