Chapter 21 Augusto
Augusto
The breeze rustles through the pine trees, reminding me we’re a long way from New York City. But as the door closes, I no longer hear it, and I may as well be down in the bowels of the old hospital.
Gian stands across from me, already braced for it.
He flew in from New York on my order, no questions asked.
That’s why I called him. Loyalty like that is rare, and it comes with the understanding that sometimes you show up not knowing what you’re walking into, but knowing you’ll walk into it anyway.
He’s stripped down to a black tee and jeans, knuckles taped out of habit more than necessity. The tape catches the light, stark and clean against skin that’s already seen its share of damage.
“Boss,” he says, with a nod of acknowledgment as opposed to greeting.
I tilt my head slightly toward his hands. “Take it off.”
He glances down at the tape, then back at me, just a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. “I thought we were—”
“We’re not.” My voice stays level, but there’s no room in it for negotiation. “Not tonight.”
He studies me for a second longer, trying to read beneath my words. Gian doesn’t scare easily, but he’s smart enough to recognize when something’s off—when this isn’t training, or routine, or controlled. Still, he nods, because that’s what I need him to do.
He unwinds the tape slowly, letting it fall to the floor in loose strips.
We square off without another word. No audience and no rules. Just space between us and the understanding that he’s going to walk out of here worse than when he came in.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod once.
The first hit lands clean to my jaw, jarring my head back slightly. A second catches my right cheekbone and I emit a grunt at the impact. He hesitates before landing a third blow to my body, because three is all they get. A three-strike head start, and then I move in.
He sucks in a breath and lands a kick to my ribs, almost winding me. Clever move. I straighten with a grin.
“Show’s over,” I grit out low.
His eyes widen for a beat when I drive three fast punches to his torso, catching his abdomen, collar and ribcage in quick succession. Gian recovers fast, rolling with it the way he’s been trained to.
He comes back at me with a strike aimed for my ribs. I take it, letting it connect just enough to feel the force, a dull thud spreading through my side.
We circle each other, my feet dancing lightly across the concrete floor, my breath already starting to deepen.
Gian moves in again, faster this time, throwing a combination—body, head, body.
I block the first, slip the second, and let the third glance just enough to register.
Then I step inside his guard and drive my fist into his sternum.
Oxygen leaves him in a noisy rush, his shoulders hitching as he fights to pull it back in.
“You’re slow,” I say. Feedback is a gift.
He grins, even with blood starting to gather at the corner of his mouth. “You’re distracted.”
The word lands harder than any punch he could throw.
Distracted.
That’s one way of putting it.
My next hit is harder. It drives Gian back a step, and his boots scrape against the floor as he absorbs the blow.
“A little better,” he mutters, like he can feel the shift in my mood.
I don’t stop.
I close the distance, grab his shirt, and slam him back into the wall. The impact shudders through the room, dust shaking loose from somewhere above us.
My fist connects again and again, each strike precise but heavier now, fueled by something that has nothing to do with him. He gets his hands up, blocking what he can and taking what he can’t, and his breath comes out rough.
“You gonna tell me what this is about?” he manages, in a voice edged with strain.
“No.”
I release him, stepping back just enough to give him space. He straightens slowly, rolling his shoulders, testing the damage. Blood marks his lip now, a dark line that he wipes away with the back of his hand. Good. He’s still game.
He comes at me harder this time. His fist catches me across the cheek, a solid, clean hit that snaps my head to the side. For a second, everything goes quiet, moving in slow motion.
And then I hear it.
The gunshot.
It’s in my head—it’s not real. Not anymore. But it was, once.
My knees crack on the floor beside her, my hands pressing down, trying to stop the outpouring of blood through that one precise invasion.
There’s blood everywhere. It slicks my fingers and soaks into my clothes.
What I didn’t know then was that her blood would stain the rest of my life.
“I’ve got you,” I hear myself say. “It’s going to be okay.”
It was the last lie I would ever tell myself.
Back in the room, Gian hits me again, dragging me out of the memory. The present slams back into place. There’s concrete under my feet, sweat on my skin and a metallic tang of blood on my lip.
When he takes a fresh swing, I step aside, catching his wrist and twisting it just enough to break his momentum. My elbow drives into his shoulder, forcing him down, and I take him with me, dropping us both to the floor.
The impact rattles through both of us. I pin him there, my forearm pressed across his throat—not enough to cut off his air, but close.
“Is this enough?” he rasps, his breath turning shallow under the pressure.
I look down at him. His jaw is fixed but his eyes are not. He’d keep going if I told him to. But an image of Erin lying beneath me sharing secrets that curl my fists passes across my lids, and the fight in me fades a little.
Slowly, I ease off Gian, shifting my weight back and letting him breathe properly again. We lie there for a second, side by side on the cold concrete, both of us catching our breath as the adrenaline starts to ebb.
“Who is she?” Gian asks after a moment.
I grunt. “No one.”
He makes a low, humourless sound. “Must be a pretty significant no one to bring me all the way out here.”
I close my eyes briefly, and there she is again. Erin. Asleep in our room, none the wiser that I’ve left to beat the shit out of one of my men, purely because I’m struggling to stay within touching distance of her and not fucking touch.
“Yeah,” I admit. “She is.”
I stare up at the ceiling, at the bare bulb swinging faintly from the force of what we just did.
I shouldn’t be in here, in a deserted outhouse, taking all my frustration out on one of my guys.
I should be laying low on the property where I’m supposed to be negotiating a massive arms deal with a bunch of Russian crooks.
“Does she know who you are?”
His question gives me pause. She may not know who I am in the context of our world—la Cosa Nostra.
But she knows who I am deep down. As I lie on the cold hard ground, I face the stark truth: whether I like it or not, Erin and I have a connection that goes beyond mere attraction.
A part of me knew it when I dropped a tray of coffees on her.
She lit something in me that simply won’t die down, and I see the same fire in her deep blue eyes.
I give him the simplest answer.
“No.”
Gian shifts, wincing as he pushes himself upright. “I know you don’t pay me for my advice but I’m gonna give it anyway.”
I sit up slowly and rub a hand around the back of my neck. “Go on.”
“One, you need to decide if a relationship is what you want. There ain’t no point in ‘fessing up if she accepts it then you get cold feet.”
I breathe heavily.
“Two, you need to be prepared for her to run, and ready for when she rats you out to the cops.”
“She might not.” I can’t contain the hopefulness in my throat.
He ignores my optimism. “Three, you also have to be prepared for her to want you back.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one talks about what happens when you finally get the girl. Your future goes bang, right in front of your face. Suddenly, you’re accounting for two of you in every plan you lay out.
And it isn’t a choice. It’s what you want.
You bend and you mold your life to fit her in it, and it’s fucking scary. I should know.”
My brow softens when I remember the time Gian met his wife, Lila. He was happier than I’d ever seen him, but shell-shocked.
“Guess I have some thinking to do.”
“There is a Four.”
I look up, hopeful. “What’s that?”
“You could have fun for a week, nothing serious. Just don’t let her in.”
I snort faintly, because she’s already in. In my head, in my eyeballs, in my goddamn groin. She’s gotten under my skin in a way I didn’t plan for.
And I don’t know which is worse. Wanting her, or knowing I shouldn’t.
“Get cleaned up,” I tell him, pushing to my feet and rolling my shoulders to work out the stiffness already setting in. “I’ll fix you in a minute.”