Chapter 14
I guide the damaged Maserati into the Blue Pine Motel's parking lot, scanning the area for any threats. The place is exactly what I expected—run-down, dimly lit, and mostly vacant. Perfect for our needs.
"Stay alert," I tell Melania as I navigate around to the back of the building where shadows provide better cover.
I park between a dumpster and an old delivery truck, positioning the car so it's partially hidden from the street. The engine ticks as it cools, the only sound besides Melania's calmed breathing beside me.
"We need to get out," I say, checking my weapon. "Better to have our eyes scanning than be sitting like targets."
Melania nods, clutching the laptop to her chest.
"Take the USB," I instruct her. "Leave the laptop in the car."
She carefully extracts the drive and slips it…somewhere…Fuck, she’s still wearing only my tee.
"Let's go."
We exit the car simultaneously, moving into the shadows between the motel and a chain-link fence. I position Melania against the wall, my body angled to shield her while maintaining sight lines in all directions.
The night air feels heavy with tension. Every distant car engine makes me tighten my grip on my weapon. Melania remains perfectly still, her breathing measured. She's handling this better than most would.
"How's your arm?" she whispers.
"Fine," I respond, not taking my eyes off our surroundings. The pain has dulled to a persistent throb and the bleeding has stopped. "Just a graze."
Five minutes pass in strained silence before headlights sweep across the parking lot. A black Audi pulls around back, moving slowly. I push Melania further into the shadows, positioning myself between her and any potential threat.
The car stops. A moment later, Matteo emerges, his movements casual but his eyes sharp as they scan the area. I recognize his silhouette immediately.
"It's Matteo," I murmur to Melania, feeling her relax slightly against me.
Matteo approaches, hands visible. His eyes land on Melania first, assessing her condition before turning to me. His gaze drops to my bloodied sleeve.
"You okay, brother?" he asks, nodding toward my arm.
"Just a scratch," I confirm. "Bleeding's stopped."
He nods, satisfied with my assessment. "Damiano sent everything you asked for," he says, turning to Melania. "Three laptops, different makes. Clean. I guess I should have stopped at Gucci. You didn't have time to dress before the melee?"
I watch Matteo's eyes scan over Melania, lingering a second too long on her with a hint of a smirk. Something primal flares in my chest.
"Get in the car," I tell Melania, my voice deliberately calm. "I'll be there in a minute."
She hesitates, glancing between us before nodding and walking toward the Audi. The moment she's out of earshot I step into Matteo's space, close enough that my words won't carry.
"The next time your eyes undress on her like that," I say, in a dangerous whisper, "you're going to end up blind."
Matteo stares at me for a beat, surprise flickering across his features before he bursts into laughter.
"Holy fuck," he wheezes, shoulders shaking.
I don't share his amusement. In one swift movement I cup the back of his neck, yanking our foreheads together like lions establishing dominance, my fingers digging into his skin.
"Have I made myself understood?" My voice is barely audible, each word precise and lethal.
Matteo continues laughing, though his body tenses under my grip. "I've fucking understood pretty well," he manages, still chuckling.
I release him and step back, tossing him the Maserati keys. "Throw the laptop somewhere it won't be found, then disappear the car."
He catches the keys with one hand, his laughter subsiding but amusement still dancing in his eyes. "Consider it done."
I slide into the driver's seat of the Audi, instantly noting how Melania's scent has already claimed the interior. She sits with perfect posture despite everything, the USB drive clutched in her palm.
The engine purrs to life as I start the car, my eyes scanning the mirrors for any sign of pursuit. Nothing yet but I don't trust this calm.
"We need to move," I say, shifting into gear and pulling away from the motel. The tires crunch over loose stone as we exit onto the main road.
Melania's fingers drum against her bare thigh—a subtle tell of her anxiety despite her composed face. She glances at the dashboard, then at me.
"Would it be alright if we had some music?" she asks, deliberately casual. "It helps me relax."
I arch an eyebrow, surprised by the request. "Pick whatever you want," I tell her with a shrug. "I don't mind."
She reaches for the audio controls, hesitating briefly before selecting a station. A soft piano melody fills the car, something classical.
I keep my eyes on the road but my mind catalogs this new information with ridiculous precision. Melania Lombardi likes classical music when she's anxious. Another detail to add to the growing file in my head.
For fuck's sake. I've never cared what anyone likes or why. Women have come and gone from my life without leaving a trace of their preferences in my memory. I couldn't tell you if my last hookup preferred red or white wine, let alone what type of music calmed her nerves.
Yet every detail falling from Melania's lips—coffee with one sugar, carbonara with extra pepper, classical music when stressed—gets fucking engraved in my brain like scripture. Her preferences feel more important than operational details I've spent years memorizing.
The realization irritates me. I'm cataloging her likes and dislikes as if they're critical intelligence. As if knowing exactly how she takes her coffee might save my life someday.
Melania adjusts the volume slightly lower, then settles back in her seat. Her eyes close briefly as she inhales deeply, the music visibly easing some tension from her shoulders.
I force my attention back to the road, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. This woman is a job. Nothing more.
So why does my mind treat every fragment of information about her like it's fucking gospel?
A gentle pressure on my shoulder pulls me back to reality.
"Melania." His voice almost gentle. "We're here."
The gentle sway of the car and the soothing notes of Chopin lulled me into an unexpected sleep. My body surrendered to exhaustion despite the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.
I blink awake, disoriented. The classical music still plays softly through the speakers. He never changed it.
