Epilogue #2
"We kept each other alive," Santi answers. His voice goes flat. He pulls me flush against his side. "She survived. She stays."
Another man walks briskly into the foyer from an adjoining hallway, wearing a dark apron over a pristine designer shirt. A woman beside him reaches for a color-coded legal pad, her expression sharpening as she assesses my injuries.
"Food is ready," Matteo announces, waving a wooden spoon. He looks at his brother, then his eyes lock onto me. The lethal hardness in his gaze softens infinitesimally. "You need a hot meal. Not MRE rations and melted snow."
An older man follows quietly behind Matteo. Silver hair, a deeply weathered face carved with decades of secrets, and kind, sorrowful eyes. He moves with a slight limp.
"Figlio," the older man says softly, clasping his hands together.
"Turi," Santi replies.
I watch Santi closely. A subtle, dangerous tension tightens his jaw.
Something unspoken passes between him and the older man — a fraction of a second too long, a silence that carries weight I cannot yet name.
Santi files it away behind a blank mask.
He gives nothing away to the room. The emotional flatline returns flawlessly for his family.
But where his hand rests firmly on my spine, his heat is a raging, undeniable furnace. He is alive beneath the surface.
We move deeper into the mansion, entering a massive, state-of-the-art industrial kitchen.
It is Matteo's domain. Acres of gleaming stainless steel counters, copper pots hanging from iron racks, and a six-burner commercial stove.
The room smells heavenly—rich roasting garlic, seared meat, and fresh yeast bread.
It is a jarring, surreal contrast to the metallic scent of fresh blood and frozen pine needles we left behind only hours ago.
A woman sits perched on a stool at the center island.
Curvy, sharp-eyed, and beautiful, radiating an unshakeable confidence.
A South Side restaurant logo stickers the laptop sitting open beside her elbow, the screen showing a half-finished floor plan.
She offers me a warm, genuine smile. "I'm Gemma," she says.
I nod, taking the stool next to her. "Reese."
Santi refuses to sit. He stands directly behind my stool, eliminating any physical distance between us. His chest rests heavily against my back. His arm loosely but securely bands my waist. He is acting as a permanent, physical shield.
Matteo slides heavy ceramic plates in front of us. Perfectly seared steak. Roasted potatoes dripping with herb butter. Charred asparagus. Real food.
The Costa men organically gather around the island.
Another man enters the kitchen last. He is heavily scarred, the armor-knotwork-and-compass tattoo dark on his right arm.
He immediately gravitates to Gemma, his hand settling at the small of her back, pulling her backward against him just as Santi is doing to me.
The Costa wives hold this place together, each one a queen to her monster.
I quietly observe them while I eat. The infamous Costa family.
They possess wealth beyond human measure.
They wield enough power to paralyze the entire city of Chicago.
But beneath the designer suits, the concealed weapons, and the ruthless posturing, I see the deep, jagged fracture lines.
I see the ghost of an old massacre hanging over them, suffocating the kitchen like an invisible shroud.
Santi carries the trauma in his chilling silence. The others carry it differently: in cold control, in food pushed across a table, in restless watchfulness, in sharp calculation. I do not know their stories yet, but I can feel the fracture lines.
They are fundamentally broken men desperately holding together a bloody empire.
I take a bite of the steak. The rich flavors explode on my tongue. I haven't eaten a solid, warm meal in days. I close my eyes and groan softly.
"Eat slowly," Santi says directly into my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "Your stomach needs time to adjust to the richness."
"Stop hovering," I mutter, jabbing a roasted potato with my fork. "I successfully survived a catastrophic helicopter crash and a wolf pack. I am fairly confident I can handle a potato."
A low, rich chuckle rumbles deep within Santi's chest, vibrating against my spine.
Silence instantly falls over the kitchen. The younger man by the pillar raises a dark eyebrow, his serene mask slipping. The man in the apron actually stops wiping down the counter, staring at Santi in shock. . It is a sound they clearly have not heard in years.
"She bosses him around," The scarred man says to Gemma , sounding deeply, genuinely amused.
"Someone has to," I say without missing a single beat, popping the potato into my mouth. "He firmly believes he can just stare blankly at problems until they spontaneously combust from sheer intimidation."
