Chapter 8 #2
I lower my weapon. My hands are steady. The chaotic storm that has raged inside me since the moment Natalia walked into Il Corvo has finally settled.
The Fixer is still in this room. The contract just changed.
Every line of it ends in Natalia's name now, and I will redraft the whole city to enforce it.
The steel door at the far end of the maintenance bay kicks open with a deafening crash.
Matteo and Dante storm into the room. Their tactical rifles are raised, laser sights cutting through the smoke and dust. They sweep the corners in perfect, lethal synchronization. When they see me standing over Rourke's body, they lower their weapons.
Dante moves first. His frame blocks the doorway as he scans the perimeter. His eyes dart to the shattered laptop on the folding table, then to the smoking barrel of my gun.
Matteo steps into the light. His jaw is locked in a tight line. He looks at the dead Bellanti enforcer, then zeroes in on the destroyed hard drive. He understands the mechanics of data transfers. He knows what I just did.
"Tell me you got a backup off that drive before you shot it," Matteo says. His voice is dangerously calm. It is the voice he uses before he orders a city block leveled.
I meet my brother's stare. I do not blink. I do not offer excuses.
"No backup," I say. "The drive is slag. The full chain is gone."
Matteo steps closer. The tension in the room is suffocating. The air thickens with the unspoken betrayal of the family's strategy. "You destroyed the target. We spent six months tracking that data, Enzo. We walked into a wired trap to secure it. And you blew it to pieces."
"The data had her signature," I state. The words are heavy, immovable stones. "Rourke knew her name. He was uploading the files to the South Side. If the transfer completed, she became a target."
"She is a civilian," Matteo snaps, his eyes flashing with anger. "She is a cover story. A fake fiancée for the operation. You do not compromise the family's security for an asset."
My voice drops to a register Matteo has never heard from me. I step into his space, closing the distance between us. I am inches from my brother, challenging his authority for the first time in my life.
"She is not a cover story," I snarl. The rage spikes, hot and violent in my veins.
"She is not an asset. She is my woman. She is mine.
I will not allow a single piece of data to exist that puts her in danger.
I will burn every ledger in this city. I will blow every operation to hell.
She is untouchable, Matteo. Do you understand me? Untouchable."
Matteo stares at me. The anger in his expression slowly morphs into something else. Shock. Then, a quiet, profound realization. He searches my eyes, looking for the cold, calculating Fixer he has always relied on.
He doesn't find him.
Dante steps forward, a slow, grim smirk spreading across his face. Dante understands. Six months ago, Dante stood in the Costa compound covered in blood and demanded the same protection for Gemma. Dante knows what it looks like when a Costa man finally surrenders to the obsession.
"He's not gone, Boss," Dante says quietly. "The Fixer just found a variable he won't trade. Leave him be. He did what he had to do."
Matteo looks at Dante, then back to me. He holds the silence for five long seconds.
The emergency strobe lights flash across his stoic features.
Finally, Matteo nods slowly. He accepts the truth.
The Costa family still has its most ruthless strategist—only now every contract he draws runs through one woman, and that makes him more dangerous, not less.
"The timer," Matteo says, his tone snapping back to the immediate threat. "We have sixty seconds before this entire floor drops into the river. Move."
We run.
We sprint through the maze of maintenance corridors.
The concrete floor beneath our boots shudders.
Deep, structural groans echo through the facility as the explosive charges begin their final sequence.
Dust rains down from the ceiling in thick sheets.
I do not look back. I do not regret a single destroyed file.
We hit the stairwell. Dante kicks the reinforced door open, and we take the concrete steps three at a time. The air grows colder, cleaner, as we ascend toward the street level.
My lungs burn. My muscles ache. But the only thing driving me is the desperate, consuming need to get back to the compound. I need to see her. I need to touch her. I need to prove to myself that she is real and safe.
We burst through the emergency exit doors and spill out into the rain-soaked alley behind the transit hub.
Ten seconds later, the ground drops out.
A massive, concussive shockwave slams into our backs.
The sound is deafening, a localized earthquake tearing the foundation of the building apart.
A massive plume of dust and smoke violently erupts into the Chicago night sky.
The pavement beneath our boots ripples as the entire subterranean level of the transit hub collapses in on itself, burying Rourke, the destroyed laptop, and the last traces of the operation under thousands of tons of concrete.
The trap is neutralized. The data is gone.
Matteo's armored SUV is idling at the end of the alley. Turi's extraction team is waiting, weapons drawn, scanning the perimeter for any surviving Bellanti soldiers. There are none.
I slide into the back seat of the SUV. Dante climbs in beside me, wiping concrete dust from his tactical rig. Matteo takes the passenger seat. The driver slams the gas pedal, and the armored vehicle tears out of the alley, tires screaming against the wet asphalt.
The drive back to the North Side compound is a blur of neon lights and relentless rain.
I lean my head against the reinforced glass of the window.
My pulse throbs in my ears. The adrenaline crash is setting in, making my hands shake slightly.
I clench my fists, forcing the tremors to stop.
I am covered in dust and the stench of cordite.
I look down at my hands. These hands used to draft contracts, calibrate ledgers, and build impenetrable financial walls.
Tonight, they shattered bone and destroyed the very walls I built.
I reach into my tactical vest and pull out my encrypted phone. I stare at the blank screen. No notifications. No alerts. The operation is officially burned to the ground. The fake engagement contract is null and void. There is no legal obligation keeping Natalia at the compound.
Panic, cold and sharp, spikes through me.
What if she leaves?
What if she realizes the danger and demands to go back to her sterile apartment? What if she strips my mother's ring from her finger and walks away from the chaos I dragged her into?
