Chapter 6
Enzo
Cold plastic presses against my ear. The burner phone vibrates with a secondary alert against my palm, a harsh, mechanical buzzing that shatters the warm perfection of the bedroom.
The air is still with the scent of mint and sweet basil, the intoxicating residue of her surrender.
My blood is still rushing, still rewired by the way she fell apart underneath me.
The man I was ten minutes ago wants to throw the phone against the stone wall.
He wants to pull her back into the sheets, bury his face in her neck, and let the rest of Chicago burn to the ground.
But the voice on the other end of the line belongs to my lead surveillance operative at the West Loop transit hub. The tone is sharp. Frantic.
The Fixer wakes up. The machinery in my brain grinds into motion, uninvited.
"Jeff bolted." The operative speaks rapidly, the sound of an engine revving in the background of the call.
"He never showed up for the shift change.
He cleared out his locker. Rourke's men are currently sweeping the hub.
They have the exits locked down. They are tearing the administrative offices apart. "
Ice floods my veins. Then the ice turns into a roaring, blinding fire.
Jeff. The transit manager. The weak link holding a thirty-eight-thousand-five-hundred-dollar debt to the Bellanti enforcer, Rourke.
Jeff was the bait. He was the carefully positioned chess piece in my operation.
He was supposed to stay at his desk, sweat under the pressure, and lead Rourke directly into our trap while I secured the money-laundering ledgers. Jeff was a calculated risk.
People are supposed to follow the math.
When they do not, people die.
My gaze snaps to the bed. Natalia sits up.
The tangled white sheets pool around her waist, clinging to her damp skin.
Her hair is a beautiful, chaotic mess. The flush of our intimacy still paints her chest, right above the diamond ring on her finger.
My mother's ring. My mark on her. My undeniable claim.
The equation shifts. The entire foundation of my logic crumbles into dust.
Normally, a compromised asset is a minor inconvenience.
A logistical error to be erased with a silenced weapon and a cleanup crew.
But this is not a normal operation anymore.
The fake engagement is a corpse. The contract is ash.
The woman sitting in my bed is no longer a civilian consultant playing a part.
She is the center of my universe. She is mine.
If Rourke secures the transit hub ledgers, he traces the financial trap back to the Costa family.
If he traces it to the Costa family, he traces it to the high-society gala we just attended.
He traces it to the beautiful, sharp-tongued lawyer parading around the room on my arm. He puts a target on her back.
Unacceptable.
The probability of the Bellanti family coming for her is currently non-zero.
A non-zero probability of her bleeding is a reality I will not allow to exist. I will erase every name on the Bellanti payroll between her and the West Loop before I let a single shadow fall across her path.
I will close Rourke's account permanently.
I will take Jeff apart piece by piece, with leverage and patience, for putting her in the crosshairs.
"Track his vehicle," I order the operative, my voice dropping into a flat, lethal register.
"Do not engage Rourke yet. Keep eyes on the perimeter.
If a Bellanti soldier walks out of that building with a hard drive or a ledger book, drop him in the leg and secure the data.
I want every page intact. I am on my way. "
I cut the connection. The phone drops onto the nightstand with a sharp clatter.
"Enzo?" Her voice is soft, laced with the vulnerability she finally allowed me to see.
The sound of my name on her lips almost breaks my focus.
I turn away from the bed. I cannot look at her soft curves.
I cannot look at the marks my mouth left on her collarbone.
If I look at her for more than three seconds, I will lock the bedroom door, swallow the key, and abandon my entire family to the war.
I step toward the mahogany armoire, still naked, every movement sharp and mechanical, driven by a violent cocktail of adrenaline and rage.
I pull open the doors. I grab my combat trousers and yank them on over bare skin.
Black Kevlar weave. Reinforced seams. The uniform of a man going to work in the slaughterhouse.
"What happened?" She pushes the sheets aside. The mattress shifts. Her bare feet hit the hardwood floor.
"Stay in the bed, Natalia." The command leaves my mouth before I can temper it. The strategist losing a clause he cannot afford to lose.
She ignores the command. Of course she ignores it.
She operates on instinct and nerve, immune to the authority that makes grown men tremble in my presence.
