Chapter 7
JUDE
The digital clock on the bedside table blinks exactly five in the morning.
Darkness smothers the sitting room of the East Wing Suite. The amber streetlamps outside fail to pierce the heavy silk drapes. The air hangs thick and still.
The repetitive motion grounds a hyperactive mind. I slide the whetstone along the dark steel before finishing with the leather strop. The blade is now a surgical instrument, ready for the harvest.
Sleep is a tactical vulnerability. A closed eye is a fatal blind spot. The mission demands constant observation. It demands calculation.
The intelligence from the basement war room loops without mercy.
Midnight.
Calix Ferraro.
An arranged marriage.
Dominic Costa plans to sell his own sister to a butcher tonight. The cartel boss will trade her flesh for secure shipping lanes. The brutal reality grates against my bones. It sets every tooth in my jaw on edge.
My entire nature revolves around fixing broken things. A Level I trauma center taught me how to stabilize massive hemorrhages. Being a hitman taught me how to put the bullets in. Standing aside while a woman walks blindly into a trap goes against every primal instinct coded into my DNA.
Nick issued the order. We play our parts. We secure the digital ledger first. The Broken Halos MC requires those encrypted files to save our territory. The club always comes first. The brotherhood demands loyalty.
When I resigned, my cousin’s door was the only one open.
Nick offered a clear target and rigid structure.
Rafe offered a shared, bloody silence. We are cousins by blood and brothers by the cut.
The Broken Halos gave me a use for my hands when the operating room no longer could.
They are my only family. They were my only future.
Until twenty-four hours ago.
The logic of the mission is sound. The tactical execution is flawless.
My biology rejects the plan.
The older brothers in the club talk about the Thunderbolt. They describe it as an instantaneous claiming. Nick embraced it with loud, bossy arrogance. Rafe fights the connection with feral, animalistic denial.
Mine hit differently.
Mine was a quiet, surgical strike. It bypassed the heavy Kevlar armor. It slipped past decades of emotional defenses and infected my blood in a matter of seconds. It is a terminal diagnosis. No known cure exists.
A new blueprint forms in the center of my brain. A future foreign to a Broken Halos enforcer.
The plan is already locked in. Any man who tries to hurt her tonight will cease to exist. Tendons will be severed. Windpipes will be crushed. The Leonardi boss will bleed out on the ballroom floor before he ever slides a ring onto her finger.
A soft click echoes from the hallway.
The nursery door opens.
A tiny figure steps into the dim light. Tyra wears bright pink unicorn pajamas. She clutches her ragged grey stuffed wolf to her small chest. Dark, messy curls fall over her bright eyes.
She doesn’t run back to her room. She doesn’t scream for her mother. Small bare feet carry her toward the dark corner of the sitting room.
I set the whetstone on the glass coffee table. I slide the tactical knife into the Kydex sheath on my thigh.
I don’t stand. Gravity takes me down instead—my knees hit the plush cream rug. The massive size difference requires adjustment. I put my body on her level. The intimidation factor drops.
She stops two feet away. Bright eyes scan my tactical vest. They catalog the weapons strapped to my body. She tilts her head to the left.
The specific movement stops the breath in my lungs. It is the exact motion I use when analyzing a complex tactical problem.
“You are awake.” My voice comes out in a low, controlled baritone.
“I want to build a tower.” Her voice is high and exceptionally sweet.
She drops to the floorboards. Small hands open a wooden box near the sofa. Brightly colored blocks spill onto the expensive rug.
I reach out. I place a solid blue square flat on the ground.
Tyra grabs a red triangle. She places it carefully on top.
The structure grows in silence. I hand her the pieces. She stacks them with deliberate focus. Her pink tongue pokes from the corner of her mouth in deep concentration.
I observe everything.
I analyze the fine motor skills. I map the specific shape of her jaw. I study the exact shade of her dark eyes.
Genetics never lie. Anatomy leaves a permanent paper trail.
The math runs in the background. The precise timelines. The physical similarities. A pull I can’t fully name drags me toward this child. A pressure builds inside my sternum.
The complete picture remains obscured. Missing variables frustrate me. But the biological connection anchors me to the floorboards. It rewires my priorities in real-time. Every instinct fires a fierce, confusing need to put my body between this child and the world.
Soft footsteps sound in the hallway.
Lucia steps into the sitting room.
A pale silk robe hangs loosely over her frame. The smooth fabric slips off one bare shoulder. Golden skin catches the faint amber light. Dark hair is sleep-tousled and wild. The Costa arrogance is gone.
Softness replaces the armor. Vulnerability radiates from her tired posture.
Her gaze locks onto the rug.
She freezes. The rapid rise and fall of her chest tells me her heart rate spiked hard.
A heavily armed killer sits on her expensive rug building a block tower with her daughter. The visual juxtaposition defies all cartel logic.
Rosa walks into the room a second later. The nanny wears a crisp, pressed uniform.
“Good morning.” Rosa speaks cheerfully. “Time for breakfast, Tyra. Pancakes today.”
Tyra knocks the wooden tower over with a loud giggle. The blocks clatter against the floor. Small hands grab the stuffed wolf. The tiny girl runs toward the kitchen. Rosa follows right behind her.
The child is gone.
Lucia and I are alone.
She starts tossing scattered blocks back into the wooden box.
I follow her as she moves from the sitting room into the nursery, my massive frame making the small room feel like a cage.
I drop back to my knees beside her on the hardwood floor, the soft yellow light of the nursery catching the sweat on her skin.
I pick up a bright green block from the floor.
“You do not have to do that.” The breathy whisper barely reaches my ears.
“I finish tasks.”