Santi's large hand tightens on my waist. "It historically works."
"Not on me."
"No," Santi agrees softly, pressing his lips to the crown of my head. "Never on you."
After the meal, Santi leads me out of the warm kitchen and into the labyrinth of the massive compound. We walk through long, silent corridors lined with expensive art.
We reach a reinforced walnut door in the west wing. He punches a code into the keypad, and the locks disengage with a clunk.
His private rooms.
I step inside and stop. The space is incredibly stark.
Minimalist to the point of being barren.
The furniture is undeniably expensive—dark, polished wood floors, a massive king-sized bed dominating the center, heavy blackout drapes—but the room is utterly devoid of personality.
There are no photographs. No books on the nightstands.
No knick-knacks or personal artifacts. It looks like a high-end hotel room prepared for a man who never intended to live in it.
This is how he has existed for years. Present in the physical world, but silent. Watching the world spin, but refusing to participate in it.
"We will change it," Santi states quietly, perfectly reading my extended silence. "Whatever you want to do. Rip the dark floors out. Paint the walls. Burn the furniture. I do not care."
He drops his canvas bag onto the floor. He turns to face me. The door clicks shut automatically behind us, plunging the room into quiet, secure isolation.
I look at him. Really look at him. The stark silver streaks contrasting against his dark hair. The sharp, aristocratic lines of his jaw. The bone-deep exhaustion he flawlessly hides from his family but freely allows me to witness.
"I don't want to change the floors," I say softly. I close the distance between us. "I just want a shower. A very hot one."
"Done."
He steps closer and begins to strip me. He does not use the raw, ripping violence he displayed in the cabin.
He moves with a slow, deliberate, agonizing reverence.
He gently pulls the heavy sweater over my head.
He unbuttons my damp, stiff thermal pants and pushes them down my legs.
He takes my blood-stained clothes and tosses them carelessly into a pile in the corner.
Then he sheds his own gear. His shirt hits the floor. His chest is lean, pale, and hard with muscle. The silver streaks in his hair catch the low light. The sharp lines of his collarbones and ribs map a body built for distance and endurance, not display.
He takes my hand and leads me into the attached bathroom. The walk-in shower is constructed of dark slate tiles and equipped with multiple brass showerheads.
He turns the water on. Thick white steam immediately billows into the air.
We step beneath the spray. The scalding hot water hits my freezing, battered skin. I hiss, my muscles locking up from the sudden temperature change.
Santi immediately pulls my back flush against his chest. He grabs a heavy bar of expensive soap.
He begins to wash me. His calloused hands are shockingly gentle as they slide over my bruised hips, my scraped, purple knees, and the edges of the bandage still taped to my forehead.
He methodically cleans the dried blood, sweat, and wilderness dirt away.
I close my eyes and lean all my weight back into his solid, immovable strength.
I have been alone for years. I learned through brutal necessity how to fix my own engines, negotiate my own contracts, and fight my own battles.
I learned to need no one. The mere concept of relying on another human being has always felt like a fatal weakness.
A vulnerability I simply could not afford to indulge.
But standing here in this luxurious shower, surrounded by the thick steam and the intoxicating scent of expensive soap layered over old paper and gunmetal, I realize something utterly terrifying.
I am not afraid of the Bellanti family. I am not afraid of the hitmen, the guns, the blood feud, or the compound.
I am terrified of how easily I could let this man carry the weight of the world for me. I am terrified of how desperately I want to stay inside this fortress forever.
I open my eyes. Water slicks his dark, silver-streaked hair flat against his skull. He is watching me. His eyes track every micro-expression on my face. He always watches me.
"You are overthinking," he states flatly, his hands pausing on my waist.
"I am a pilot. I am professionally trained to analyze the entire flight path."
"The flight is over," Santi says, his voice thick with certainty. His wet thumbs smooth gently over my soaked cheeks. "You landed."
"I landed in the middle of a mafia compound."
"You landed in my bed."
I let out a wet, huffing laugh that echoes off the slate tiles. "You are incredibly arrogant."
"I am incredibly possessive," he corrects instantly. "There is a massive difference."