Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dante
The SUV accelerates through the alley.
I keep my arm around Marina, feeling the tremors running through her body. She's not crying anymore. That's almost worse. The silence means she's gone somewhere inside herself, somewhere I can't reach.
The driver takes a sharp left.
I brace Marina against the turn.
"You hit?"
Nico's voice comes from the front passenger seat.
I didn't see him when we got in. Too focused on Marina. Too focused on getting her out of that building before she shattered completely.
"No," I say. "We're clear."
Nico turns around.
The interior light catches his face. Sharp features. Dark eyes that miss nothing. He looks the same as always—controlled, calculating, dressed in black like he's ready for a funeral or a firefight.
"Marina." He nods at her. "Hi."
Marina's head lifts.
She stares at him.
For a long moment, nothing happens.
Then recognition flickers across her face.
Not the warm kind.
Not the oh, I remember you kind.
The kind that comes with memory of a gun barrel.
"You," she says.
Her voice is flat. Hollow. But there's something underneath it now. Something that wasn't there thirty seconds ago.
Anger.
Anger is better than nothing.
"Me," Nico agrees.
They've met before.
Two years ago.
Back when Sophia first came to the Sartori compound.
Back when everything was chaos and blood and nobody knew who to trust.
Nico pointed a gun at Sophia.
Marina wasn't there. But she knows.
The Torrinos had done things to our family. Terrible things. Sophia carried that name like a target on her back, and Nico—Nico was always the one who saw threats before anyone else. The one who questioned everything. The one who pulled triggers first and asked questions never.
He didn't trust Sophia.
He didn't trust anyone connected to Francesco Torrino.
And Marina was Sophia's best friend.
Which made Marina a potential threat by association.
"You pointed a gun at my best friend," Marina says.
Her voice is stronger now.
Still shaky.
But present.
There she is.
"I did," Nico says. No apology. No excuse. Just acknowledgment.
"You would have shot her."
"If she'd been a threat, yes."
Marina's jaw tightens.
I watch her hands curl into fists in her lap.
The trembling has stopped.
"She wasn't a threat," Marina says. "She was scared. She was running from her uncle. She needed help."
"I know that now."
"But you didn't care then."
Nico's expression doesn't change.
That's the thing about Nico. He doesn't apologize for being cautious. He doesn't apologize for seeing danger where others see innocence. In his mind, suspicion has kept this family alive. Suspicion has stopped bullets before they were fired.
But suspicion also almost cost us Sophia.
Almost cost Lorenzo everything.
Life has a terrible sense of humor.
The man who trusted no one ended up married to a woman who saw through every wall he built. Kristen walked into his life with a daughter and an abusive ex-husband, and Nico—the man who calculated every risk, who never let anyone close—fell so hard he forgot how to count.
I catch his eye.
Give him a look.
Not now.
She's fragile.
Don't push.
Nico holds my gaze for a beat.
Two.
Then he turns back around.
Faces forward.
Says nothing else.
The SUV takes another turn.
Marina is still staring at the back of Nico's head.
"He's different now," I say quietly. "Kristen changed him."
"Kristen." Marina's brow furrows. "The woman who helped me. On the phone. When you were bleeding out."
"Yes."
"She's married to him?"
"Yes."
Marina processes this.
I can see her trying to reconcile the man who pointed a gun at Sophia with the man whose wife talked her through keeping me alive.
"How?" she asks.
"How what?"
"How does someone like her end up with someone like him?"
I think about Kristen.
About the way Nico watched her.
Not like a threat.
Like a puzzle he needed to solve.
Like something precious he needed to protect.
"She didn't get scared of him," I say.
Marina's eyes meet mine.
"And that was enough?"
"For her, yes."
The SUV slows.
We're approaching a checkpoint.
Nico exchanges words with someone outside, and we continue through.
Marina watches the exchange.
Her body is still tense.
Still coiled.
But she's here now.
Present.
Not lost in that empty space where trauma takes you.
Marina
The SUV descends into an underground garage.
We're in the basement of a building.
A tall one.
I didn't see the exterior when we pulled in, but I felt the descent. The ramp spiraled down and down, taking us deeper underground with each turn.