She crosses the room, grabbing a silk robe from the armchair and belting it tightly around her waist. It is the most domestic, agonizingly perfect sight I have ever witnessed.
She marches right into my space. "Do not give me orders. You just answered a burner phone like someone is bleeding out. Tell me what is happening."
I pull a black t-shirt over my head, smoothing it down my chest. The thin platinum band on my smallest finger—my mother’s, the only thing of hers I let myself wear—catches the lamplight and burns against my skin. Natalia wears the matching stone on her finger. She holds all of it.
"Jeff ran." I state the facts bluntly. There is no time to soften the blow. "He cleared his locker before his shift change and bolted. Rourke and a squad of Bellanti soldiers are currently tearing the facility apart looking for him and the ledgers."
Her eyes widen. The cynical mask vanishes. The brilliant strategist engages. She processes the data the way I do, calculating the fallout.
"The ledgers." Her voice tightens. "If Rourke finds the secondary safe, he gets the shipping logs. He gets the entire laundering trail. The operation fails. Worse, if they catch Jeff, he talks. He knows you brought a lawyer into the fold. He knows my face."
"He will not breathe another word." I reach into the armoire and pull out my leather shoulder holster.
I slide my arms through the loops, adjusting the straps over my chest. The familiar, comforting leather settles against my ribs.
"I am going to the hub. I will intercept Jeff.
I will secure the ledgers. Rourke will be neutralized. "
I pull my Glock 19 from the biometric safe on the shelf.
I eject the magazine. Fully loaded. Hollow points.
I slam the magazine back into the grip with a sharp, satisfying click.
I rack the slide. A live round enters the chamber.
I engage the safety and slide the weapon into the holster beneath my left arm.
Natalia steps closer. Her hand reaches out, her fingers hovering inches from the dark metal of the gun. She does not flinch from the violence. She does not cower from the lethal reality of the Costa family. She accepts it. She accepts me.
"You are going to kill them," she whispers. It is not a question. It is an acknowledgment of the math.
"Yes." I turn fully toward her. I close the distance between us. My large hands cup her face. My thumbs brush over her high cheekbones. Her skin is warm. Her pulse beats a rapid, steady rhythm against my palms. "I am going to erase every threat to you. I am going to sanitize the board."
"Enzo—"
"Listen to me." I lean down, fitting my palm to the line of her jaw, my thumb holding her face steady.
The need to merge with her, to absorb her into my own body to keep her safe, is overpowering.
It is a sickness. It is a religion. "You stay in this room.
You lock the oak door. You do not open it for anyone except me, Dante, Matteo, or Turi.
You do not approach the windows. You do not answer your personal cell phone. "
"I am not a prisoner." She bristles, her independence flaring.
"You are my absolute priority." My voice drops, precise and quiet, the register I use when I am closing a deal nobody walks away from.
"You are my woman. The terms of engagement have changed, Natalia.
You are no longer playing a role. You are mine.
The Bellanti family kills what we love. They have done it before.
I will burn this entire city to ash before I let them look at you. "
She stares into my calculating eyes. She sees the total absence of mercy. The defiance in her expression softens, melting into something fierce and trusting. She nods once. A single, jerky motion.
"Come back," she commands, throwing my own authority right back at me.
"Count on it."
I kiss her hard. A punishing, bruising claim that tastes like adrenaline and promises of extreme violence. I pull away before I lose the ability to leave. I turn my back on the most beautiful thing in my life and walk out the bedroom door.
I pull the oak door shut behind me. The lock clicks into place with a solid, echoing thud.
The hallway of the Costa compound is cold.
The ancient limestone walls radiate a damp, historical chill.
The vaulted ceilings swallow the sound of my combat boots as I move toward the grand staircase.
The compound is a fortress. Stone walls, iron gates, twenty-four-hour surveillance.
It was built to withstand a siege. It was built because, the night our blood spilled in the streets, we vowed never to let the wolves inside again.
That night.
The memory hits me with the force of a freight train, unbidden and sharp. I was ten years old. The silence in this exact hallway was deafening. My father was dead. My uncle Igor was dead. My mother was gone, and even mourning her had to happen quietly.