Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Maya
Ifind Heath sitting on the third stair from the top, a blanket around his shoulders, his knees pulled to his chest.
The hallway lights are dimmed for the night, leaving the house softened at the edges. Somewhere downstairs, a clock marks the hour with one slow chime. I do not know what time it is until I glance at the dark window beside him and realize dawn is closer than sleep.
He looks up when I step out of my room.
“You’re leaving tomorrow,” he says.
There is no accusation in it. That would be easier. He says it the way he says most frightening things: quietly, as if naming them too loudly might make them true faster.
“I’m going to Boston,” I tell him. “I’m coming back.”
I sit on the stair below his, close enough that he can see me but not close enough to make him feel cornered. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He picks at the edge of the blanket. “What if Dad finds you there?”
“I won’t let him near you,” I say.
“You won’t be here.”
Before I can answer, a shadow moves at the end of the hall.
Stefano steps out of the dark in loose black pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. He must have been awake.
He must have heard enough to know what this is.
His hair is still damp, and there is no gun visible at his waist, though I know better than to assume that means he is unarmed.
Heath looks at him cautiously.
Stefano stops a few feet away. “Why are you not in bed?”
Heath’s fingers tighten in the blanket. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the answer.”
For one second, I expect Stefano to push. To turn it into an order. To make the child explain himself, because adults in power always seem to believe that fear becomes manageable once it is named for them.
Instead, Stefano lowers himself onto the stair beside Heath.
Not too close.
“Boston,” he says.
Heath nods.
“You think Maya is not coming back.”
Another nod.
Stefano rests his forearms on his knees. “She is.”
Heath’s head turns. “How do you know?”
Stefano looks down the hall toward me before he answers. “Because she told you she would.”
“That doesn’t mean she can.”
“No,” Stefano says. “It does not.”
The honesty makes Heath go still.
“But she is not going alone,” Stefano continues. “Omar is going. I am going. There will be more security than you will enjoy knowing about.”
“I don’t care about security.”
“I know.”
Heath’s mouth presses into a line.
Stefano leans back against the wall, his expression unreadable in the low light. “You do not need to be brave all night because someone you care about is leaving in the morning. You can be angry about it. You can be scared. You can also sleep before you decide what to do with either.”
Heath glances at him. “You don’t get scared.”
Stefano’s eyes move to him slowly. “That is not true.”
The answer surprises both of us.
Heath studies him, looking for the trick. “What are you scared of?”
Stefano does not answer immediately.
Then he says, “Losing things I should have protected better.”
The hallway goes quiet.
I look at Stefano differently for one dangerous second. He knows I am watching. He does not look at me.
Heath’s voice is smaller when he asks, “Will you make sure Erin is okay?”
“Yes.”
“Even if she cries a lot?”
“Especially then.”
“And me?”
Stefano turns toward him fully. “You too.”
Heath’s eyes shine, but he looks away before the tears can fall. Stefano does not call attention to it. He reaches for the blanket, pulls it more securely around the boy’s shoulders, and stands.
“Bed,” he says.
Heath sighs. “That sounds like an order.”
“It is.”
“But nicer.”
“Do not tell anyone.”
A small smile appears and disappears on Heath’s face.
Stefano walks him back toward the children’s room. At the doorway, Heath turns around.
“Maya?”
“I’m here.”
“Come back.”
“I will,” I say.
He looks at me for another second, then disappears into the room. Stefano closes the door softly behind him. When he turns back, the softness has already left his face.
“What?” I ask.
“You made a promise.”
“So did you.”
“I do not make promises lightly.”
“Neither do I.”
His gaze holds mine. I know he is thinking about Boston. About Leon. About whatever part of the plan he has locked away, which I cannot reach.
Then he walks past me toward the stairs.
“Come downstairs,” he says.
The kitchen is quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the low light over the island.
Someone has left a bowl of fruit on the counter and a loaf of bread beneath a clean towel.