The driver parks.
Nico exits first, scanning the garage before nodding at Dante.
Dante's hand finds the small of my back.
"Can you walk?"
I nod.
My legs feel like they belong to someone else, but they work. They carry me out of the SUV and across the floor toward the elevators. Dante stays close. His wound must be screaming at him—he's been moving too much, doing too much—but his face shows nothing.
The elevator doors open.
We step inside.
Nico presses a button.
The highest one.
I watch the numbers climb.
Forty-two floors.
Forty-two floors between us and the street.
Forty-two floors between us and anyone with a rifle and a scope.
I don't say it out loud.
I don't need to.
The penthouse. The highest point in the building. Maximum distance from street-level threats. Maximum time to respond if someone breaches the lower floors.
They're afraid of snipers.
After what just happened at my apartment, they're taking no chances.
The thought should comfort me.
It doesn't.
It just reminds me that this is my life now. Calculating sight lines. Counting floors. Measuring the distance between myself and the next bullet.
The elevator climbs.
Dante's hand stays on my back.
Warm. Steady. Present.
I focus on that instead of the numbers.
Twenty-three.
Twenty-four.
Twenty-five.
The silence in the elevator is suffocating.
Nico stands facing the doors, hands clasped in front of him. The driver—I never got his name—watches the floor indicator with professional detachment.
Thirty-one.
Thirty-two.
Dante shifts beside me.
I glance at him.
His jaw is tight. His breathing is controlled but shallow. The wound is hurting him. I can see it in the way he holds himself, the careful distribution of weight.
He catches me looking.
Doesn't say anything.
Just moves his hand from my back to my hip, pulling me slightly closer.
Thirty-eight.
Thirty-nine.
Forty.
The elevator slows.
My heart rate picks up.
I don't know what's waiting on the other side of those doors. More guards. More guns. More reminders that I've fallen back into a world I spent two years trying to escape.
Forty-one.
Forty-two.
The doors open.
And standing in the middle of the foyer—
Sophia.
My brain stops working.
She's here.
She's here.
In Denver.
Standing ten feet away from me with tears already streaming down her face.
"Marina."
Her voice breaks on my name.
I don't remember moving.
One second I'm in the elevator, Dante's hand on my hip.
The next I'm running.
My arms reach out before I'm even close enough to touch her. And then she's there—solid and real and Sophia—and I crash into her so hard we both stumble.
Her arms wrap around me.
Tight.
So tight I can barely breathe.
I don't care.
I hold on just as hard.
"I'm here," she whispers into my hair. "I'm here. I've got you."
The tears come.
I can't stop them.
"I'm sorry," I choke out. "I'm so sorry. I should have called. I should have—"
"Stop." Her voice is fierce. "Don't you dare apologize. Not for doing what you needed to do."
She pulls back just enough to look at my face.
Her hands cup my cheeks.
Her eyes search mine.
"You're okay," she says. "You're okay. That's all that matters."
I'm not okay.
I'm the opposite of okay.
But with her hands on my face and her tears mixing with mine, I almost believe I could be.
"Come on." She takes my hand. "Let's go somewhere quiet."
She tugs me deeper into the penthouse.
I follow without resistance.
We pass through a living room the size of my entire apartment. Past a kitchen with marble countertops and copper fixtures. Past windows that showcase the entire Denver skyline, the city spread out below us like a map of lights.
I don't look at any of it.
I look at Sophia's hand in mine.
I hold on like she might disappear if I let go.
She leads me down a hallway.
Opens a door.
A bedroom.
Sophia closes the door behind us.
The sounds of the penthouse fade.
It's just us now.
Just the two of us in this quiet room with the city glowing beyond the window.
Sophia sits on the edge of the bed.
Pulls me down beside her.
I still haven't let go of her hand.
I can't.
If I let go, this might not be real. She might not be real. I might wake up back in my apartment with blood on the walls and glass on the floor and no one to hold onto.
"Marina." Sophia's voice is gentle. "You're shaking."
I am.
I didn't notice until she said it.
My whole body is trembling. Fine tremors running through my muscles like aftershocks from an earthquake that hasn't stopped.
"I can't let go," I whisper.
