3. Gemma #2
"There were seven of us—just boys." Dante's lips twitch. It is almost a smile. "He earned every gray hair on his head. He calls Dominic figlio. Son. He kept us breathing when the rest of the city wanted us buried."
"Mafia politics," I mutter. "Sounds exhausting."
"It is survival." Dante's head snaps up. The brief moment of vulnerability vanishes. The tactical machine reboots. He stands abruptly, the mattress bouncing with his departure. "We need to clear the secondary rooms. I need to secure the perimeter."
"You already paced the entire room ten times."
"I need to check the bathroom lines. The hallway exits. The adjoining suite." He is already moving. His voice is tight. The hypervigilance is spiking again.
I watch him march toward the bathroom. He is rigid. A ghost is eating at him—an invisible weight I can’t name. He stops in the doorway, his hand gripping the rotting doorframe. His knuckles strain against his skin. He leans forward, his chest expanding rapidly.
He scents the air, nostrils flaring.
"Dante?" I call out cautiously.
He ignores me. He steps into the dark bathroom. I hear the squeak of a rusted faucet. A violent shuddering groan echoes through the pipes in the walls. A second later, brownish water sputters from the tap, followed by a steadier stream of semi-clear water.
"We have water," his voice echoes from the tile room. It sounds strained.
I push myself off the mattress and follow him. I am covered in sweat, grease, and the grit of shattered asphalt. A splash of water sounds like heaven, even if it comes from a haunted pipe.
I step into the bathroom doorway. The space is a relic of 1980s luxury. Black marble tiles, brass fixtures green with oxidation, and a sunken tub. Dante leans over the sink. He is splashing cold water onto his face. His shoulders heave.
I step closer. The scent of gun oil and black coffee is overpowered by the damp, metallic smell of the rusty pipes.
Dante grips the edges of the marble vanity. His head is bowed. The muscles in his back are bunched so tight they look like carved granite. He is still, but the tension vibrating from him is a physical pressure against my skin.
"Are you okay?" I ask softly.
He snaps upright. He spins around, his dark eyes wide and unfocused. For a split second, he stares blankly through me, as if trapped in a waking nightmare instead of a dusty hotel bathroom.
"Clear," he barks, his voice harsh. He steps around me quickly, putting distance between us. "The room is clear. Water is functional. Wash your face. We sleep in shifts."
He brushes past me, his arm grazing my shoulder. The heat of him lingers long after he stalks back into the main room.
I turn to the mirror. The cloudy glass reflects a disaster.
My dark hair is a tangled rat's nest, escaping its messy bun in wild curls.
Smudges of black soot streak across my cheeks and forehead.
My dark eyes look huge and terrified in my pale face.
My favorite pink La Diosa t-shirt is torn at the collar and stained with grease.
The woman in the mirror has hollowed-out eyes and ash-streaked skin. I don't recognize her.
Anger flares in my chest, hot and bright.
I am not a victim. I will not let some nameless mobsters take my entire life and turn me into a cowering mess hiding in a dead hotel.
I turn on the rusted brass tap. I cup the freezing water in my hands and splash it over my face.
The icy shock clears the lingering fog of adrenaline.
I scrub the soot from my skin. I rip the hair tie from my head, letting my curls tumble down my back. I dig my fingers into my scalp, massaging away the tension.
The physical reality of the night sets in. My muscles ache. My feet throb inside my boots. The adrenaline crash hits hard. The exhaustion of surviving a war zone drops over me like a lead apron.
I turn the water off. The silence in the bathroom is absolute. I dry my face with the hem of my ruined shirt. I take a deep, steadying breath and step back out into the main suite.
Dante is standing by the far window again.
He has dragged one of the mahogany chairs from the sitting area and wedged it tightly under the brass doorknob of the main entrance.
A crude barricade. He is currently stripping the rotting velvet drapes from the second window, letting them fall to the floor in a cloud of dust.
"What are you doing?" I ask, wrapping my arms around myself. The air in the room is freezing.
"Securing the corners." He does not look at me. He grabs the dust ruffle from the first bed and rips it clean off the mattress with one violent yank. He throws the fabric into the corner. "Dust creates tracks. I will know if someone enters while I am securing the adjacent rooms."
"You locked the door. You barricaded it. We are on the fourteenth floor."
"Tactics require redundancy." He turns around. His dark eyes lock onto mine. He freezes.
His professional mask slips for a fraction of a second. the second his gaze hits my body. He stares at me. He takes in the damp skin of my face, the wild tangle of my dark hair, the way my curves press against the ruined fabric of my shirt.