The room feels almost normal in a way the rest of this house never manages.
There are no guards visible. No weapons on display.
No reminders that the man standing at the stove has men who kill for him and enemies who map his gates from parked cars.
Stefano pours coffee into two mugs.
“You drink coffee this late?” I ask.
“I’m not sleeping.”
“Healthy.”
“I wasn’t asking for medical advice.”
“You were not asking for anything. That is your problem.”
He hands me one of the mugs anyway.
I take it. The heat settles into my palms. I watch him lean against the counter across from me, white shirt open at the throat, tattoos dark against his skin. I know I should say something useful. Ask about the flight. Ask about Raven. Ask what happens when we get to Boston.
Instead, I say, “You were good with Heath.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “I am aware.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“I know.”
The answer lands gentler than it should.
I look down into my coffee. “He trusts you more than he should.”
“So do you.”
My head lifts.
Stefano’s expression does not change. “You are coming to Boston with me.”
“I’m coming for Leon.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” I say. “It isn’t.”
For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. The kitchen clock continues ticking above the doorway. I hate the sound of it. Every second feels like something being taken away.
“What happens after Boston?” I ask.
Stefano’s gaze shifts to my face.
“You know what I mean,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And Boston happens first.”
I set the mug down harder than I mean to. “You keep asking me to trust you while refusing to tell me what you are doing.”
“I have never asked you to trust me.”
“You act like you have.”
“I have asked you to stay alive.”
“That is not better.”
“No,” he says. “It is honest.”
I laugh once, sharp enough to hurt. “You know what your problem is?”
“I am certain you are going to tell me.”
“You think honesty is the same thing as truth.”
His eyes darken.
I should stop. I do not.
“You say things that are technically true. You tell me enough to keep me moving in the direction you want, then act surprised when I notice you left out the part that matters.”
Stefano pushes away from the counter.
The kitchen suddenly feels smaller.
He comes around the island and stops in front of me. Not touching. Not yet.
“Maya,” he says quietly, “if I told you every thought I had about tomorrow, you would not sleep.”
“I am not sleeping anyway.”
Something shifts in his face.
It is gone before I can name it.
His hand comes up, fingers sliding beneath my chin. “Then do not sleep.”
My breath catches.
“Stefano—”
“I know.”
He kisses me before I can decide whether I want to argue or forgive him for making me want this. His mouth is warm and slow at first, almost careful. That restraint breaks something in me faster than force ever could.
I put my hands against his chest.
He pauses.
Not pulling away. Waiting.
The choice is there. Clear enough that it hurts.
I slide my fingers into the open collar of his shirt and pull him closer.
The sound he makes is low and rough against my mouth.
His hand moves to my waist, then my back, drawing me against him until the edge of the island presses into my hips. I can feel his control in the way he holds me: firm enough that I know I could not mistake what he wants, careful enough that I know he will stop if I ask.
I hate that I need that from him.
I hate that he gives it.
“You’re thinking again,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“I’m always thinking.”
“Not like this.”
“Then distract me.”
His eyes lift to mine.
For one heartbeat, he is completely still.
Then his hand slides beneath the hem of my sleep shirt.
The touch of his palm against my bare skin steals the breath from my lungs. He does not rush. His fingers move over my waist, my ribs, the curve beneath my breast, learning me with a patience that feels more intimate than hunger.
I kiss him again because I do not know what to do with tenderness from a man who has built his life around control.
His mouth leaves mine and moves along my jaw. My neck. The place beneath my ear where my pulse betrays every thought I try to keep hidden. His lips brush there, and my fingers tighten in his shirt.
“Tell me to stop,” he says.
The words are quiet. Almost lost against my skin.
I shake my head.
“Use words.”
“Don’t stop.”
His hand closes around my waist.
The kitchen disappears after that.
There is only his mouth, his hands, the heat of his body pressing me against the counter. He lifts me easily, setting me on the edge of the island, and steps between my knees. My legs part for him before I can think better of it, and the look in his eyes makes something reckless pulse through me.