We both reach for the same red block. My rough, calloused knuckles brush against soft, pale skin.
The contact detonates up my arm. My muscles lock. My legendary control fractures into jagged pieces. The frantic flutter of her pulse point at the base of her throat demands my attention. Her heart hammers against her ribs.
She pulls her hand back fast. She clutches the wooden block to her chest.
She doesn’t make eye contact. Her gaze locks onto the small nursery window. The early morning sun casts long shadows across the manicured lawn.
The heavy guard drops. The quiet intimacy of the room strips her armor.
“It was nice.” The words are quiet. “Seeing her play with you.”
I don’t fill the silence. I let it pull the truth out of the dark.
“She does not have a father.” A hard swallow sounds loud in the quiet room. “She does not have a man to protect her. She just has me. And I am trapped.”
She turns her head. Her eyes find mine. Deep, agonizing guilt swims in her irises.
“Dominic controls everything.” The tremor in her voice is undeniable. “I play the obedient sister. I wear the expensive silk dresses. I smile for his cameras. But I am a disposable pawn on his board.”
She grips the red block tighter. Her knuckles strain against the smooth wood.
“I am terrified of what he plans to do with me.” Her deepest fear bleeds into the air.
“He will use me. He will use Tyra. Maybe throwing us abroad to some remote estate. Maybe selling me to a rival boss to secure a treaty. Or keeping me on the sidelines my whole life as a permanent, silent prisoner.”
My jaw locks. My teeth grind together.
She doesn’t know the specific truth. She doesn’t know the exact details of the Gala tonight. But her survival instincts are flawless.
She knows she is the meat being traded.
The dramatic irony burns a hole through my brain. Ferraro is coming tonight. The monster is already on his way.
The urge to tell her everything roars in my ears. The raw instinct to grab her, to break through the front compound gates, to extract her from this corrupt city right now fights a brutal war against strict MC orders.
A protector cannot leave his charge in the dark. It is a fundamental failure.
I can’t feed her empty comfort. I won’t.
I drop the green block into the bin. I shift forward. I close the space between us.
I step into her airspace.
“You deserve safety.” My vocal cords vibrate with a lethal rumble. “You belong with a man who will burn the entire fucking world down just to keep you warm.”
The raw intensity startles her.
Her breathing turns ragged. Stress and arousal radiate from her heated skin. The rose scent turns impossibly thick.
Her right hand lifts. The soft pad of her thumb presses against her lower lip. A slow, calculated swipe traces the full, plush curve.
The clinical detachment I’ve maintained for twenty-four hours cracks clean through.
My hand shoots out. My fingers clamp around her delicate wrist. I pull her hand away from her mouth.
I yank her forward.
Pure surprise forces a gasp from her throat. I swallow the sound.
My mouth crashes down over hers.
It is not a gentle kiss. It is a desperate, consuming collision of teeth and raw heat.
From my knees, I lunge forward, my hands snaking around her waist to haul her flush against my tactical vest. I rise, taking her with me until I pin her back against the pastel yellow wall.
Mint and sleep coat her tongue. The taste is intoxicating.
I release her wrist. My hands map her body with possessive authority.
My palms slide up her ribcage. Both hands grip her face. My thumbs angle her jaw, forcing her mouth wider.
My tongue sweeps inside. I take everything.
She doesn’t fight it. Her entire body softens.
Her hands fly up. Her fingers dig into the Kevlar plating on my chest. She pulls the armor closer. Her back arches. Soft, heavy breasts press against the hard plates.
The friction is pure torture.
A low, feral groan rips from my throat. It belongs to a starving predator, not a surgeon.
I lift her by the ass, her silk robe falling away to reveal she’s wearing nothing but lace beneath it.
I spread her thick thighs and hike her up until the heavy, rigid length of my cock is buried against her soaking pussy.
The raw, localized scent of her arousal—sweet cream and roses—detonates in my head.
I grind against her, my balls tight and aching to dump my seed inside her right here among the baby powder and clean laundry.
A soft whimper vibrates into my mouth. Her hips rock forward. She seeks the friction. She demands the contact.
The heat staggers me. The size of this want—contained for twenty-four hours in a body trained for restraint—detonates in the tiny, innocent room.
I bite down on her lower lip. I suck the swollen flesh into my mouth. One hand slides around to her stomach. A flat palm presses against her bare abdomen. The silk parts.
She is mine. The diagnosis is confirmed. The disease is terminal.
A sharp burst of static slices through my right ear.
Nick’s voice barks through the encrypted comms.
“Surgeon. Status check. Dominic’s tailors are at the front gate. Gala prep starts right now. Lock down the East Wing.”
The tactical order hits like a bucket of ice water.
The kiss breaks.
My mouth pulls away from hers. My hands stay on her waist. Letting go of the physical connection is not an option I’m willing to take.
Heavy, ragged breathing fills the quiet air. Rapid respiration echoes against the yellow walls.
Lucia looks wrecked. Her lips are swollen, wet, and bright red. Her dark eyes are glazed with unspent lust. Her chest heaves against the armor.
I lower my head. My forehead rests against hers.
One hand lifts from her waist. My rough thumb brushes gently over her bruised lower lip.
The MC’s plan must stay secret. Warning her about Ferraro risks the operation.
But she will not walk into that ballroom feeling like a pawn.
“Put your dress on tonight, Lucia.” The dark command is an unbreakable vow. “Smile for the cameras. Drink the expensive champagne.”
A hard, lingering kiss presses to the exact corner of her mouth.
“But know this.” The whisper scrapes against her heated skin. “No one is putting a cage around you ever again. I will cut their fucking hands off first.”