A low sound rises in my throat. I won't let her. I will lock the compound gates. I will stand in front of the door. I will offer her everything I own, every dollar to my name, every drop of blood in my body. She cannot leave. She is the only thing anchoring me to the earth.
"She's not going anywhere, Enzo," Dante says quietly from the seat next to me.
I snap my head toward him. My brother is staring out the opposite window, his expression unreadable in the dark cabin.
"She's sitting in your room right now," Dante continues, his voice low enough that Matteo up front cannot hear. "She's waiting for you. Gemma did the same thing. When you burn the world down for them, they don't run. They stay."
I swallow hard. The tight knot in my ribcage loosens a fraction. Dante knows. He lived this exact violent transition.
The SUV slows as we approach the iron gates of the Costa compound. The high stone walls loom in the darkness, rain washing over the security cameras. The gates swing open, admitting us into the sanctuary. The restored limestone mansion stands like a fortress against the storm.
The vehicle stops at the main portico. I do not wait for the driver to open the door. I shove it open myself and step out into the freezing rain.
Turi is standing under the oak awning of the front entrance. His weathered face is lined with worry, but his kind eyes soften when he sees me walking up the steps. He holds a wool towel in his hands.
"Figlio," Turi says gently, his voice carrying the grief of a surrogate father who just watched his son walk through hell. He steps forward and drapes the towel over my shoulders. "You are covered in blood."
"Is she safe?" I demand. My voice is ragged, raw from the smoke and shouting. I do not care about the blood. I do not care about the cold.
Turi nods slowly, a knowing smile touching the corners of his mouth. "She is in your room. She has been pacing for an hour. She refused to eat the food Gemma brought up. She is waiting for you."
The final piece of my logic shatters.
I bypass Turi. I stride through the grand foyer, my combat boots leaving trails of dust and water on the immaculate marble floors. I leave Matteo and Dante at the foot of the stairs. I do not go to the basement war room to assess the fallout of the blown operation.
I take the grand staircase two steps at a time. The ancient, cold halls of the east wing blur past me. The only thing I can focus on is the oak door at the end of the corridor. My bedroom. My territory.
I reach the door. I grip the brass handle. My knuckles are bruised and split. My mother’s platinum band is dulled with concrete dust on the chain inside my collar. I am a violent, terrifying mess.
I push the door open.
The warm glow of the bedside lamps spills into the hallway. The scent hits me instantly. Mint and sweet basil. It crashes over me, extinguishing the smell of smoke and death. It is the scent of life. It is the scent of my home.
Natalia is standing in the center of the room.
She is wrapped in the dark duvet from the bed. It drapes over her curves. Her dark hair is a beautiful, chaotic mess around her shoulders. Her bare feet are planted firmly on the hardwood floor.
She looks up when the door opens. Her sharp eyes widen as she takes in the state of me. The torn combat shirt. The tactical vest. The blood smeared across my jaw. The concrete dust coating my hair.
She doesn't scream. She doesn't back away.
She looks past the monster. She looks straight at the man who just threw away everything to keep her safe.
Her gaze drops to my left hand. She sees the bruised knuckles. Then, she slowly raises her own left hand. The diamond ring—my mother's ring—catches the light. She hasn't taken it off. She hasn't run.
Dante was right. She stayed.
"You're bleeding," she whispers. The cynical, corporate armor she usually wears is gone. Her voice trembles, thick with raw emotion.
I step into the room and kick the oak door shut behind me. The lock clicks into place with a loud, absolute finality. The war outside does not matter. The destroyed ledgers do not matter. The wrath of the Bellanti bosses does not matter.
I cross the room. I do not calculate my approach. I do not worry about frightening her with what I look like right now.
I drop to my knees on the hardwood floor right in front of her.
The tactical vest is heavy, but I ignore it.
I wrap my arms around her waist, burying my face against her stomach.
I pull her flush against my chest, gripping her curves with a desperate strength.
I breathe her in. Mint and sweet basil. I fill my lungs with her scent, letting it chase the ghosts of the tunnel out of my mind.
Her hands hesitate for a fraction of a second. Then, her soft fingers tangle in my dusty, salt-and-pepper hair. She holds me. She anchors me to the earth.
"I blew the operation," I say against her skin. My voice is broken, stripped of all authority and pride. "Rourke’s upload is gone. The fake engagement is over. The cover story is dead."
I feel her muscles tense beneath my shirt. She shifts slightly, her hands tightening in my hair.
"Why?" she asks quietly.
I lift my face, looking up into her beautiful, fiercely stubborn face. I let her see everything. The trauma of the ten-year-old boy who lost his father. The ruthless emptiness of the man who lived by spreadsheets. And the terrifying devotion of the monster who just woke up.
"Because he said your name," I state. The truth is absolute. "Because there was a variable that put you in danger. And I do not allow variables when it comes to you."
Natalia stares down at me. The final walls of her cynicism crumble. The lawyer who trusts no one finally sees a man telling her the exact, unvarnished truth.
"You burned it all down," she whispers, her thumb brushing a smudge of concrete dust from my bruised cheek.
"I will burn the rest of the world down tomorrow if it keeps you safe," I vow. The words are a blood oath. "You are mine, Natalia. No contracts. No cover stories. Mine."
She doesn't argue. She doesn't throw her corporate logic back in my face.
She simply frames my dirty, blood-stained face with her soft hands and lets me kneel at her feet. The diamond ring presses cold against my jaw, a brand of my claim over her.
"I know," she says fiercely. "I know."
The calculation is hers now. Every line of it.
I lean forward and capture her lips, surrendering to the beautiful chaos of my woman.