I reach for his face, my thumb brushing the bruise beneath his cheekbone. “You are going to Boston tomorrow and refusing to tell me what happens after.”
His mouth tightens.
“That is not an answer.”
“It is mine.”
For the first time that night, Stefano laughs.
It is quiet. Brief. It makes him look younger and more dangerous at once.
Then he kisses me again.
His fingers find the hem of my shirt and lift it slowly. I raise my arms, and he pulls it over my head, leaving me exposed beneath the kitchen light. His gaze moves over me without shame or haste, and I should feel vulnerable.
Instead, I feel seen.
That is worse.
He touches me like he has been holding himself back for days. Not rough. Not gentle. Certain. His mouth follows the path of his hand, and the sound that leaves me is too honest to take back.
“Maya,” he says against my skin.
I look down at him.
His eyes darken, accompanied by a low feral growl.
He lifts me from the counter and carries me upstairs without another word.
I should protest that I can walk. I should make some joke about kidnapping.
Instead, I wrap my arms around his neck and let him take me back to his room because there are too many things waiting for us tomorrow, and tonight I want one thing that feels chosen.
He doesn't set me down gently. He drops me on the bed and follows me down before I bounce, one hand already fisted in my shirt, and the look on his face isn't memorizing anything — it's staking a claim.
"Boston cannot have this," he growls. "This is mine."
The shirt tears. I hear stitches give somewhere near the collar, and the sound goes through me like a lit fuse.
He strips the rest off me in rough, efficient pulls, and then his mouth is everywhere at once — my throat, my breasts, sucking marks into the curve of them that will last past tomorrow.
Meant to. Marking me for a city full of people who'll never see it.
"Stefano—"
"Quiet." His teeth graze my hip. "I am busy."
Then his mouth is on me, and there's nothing patient in it.
He devours me — deep, filthy strokes of his tongue, two fingers driving into me curling hard, his other arm a bar across my hips pinning me to the mattress while I fight him for the friction I need and lose.
The coil winds vicious and fast. I break within minutes, loud enough that he has to reach up and press his palm over my mouth, and I come again around his fingers before the first one finishes, sobbing against his hand.
He crawls up my body while I'm still shaking, jaw wet, eyes black.
"Again," he says, and drives into me in one brutal stroke.
The stretch punches the air out of my lungs.
He doesn't give me time to adjust — sets a pace that's pure possession, deep and relentless, the headboard cracking against the wall, and I claw at his back because it's that or fly apart.
My nails drag hard enough to mark him. He snarls his approval into my throat.
"I hate you," I gasp.
"No, you do not."
"I hate that you know that."
His hand closes lightly around my throat, tilting my face up so I can't look anywhere but at him. "That is closer."
He hooks my knee over his elbow, opens me wider, and the new angle turns savage — every thrust dragging over the place his mouth wrecked, heat gathering low and molten until I'm chanting his name like a curse. He watches me the whole time, feral and certain, a man memorizing what belongs to him.
"Stefano — I—"
"Mine." His voice frays at last, his rhythm going rough, losing its cruelty. "Say it."
"Yours — God —"
I come apart around him hard enough that the room whites out, my body pulsing while he works me through every wave with punishing strokes. He follows two thrusts later, my name grinding out of him against my throat like something torn loose.
For a long time, neither of us moves.
His weight pins me into the mattress, heavy, sweat-slick, his heartbeat slamming against my ribs. Then his hand finds my hip and settles over the fingerprints he left there, his thumb moving once, twice — a man counting proof that I am still here. Still his.
“Come back with me,” I whisper.
Stefano goes still for a moment, then I feel his mouth press against my hair. Then abruptly he murmurs, “Sleep, Maya.”
Outside, dawn waits beyond the curtains. Boston waits after that. And somewhere beyond both, the answer he still refuses to give me waits with its teeth already bared.