The air in the room shifts. The silence turns electric. Something charged moves between us.
He takes a step toward me.
My feet stay glued to the floor. I should step back. I should assert my boundaries. But the sheer presence of this man pins me in place.
He stops two feet away. He is so tall I have to crane my neck to look up at him. His chest rises and falls in a steady beat.
"You’re shivering.” His voice is a low vibration in the small space. His voice drops an octave. The gravelly rumble scrapes straight down my spine.
I am shivering. I did not even notice. The adrenaline crash combined with the freezing temperature of the abandoned hotel has my teeth practically chattering.
"I'm fine," I lie. I lift my chin, refusing to break eye contact. "I just want to sleep."
Dante stares at me for three long seconds. His dark eyes trace the curve of my throat. The muscle in his jaw jumps.
He unclips his tactical vest and lets it drop to the floor, then grabs the hem of his dark henley. In one smooth, sudden motion, he pulls the shirt over his head.
Air refuses to enter my chest.
He is a masterwork of scarred muscle and absolute authority.
Heavily muscled pecs. A washboard stomach dusted with dark hair that trails down past the waistband of his tactical pants.
The ink from his arms crawls across his broad shoulders, ornate black lines stark against his tanned skin.
The small, jagged scar I noticed earlier sits on his upper right chest. He is a walking weapon.
He holds the dark shirt out to me.
"Put it on." A direct command.
"I have a shirt," I manage to say. My voice sounds embarrassingly breathless.
"Your shirt is ruined. It is thin. The temperature in this building will drop another ten degrees before morning." He steps closer. The heat radiating off his bare chest is a furnace. "Put my shirt on, Gemma."
The territorial edge in his tone is unmistakable. He is not just offering warmth. He is offering a claim. He wants me wrapped in his clothes. He wants me in his scent.
It’s a blatant claim of ownership. And damn it to hell, it is working too well. The feminist, independent business owner in me screams to reject it. The exhausted, freezing, terrified woman who just lost everything wants nothing more than to crawl inside that shirt and hide.
I reach out and take the fabric from his large hands. Our fingers brush. A sharp current snaps between our skin in the dry, dusty air. Dante's eyes flare at the contact.
I pull my ruined La Diosa shirt over my head. I do not turn around. I let the torn pink fabric drop to the dusty floor. I stand before him in my black lace bra.
Dante stops breathing.
His dark eyes drop to my chest. He stares at my full curves, at the pale skin exposed to the cold air. The hypervigilant guard goes silent. Something else surfaces in its place. He looks at me like I am the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
I unbutton my ruined jeans and step out of them, tossing them aside before I pull his henley over my head. The soft fabric swallows me. The hem drops past my thighs. The sleeves hang past my fingertips. I sink into the scent of gun oil, rain, and him. It is the safest I have felt all night.
I roll the long sleeves up to my elbows. I look back up at him.
Dante has not moved an inch, watching me wrap myself in his scent. The veins in his arms bulge against his skin. He looks like a man being hunted by his own memories.
"Better?" I ask, my voice soft. Sassy. Testing the waters.
"Claimed.” The word vibrates against my skin. The word is barely audible, rough and broken.
He steps forward. The space between us vanishes. He looms over me, a bare-chested wall of heat and muscle. His large hand comes up. His rough, calloused fingers wrap gently around my throat. His hand isn't meant to restrain me; it's a branding of the skin.
"Dante," I breathe.
"You sleep in the bed," he commands, his voice a dark, feral rumble. "I will take the door."
"You aren't going to sleep?"
"Sleep is a luxury I haven't earned today." His thumb strokes the sensitive skin beneath my jaw. The touch sends a wild rush of heat straight down to my toes. "I will keep you safe. I will keep you here. The city burns before they touch you again."
He drops his hand abruptly. The loss of contact feels like a physical shock. He turns his back to me and marches toward the door, taking his position on the cold, hard floor against the barricade. He pulls a combat knife from his boot and rests it across his knee.
I stand in the middle of the dusty, ruined luxury suite, swallowed by his shirt. The scent of him is everywhere. The memory of his rough hand on my throat burns into my skin.
He is a traumatized, violent mafia enforcer who just kidnapped me. I should be planning my escape. I should be terrified.
I walk over to the bare mattress. I pull my legs up to my chest, wrapping his shirt tight around my knees. I stare at his broad, heavily tattooed chest as he guards the door in the dim moonlight.
The realization curdles in my gut.
I am not running anywhere.
I am right where I am supposed to be.