"How long was I asleep?" My voice comes out raspy.
"About an hour." Alessio's eyes scan our surroundings, ever vigilant. "This is our new location."
I straighten up, wiping sleep from my eyes as I get my bearings.
We're parked behind what appears to be an abandoned warehouse.
The building looms before us—a massive brick structure with boarded windows and walls stained with decades of urban grime.
Graffiti marks the exterior like territorial claims and rust bleeds from metal fixtures like old wounds.
Alessio exits first, checking the perimeter before opening my door. The night air hits me with the stench of urban decay—motor oil, garbage and the metallic tang of pollution.
"Stay close," he instructs, guiding me toward a rusted side door barely visible in the shadows.
The door opens with a reluctant groan. Alessio ushers me inside, locking it behind us. He flicks on a small flashlight, illuminating our path through the cavernous space.
My eyes adjust slowly to the darkness. The warehouse interior is mostly empty—a vast concrete floor stretching into shadows, steel support beams rising like sentinels, and high ceilings where pigeons roost among exposed pipes.
Our footsteps echo in the emptiness, announcing our presence to the rats that scurry along the walls.
"This way," Alessio directs, leading me toward the back corner.
As we approach I notice a sectioned-off area—a makeshift living space created with hanging sheets and packing cases. The contrast to our previous safehouse is stark. No luxury here, just bare survival.
"Home sweet home," I mutter, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice.
Alessio's eyes find mine in the dim light. "It's not the Ritz, but it's safe for now."
He pulls back a hanging sheet to reveal the ‘living quarters’—two mattresses on wooden pallets, a hot plate, mini-fridge, and a small table with folding chairs.
A single bulb dangling from a wire provides meager illumination.
Through another partition I glimpse a toilet and sink that have seen better decades.
"The bathroom's basic," Alessio explains, following my gaze. "Cold water only."
This isn't just a step down from the previous safehouse—it's a plunge into a chasm.
"It's fine," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "As long as Raymond can't track us here."
Alessio crosses to the security monitors tucked in a corner, checking camera feeds of the perimeter. His movements are precise but I notice the stiffness in his left arm where the bullet grazed him.
"We should get back to work," I say, setting down the new equipment. "The sooner we crack that drive?—"
"Not tonight." Alessio cuts me off with a shake of his head. "We need sleep. Start fresh tomorrow."
I want to argue but exhaustion weighs on my limbs like concrete. My brain feels foggy, and attempting complex cryptography in this state would be dangerous.
"You're right," I concede. "We need clear heads for this. Especially now that we know what we're up against."
Alessio nods, his face half-illuminated by the dim bulb. "Raymond's not going to stop. We need to stay mobile, change locations frequently."
"That complicates things." I twist my mother's ring, considering the implications. "I'll need to adjust my approach to the security protocols. Maybe work in shorter bursts, backup more frequently."
"That's exactly what we're going to do," he confirms. "Damiano's arranging a rotation of safe houses. We won't stay anywhere more than forty-eight hours."
My eyes drift to the bloodstain on his sleeve, now dried to a rusty brown.
"First things first," I say, moving toward him. "I need to look at your wound."
Alessio dismisses me with a wave. "I'm fine. It's just a graze."
"Take off your shirt."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Acting like a baby won't help either of us," I say, crossing my arms. "You're bleeding and if that wound gets infected we're both screwed. So take off your shirt and let me clean it properly."
For a moment we're locked in a silent battle of wills. His jaw tightens and I can see him weighing his options.
"Fine," he finally growls, reaching for the hem of his shirt.
I search the makeshift living area, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting as I look for anything useful to treat Alessio's wound.
"Is there a first aid kit somewhere?" I ask, opening cabinets and drawers in the tiny kitchen area.
"Under the sink," Alessio replies, his voice pinched with pain he's trying to hide.
I find a battered metal box with a faded red cross on it. Inside are the basics—gauze, tape, antiseptic wipes and a half-empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Not ideal, but it will have to do.
"We need to clean it first," I say, more to myself than to him. "I need hot water."
I grab a small pot from beside the hot plate and fill it from the sink. The water sputters out rust-colored at first, and I let it run until it clears before filling the pot. I set it on the hot plate and turn the dial to high.
"This might take a while," I say, scanning the area for anything else useful. I spot a stack of threadbare towels on a shelf and grab the cleanest-looking one.
When I turn back to Alessio the words die in my throat.
He stands in the center of the living space, shirtless under the single hanging bulb. My breath hitches to a gasp involuntarily.
His torso is a masterpiece of strength carved from olive skin—wide rounded shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, defined muscles that shift with each slight movement.
But what truly captures my attention are the scars—a roadmap of violence etched across his body.
A jagged line runs along his left ribs. A circular pucker marks his right shoulder—an old bullet wound.
Smaller marks, too numerous to count, tell stories of fights, knives, and dangers I can't imagine.
This isn't the sculpted perfection of a man who works out for vanity. This is the body of a warrior, shaped by survival and violence.
The bullet graze on his upper arm has torn through skin and muscle, leaving a raw, angry furrow about three inches long. Blood has dried in flaking rivulets down his arm but fresh crimson still seeps from the wound.
I twist my mother's ring nervously, suddenly aware of how up close we'll need to be for me to treat him properly.
"The water's boiling," Alessio says, his voice pulling me back to reality.
I blink, realizing I've been staring. Heat rushes to my cheeks as I turn quickly to the hot plate, grateful for the excuse to look away.
"Right," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. "Let's get you cleaned up."