Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Marina
Ican't breathe.
The room feels too small. The walls press in. Dante's words hang in the air like smoke, filling every corner, choking me.
I've been yours ever since.
My chest hurts. My hands shake. Both of them now.
"I need—" My voice cracks. "I can't—"
I turn away from him. Face the window. The city lights blur through the tears I refuse to let fall.
This is too much. All of it. The confession. The tracking. The way he looked at me when he said he fell in love with me in thirty seconds. Like it was the simplest truth in the world. Like it cost him nothing to admit.
But I saw his face. I saw what it cost him.
And that makes it worse.
"Marina."
His voice is soft. Careful. Like he's approaching a wounded animal.
I hear the couch creak. Hear him stand. His footsteps are uneven. Slow.
"I'll leave you alone."
I don't turn around.
"I didn't mean to—" He stops. Starts again. "You asked. I answered. That's all."
That's all.
Like he didn't just tear open his chest and show me everything inside. Like he didn't just hand me a weapon I never asked for.
"I'll be in the bedroom," he says. "You won't have to see me."
His footsteps move away. Each one slower than the last. I can hear the pain in his breathing. The way he's holding himself together through sheer will.
I should let him go.
I should let him walk away and close the door and give me the space I desperately need.
But my body turns before my brain catches up.
I watch him cross the living room. His shoulders are tense. His left hand presses against his wounded side. He moves like every step costs him something he can't afford to lose.
He reaches the hallway.
Let him go.
He pauses at the bedroom door. Doesn't look back.
Let him go, Marina.
He steps inside. The door closes with a soft click.
And I'm alone.
My knees give out.
I sink onto the couch. The cushion is still warm from where he sat.
I press my palms to my face and try to breathe.
I fell in love with you in that moment.
No.
Something unlocked. Something I didn't even know was locked.
No.
I've been yours ever since.
I want to scream. I want to throw something. I want to march into that bedroom and tell him he's wrong. He's delusional. He doesn't love me. He can't love me. We barely know each other.
But that's a lie.
He knows everything about me.
And I—
I press my fists against my eyes until I see stars.
I haven't stopped thinking about him.
Two years. Two fucking years of rebuilding my life. Of a date that went nowhere. Of nights spent staring at the ceiling, wondering why I couldn't move on.
I told myself it was the trauma. The shooting. The violence. I told myself I was damaged and that's why I couldn't connect with anyone. Why every man I met felt like a stranger speaking a language I'd forgotten.
But that was a lie too.
Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face.
The way he looked at me when he carried me out of that apartment. The way he left when I told him to leave.
I hated him for that.
I hated him for listening. For respecting my wishes. For walking away without a fight.
And I hated myself for wanting him to stay.
I pull my knees to my chest. Wrap my arms around them. Make myself as small as possible.
This is fucked up.
This is so fucked up.
And I can't stop thinking about the way his voice broke when he talked about his family.
I can't stop thinking about the twelve-year-old boy hiding in a closet while his parents and brother were murdered.
I can't stop thinking about the way he said you looked at me like I was human.
My chest aches.
He's broken.
I know broken. I see it every day at work. In the foster kids who flinch at loud noises. In the teenagers who can't make eye contact. In the children who've learned that love is just another word for pain.
Dante is broken in the same way. Shattered at twelve and rebuilt into something sharp and dangerous. A weapon that doesn't know how to be anything else.
And I'm broken too.
Different pieces. Different cracks. But broken all the same.
My hand cramps. The right one. I flex my fingers and watch them tremble.
Two broken people don't make a whole.
They make a disaster.
I know this. I've seen it. The couples who cling to each other because they're both drowning. Who drag each other down instead of pulling each other up. Who mistake trauma bonding for love.
That's what this is.
That's all this can be.
He's not in love with me. He's in love with the idea of me. The woman who looked at him like he was human.
And I'm not—
I'm not anything.
I'm just a woman who got caught in the crossfire. Who happened to open a door at the wrong moment. Who became a symbol of something he lost when he was twelve years old.
This isn't love.
This is two broken people reaching for each other in the dark.
And I won't do it.
I won't let myself fall into this. Won't let myself become another casualty of the Sartori world. Won't let myself love a man who kills people for a living, no matter how soft his voice gets when he says my name.
I'll fight it.
I'll fight him.
I'll fight myself.
Because the alternative is drowning. And I've spent two years learning how to swim.
I wipe my eyes. Straighten my spine. Force my breathing to slow.
A week maybe.
That's all I have to survive.
A week and he'll be gone. Back to Chicago. Back to his family. Back to the life I want nothing to do with.
And I'll forget him.
I'll forget all of it.
I have to.
Dante
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I stare at the ceiling for three seconds before reaching for it. The movement pulls at my stitches. Pain flares through my side like someone's twisting a knife.
The name on the screen makes me pause.
Valentino.
Valentino never calls unless something's wrong. The Sartori's cousin runs security for Aria in Sicily. Handles the family's European connections. Old-world formal, Catholic guilt, the kind of soldier who crosses himself before pulling a trigger.
I answer on the fourth ring.
"Dante." His voice is deep. Accented. The Sicilian cadence stronger than mine ever was. "How are you?"
I almost laugh.
How am I?
"Been better," I say. "But I'll live. For now."