Sophia doesn't ask what I mean.
She just squeezes my hand tighter.
"Then don't."
Dante
The door closes behind them.
Marina and Sophia disappear into the bedroom, and the sound of the latch clicking shut echoes through the penthouse like a period at the end of a sentence.
She's safe.
For now.
I stand in the hallway, watching the closed door.
Every breath pulls at the stitches. Every heartbeat sends a fresh wave of pain radiating through my side.
"Dante."
Lorenzo's voice comes from behind me.
I turn.
He's standing in the living room, arms crossed over his chest. The city lights from the windows cast shadows across his face, but I can read his expression clearly enough.
Anger.
Relief.
More anger.
He's wearing a suit. The kind of suit he wears when he's conducting business.
I walk toward him.
Each step costs me.
I don't let it show.
Lorenzo watches me approach. His jaw is tight. His eyes track my movements with the precision of someone cataloging injuries.
He sees the way I'm holding my side.
He sees everything.
That's what makes him dangerous. That's what makes him good at his job. Lorenzo sees what other people miss.
I stop three feet away from him.
We stare at each other.
Twenty years of history sits between us. Twenty years of blood and loyalty and the kind of bond that doesn't need words.
I sigh.
I extend my hand.
Lorenzo looks at it.
We don't hug.
Not ever.
Not when we bury family. Not when we survive things that should have killed us. Not when the world falls apart and we're the only ones left standing.
That's not who we are.
But Lorenzo is the closest person I have. The closest thing to a brother I've had since Lucio died.
He takes my hand.
His grip is firm.
And then he does something unexpected.
He pulls me forward.
Not a hug.
Not quite.
Something in between. A half-embrace, half-greeting. His free hand claps my shoulder and holds there for a beat longer than necessary.
"You scared the shit out of me," he says quietly.
His voice is rough.
I hear what he's not saying.
I thought you were dead.
I thought I lost you.
Don't do that again.
"Sophia's the only reason I didn't punch you the second you walked through that door," he adds.
He releases me.
Steps back.
The moment passes.
We're back to business.
"What happened?" I ask.
Lorenzo's expression hardens.
"Sit down before you fall down."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding through your shirt."
I glance down.
He's right.
A dark stain is spreading across the fabric near my hip. The stitches must have torn during the extraction. Or maybe during the elevator ride. Or maybe when I threw Marina behind the couch and covered her body with mine.
Doesn't matter.
"I'll deal with it later."
"You'll deal with it now." Lorenzo's voice leaves no room for argument. "Sit."
He points at the couch.
I consider refusing.
Then I consider how much energy that would cost me.
I sit.
The leather is cold against my back. The cushions are too soft. Everything in this penthouse screams money—the kind of money that buys safety, buys distance, buys time.
Lorenzo remains standing.
He looks down at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"How did you find this place?" I ask.
"Nico's been running operations in Denver for three months," Lorenzo says. "Building infrastructure. Safe houses. Escape routes. This penthouse is one of six properties we own in the city."
Six properties.
I didn't know.
That bothers me.
"Why wasn't I informed?"
"Because you were supposed to be in Chicago." Lorenzo's voice is flat. "Not bleeding out in some woman's apartment."
Some woman.
He knows better than that.
He knows exactly who Marina is to me.
"Don't," I say.
Lorenzo raises an eyebrow.
"Don't what?"
"Don't pretend you don't know why I was there."
Silence.
Lorenzo uncrosses his arms.
He walks to the window.
Stares out at the city.
"I know why you were there," he says finally. "I've known since the first time I saw you look at her."
Of course he has.
"Then you know I didn't have a choice."
"There's always a choice." He turns to face me. "You chose her. Over protocol. Over safety. Over your own life."
"Yes."
No point denying it.
"And now she's in the middle of a cartel war because of that choice."
"Tell me what happened," I say. "Tell me how bad it is."
Lorenzo's jaw tightens.
He walks to the bar cart in the corner of the room. Pours two glasses of whiskey. Brings one to me.
I take it.
Don't drink.
Lorenzo sits in the chair across from me.
Takes a long sip of his own glass.
Sets it down.
"Things are bad," he says.