Catalina #2
"I have the location of the South Side armory.
I have the security codes for the river warehouses.
I have the daily guard rotation for my uncle's private estate.
" I list the items like a ledger. "I know when the shipment of textiles arrives at the Forty-third Street docks tomorrow night.
I know what is hidden inside those crates.
You want to break the Bellanti stronghold. I have the sledgehammer."
He stares down at me. His fingers flex once at his side.
He is evaluating my use. He is weighing my life against my intel.
He hates that I have leverage. He hates that a Bellanti is outmaneuvering him in his own territory.
A muscle jumps in his cheek again. The hostility is bright, but the raw, feral energy simmering beneath the surface is blinding.
"You are lying." His low growl breaks the silence.
"About which part?" I raise an eyebrow, leaning slightly into his space. A dangerous game. "The armory? The warehouses? The guard rotations?"
"About all of it. A Bellanti does not betray their own blood. It goes against your programming. This is a trap. You are bait."
"My aunt Maria betrayed her blood. She tried to leave." The words tumble out raw and jagged. "She was executed. The lesson was taught to me in a stiff black dress before I was old enough to know what a funeral was. Do not tell me about my programming. I was programmed to survive."
Fabio's eyes flash. The pure aggression wavers for a fraction of a second, replaced by sharp, focused attention.
The Costa intelligence network is flawless.
He knows what happened to Maria Bellanti.
He knows the gas station. He knows the art teacher.
His chest expands as he takes a slow, deep breath.
The scent of smoke flares again, grounding in a world built on lies.
"Survival means staying hidden," he murmurs. The shouting drops. The low, vibrating danger takes its place. "Walking into my territory is suicide."
"Walking into your territory is my only option." I refuse to back down. The space between us is nonexistent. I can feel the heat radiating from his chest. The sharp line of his jaw is locked tight.
"I could snap your neck right now. Leave you to rot in this tunnel." He raises a hand. His fingers, thick and calloused, hover inches from my throat. He does not touch me. The almost-touch is torture. My skin prickles. Fire races across my collarbone in anticipation.
"You could," I agree softly. "But you won't. Because you need me."
"I need the intel. I do not need you."
"They are a package deal." I offer a tight, defiant smile. I practiced my resting bitch face in the mirror for a decade. It is a Bellanti family heirloom. "I memorized the ledgers. I burned the hard copies. You kill me, the information dies with me."
He drops his hand, frustrated by the checkmate. He steps back, the loss of his body heat immediate and devastating. The cold river air rushes back in.
"You are a liability," he growls.
"I am your new best friend."
He scoffs, a harsh, abrasive sound echoing off the brick.
"Do not push your luck, Catalina. You are a prisoner.
Nothing more. You stay in this tunnel until I verify the first piece of intel.
The Forty-third Street docks. If the textile crates are there, we move to the next step.
If it is a lie, I come back here and finish the job. "
"I am not staying in this damp, freezing crypt." I cross my arms tight against the cold. His eyes drop to my chest instantly. The feral instinct in his gaze spikes. He is fighting a violent war inside his own head, tearing between absolute distrust and raw physical attraction.
"You are staying where I put you." His voice drops an octave. It becomes a command. An absolute authority.
"There is no heat down here. No food. I am shivering."
He steps directly into my space again. The solid wall of his chest brushes against the front of my coat. The physical contact sends a violent shock through my system. Every nerve ending ignites. My oxygen cuts off.
"You will survive the cold," he murmurs, his face inches from mine. "It is far better than what your uncles would do to you."
He is right. The stone is a luxury compared to the Bellanti basement.
The iron door at the end of the tunnel groans, settling into its rusted hinges.
We both snap our attention to the metal.
The paranoia is shared. We are enemies, standing on opposite sides of a decades-old blood feud, but right now, in this subterranean space, we share a singular goal. Survival.
He turns his attention back to me. The animosity burns bright in his dark eyes.
But the edges are blurred by the undeniable tension crackling between us.
It is thick enough to choke on. The air vibrates.
I catalog his features again. The piercing eyes.
The aggressive jawline. He is a predator.
A monster built to hunt in the dark. And I am locking myself in a cage with him.
The absurdity of my situation washes over me. I am a twenty-four-year-old woman, standing in a decommissioned speakeasy, arguing with a mafia enforcer over heating arrangements. My life has officially jumped off a cliff.
"Fine." I lift my chin, holding his intense gaze. "I stay in the tunnel. But I expect a space heater and a decent cup of coffee. I am a defector, not a peasant."
Fabio stares at me. Disbelief flashes across his face, quickly masked by a simmering irritation. He cannot comprehend my audacity. The women I was raised around cowered and wept. They probably beg for mercy. I do not beg. I negotiate.
"A space heater," he repeats flatly.
"And coffee. Black. No sugar."
He leans down. His mouth hovers dangerously close to my ear. The heat of his breath dances across my skin, leaving a trail of fire down my neck. "You are pushing a very dangerous line, Catalina."
"I crossed the dangerous line when I left the compound." I turn my head slightly, bringing my lips inches from his. The proximity is intoxicating. It is terrifying. It is the most alive I have ever felt in my entire existence. "This is just logistics."
He holds my gaze for a long, agonizing second.
The tension snaps tight, a coiled spring ready to explode.
The feral energy radiating off him is overwhelming.
He wants to drag me back out the door, interrogate me, press me against the brick wall and figure out why my mouth is driving him out of his mind.
But he restrains himself. The cage holds. Barely.
He steps back. The cold rushes in to fill the void.
"Stay here," he commands. "Do not move. Do not make a sound. If I hear so much as a whisper, the deal is off."
"Where are you going?"
"To verify your intel." He turns toward the steel door. "And to find a space heater. Apparently, I am running a hotel now."
I watch him walk away. The breadth of his shoulders blocks out the dim light of the single bulb.
He reaches the door, sliding the deadbolt back with a violent metallic scrape.
He pauses before stepping through, looking back over his shoulder.
The shadows cling to his face, making him look like the grim reaper himself.
"Do not think this makes us allies, Catalina." His voice is a low, dangerous echo bouncing off the walls. "You are still Bellanti. You are still the enemy."
"I know." I stand tall, refusing to shrink under his hard glare. "But I am the enemy keeping you alive."
The door slams shut. The deadbolt engages with a final thud.
I am alone again in the damp, freezing dark.
The water drips constantly. Plink. Plink.
Plink. But the scent of smoke lingers in the air, a heavy, masculine promise.
I slide my back down the brick wall, pulling my knees to my chest. I am terrified.
I am freezing. But for the first time in twenty-four years, I am free.
For exactly seven seconds.
A new sound vibrates through the brick. Not the drip. Not the rumble of a subway. A rhythmic, heavy scrape. Metal grinding on stone. Coming from the other end of the tunnel.
The end that is supposed to be a dead end.
My heart stops. Fabio is upstairs. He thinks I am secure. He thinks he is the only one with a key to this grave.
He is wrong.
And whoever is on the other side of that grate is already three strokes into cutting through it.
End of preview. Continue reading Betrayal of the Mafia Rebel here.