Silence on the other end. Valentino isn't the type to fill space with meaningless words. He waits. Processes. Decides.
"Good," he finally says. "Because I need you in Italy."
I close my eyes.
Of course he does.
"There's a job," Valentino continues. "Something delicate. The kind of thing that requires your particular skills. Aria asked for you specifically."
Aria.
I can't say no to Aria.
"When?" I ask.
"Two weeks. Maybe three. Depends on how quickly we can gather intelligence. And on how soon you'll get better." He pauses. "You sound tired, Dante."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
I don't respond.
Valentino sighs. He's known me since I was a kid. Watched me grow into whatever the fuck I am now. He doesn't push. That's not his way.
"Get better," he says. "I'll send details when I have them."
I've never been religious.
Not even when I was a kid. Not even when my mother used to drag me to mass every Sunday and make me kneel on the hard wooden pews until my knees ached.
If there's a God, he's got a sick sense of humor.
Because this timing—
Marina wants me out of her life. I knew that. I've always known that.
And now Valentino calls.
Asking me to go to Italy. Far away from Denver. Far away from the U.S. Far away from her.
The best timing in the fucking timeline.
"I'll go," I say.
The words taste like ash.
"Good." Valentino sounds relieved. "We'll talk soon."
I don't tell him I might not live until then.
"Yeah," I say. "Soon."
I hang up.
The phone feels heavy in my hand. I set it on my chest and stare at the ceiling again.
Italy.
I could disappear there. Lose myself in the work.
And Marina—
Marina would be free.
Free of me.
She deserves that freedom.
She deserves a normal life. A safe life. A life without men like me in it.
I should go to her.
But I can't.
If I go to her now, I'll do something stupid.
I'll touch her.
And I can't afford stupid right now.
Not with the cartel hunting me. Not with Lorenzo scrambling to find a way out of this mess. Not with Marina's life hanging in the balance because I was selfish enough to choose her door over a hospital.
I pick up my phone again.
My fingers move across the screen.
How are things?
I send the text to Lorenzo and wait.
The response comes thirty seconds later.
Complicated. Nico's working on the cartel angle. We might have a way out but it's not clean.
I type back: Define not clean.
The kind of not clean that involves bodies.
I almost smile. That's Lorenzo. Always finding the diplomatic way to say we're going to kill people.
How many?
Enough to send a message.
I set the phone down.
Bodies. Messages. The language of our world. The only language I've ever really understood.
Marina's voice echoes in my head.
You're a killer.
Yes.
I am.
And I'm about to become one again.
Marina
I should text him.
That's the logical thing to do. The safe thing.
But my legs are already moving.
My brain didn't get the memo.
I'm halfway down the hall before I realize what I'm doing. My hand reaches for the doorknob. Turns it.
The door swings open.
Dante's head snaps toward me. He's propped against the headboard, phone in hand, wearing my father's sweatpants and nothing else.
"You didn't knock," he says.
"No."
"I could have been naked."
I feel my lips curve. An actual smile. The first one in days.
"Then I guess you got lucky."
His eyes track the smile like he's memorizing it. Like he's never seen one before.
I clear my throat.
"Sophia's sending someone with supplies," I say. "Food. Medical stuff. Whatever we need for the week."
Dante sets his phone on the nightstand. "Okay."
"So if you need anything specific, tell me now. I'm making a list."
He's quiet for a moment. Thinking.
"Chocolate," he says.
I blink.
"What?"
"Chocolate. Dark chocolate. The kind with sea salt if they can find it."
I stare at him.
Dante Castellani. The man with a body that looks like it was carved from stone.
He wants chocolate.
"You eat chocolate," I say. It comes out flat. Disbelieving.
"Yes."
"Dark chocolate with sea salt."
"Yes."
I lean against the doorframe. Cross my arms.
"I thought with a body like that, sugar would be automatically rejected from your system."
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation."
"Sounds like a compliment."
"It's not."
"You said I have a body like that." He gestures vaguely at himself. At the abs. The chest. The shoulders that shouldn't be legal. "That implies you've been looking."
Heat crawls up my neck.
"Hard not to look when you keep walking around half-naked."
"I'm injured. Clothes are difficult."
I push off the doorframe. "Chocolate. Anything else?"
He considers this. "Coffee. Real coffee. Not the instant stuff you have in your cabinet."
"My instant coffee is fine."
"Your instant coffee is a crime against humanity."
"You're dramatic."
"I'm Italian."
I roll my eyes. But I'm still smiling. I can feel it on my face. This strange, unfamiliar expression that doesn't belong here. Not with him. Not now.
"Fine," I say. "Dark chocolate with sea salt. Real coffee. What else?"
"That's it."
"That's it? You're stuck here for a week and all you want is chocolate and coffee?"
He shrugs. One shoulder. Careful not to pull his stitches.
"I'm a simple man."
"You're a lot of things. Simple isn't one of them."
His eyes hold mine. Dark. Warm. Too warm.
"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think."
I swallow.
"Maybe I don't want to."
The words come out sharper than I intended. A defense mechanism. A wall going up.
Dante doesn't flinch.
"Okay," he says quietly.
I turn away before he can see whatever's happening on my face.
"I'll send the list to Sophia."
I close the door behind me.