CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
"I am not dragging you into this!" Zina argued, stepping forward. "I told you the truth so you would understand why I lied, not so you would adopt my crossfire. If whoever killed my family finds out I am here, they will bring a war to your front door."
Sandro stared at her as if she had lost her mind. He closed the distance between them, his towering frame casting a shadow over her.
"What do you mean, you aren't dragging me into this?
" Sandro demanded, his voice thick with furious disbelief.
"You are going to fight this by yourself?
And if you slip—if something happens to you out there—what exactly is my role?
Am I supposed to just stand back and survive for the rest of my life knowing I let it happen? Is that what you want me to do?"
"All I ever wanted was your intelligence network!" Zina shouted, the emotional toll of the argument fraying her nerves. "I just wanted to discover who targeted my family. I never intended to make this your war!"
"It isn't your war anymore!" Sandro roared, his composure snapping. "It is ours! What the hell am I supposed to do if they hurt you, Zina?"
"And what am I supposed to do if they kill you because of me?!" Zina fired back, her voice breaking on the final word, revealing the sheer, paralyzing terror beneath her anger.
Sandro’s expression crumpled. He reached out, grabbing her arms, his voice dropping into a desperate, ragged whisper. "I don't know. Because I cannot survive without you. If you die, Zina, I die."
Zina looked up into his fierce, terrified eyes, her own filling with frustrated tears. "I can't survive without you either, you idiot. That is why I can't bring them here."
From the conference table, Matteo let out a long sigh.
"May I make a suggestion?" Matteo offered dryly. "Perhaps the two of you should just dig a moat, lock yourselves inside a reinforced concrete bunker, and never come out."
Bernardo let out a sharp bark of laughter, covering his mouth to hide his amusement.
Zina did not laugh. She looked at the Underboss, her expression deadly serious. "I will not bring a war into his home, Matteo."
Matteo’s amusement vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating logic of the syndicate. He stood up, resting his hands on the back of his leather chair.
"Zina, this is no longer just about you," Matteo explained, his tone becoming professional.
"The underworld operates on a delicate architecture.
The Morettis had absolutely no enmity with the Kazan dynasty.
There was no territorial dispute, no rivalry, and no legitimate reason for any Italian faction to sanction a massacre in the East. If someone operating within or near our territory orchestrated that hit, they violated an existing understanding.
They acted without the Don's knowledge, which means they are a rogue element. "
Matteo looked at Sandro, then back to Zina. "If someone tied to our hemisphere is responsible, they are a direct threat to the stability of the Moretti empire. We need to identify them."
"He is right," Sandro said immediately, stepping back to his desk.
His tactical mind was already locking into the logistics.
"My men will deploy immediately. We will utilize the port networks, the border crossings, and the old mercenary contacts.
We will find out who took the contract on Emir Kazan.
" Sandro looked at Zina, his voice softening into a protective command. "Your job is simply to stay safe."
Matteo winced. Bernardo actually closed his eyes in sympathetic dread.
The two men saw the exact moment the fiery indignation erupted in Zina’s dark eyes.
"Consigliere," Matteo said quickly, stepping toward the door. "I believe we need to review those port tariffs immediately."
"Right behind you," Bernardo agreed, walking briskly out of the study.
The door clicked shut, leaving Zina and Sandro alone in the echoing room.
Zina turned slowly toward Sandro. The air around her practically crackled with dangerous energy.
"Stay safe?" Zina repeated, her voice a low calm whisper. "So, what exactly are you saying, Alessandro? I am supposed to sit here drink tea, and do absolutely nothing while you go out and find the men who butchered my family?"
Sandro did not back down. He crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw set with unyielding stubbornness. "Yes. That is exactly what I am saying."
Zina stared at him as if he had just suggested the sky was made of glass.
"Are you out of your mind? Did you hit your head during the coup?
I drop-kicked six heavily armed tactical mercenaries in your foyer and barely caught a scratch!
What do you mean, getting hurt? I don't get hurt, Sandro.
I am the weapon. I can take care of myself! "
"I know you can!" Sandro shouted, his own fear completely hijacking his temper. "I know exactly how lethal you are! But that does absolutely nothing to stop me from being terrified of losing you! If a stray bullet catches you, your combat training won't matter!"
"I survived a massacre, Sandro! I do not need to be locked in a tower!"
"You are not going into the field!"
They were standing inches apart now, their voices echoing off the cedar walls, neither willing to concede a single inch of ground. The argument was furious, loud, and driven by the exact same blinding terror: the paralyzing fear that the other would be killed.
"You infuriating, stubborn, arrogant—" Zina hissed, her hands balling into fists at her sides.
Sandro didn't let her finish the insult.
He moved with blistering speed, his hands diving into her hair as he crushed his mouth against hers.
Zina gasped against his lips, the sudden, violent shift from screaming to kissing sending a shockwave of electricity straight to her core.
For a fraction of a second, her hands pushed against his chest, still fighting the argument, but the moment his tongue swept into her mouth, the fight completely dissolved.
She kissed him back with equal, explosive ferocity.
All the fear, the frustration, the anger, and the agonizing relief they had been carrying for days erupted at once.
Sandro backed her into the mahogany desk, sweeping his arm across the surface to send files and pens clattering to the floor.
He lifted her by the waist, setting her on the edge of the wood, stepping intimately between her thighs.
Zina’s hands tore at the buttons of his dress shirt, popping them loose to feel the burning heat of his skin beneath her palms. Sandro groaned, a ragged, desperate sound, his hands frantically pushing the fabric of her dress off her shoulders, his mouth blazing a trail of hot, bruising kisses down the line of her throat.
"You are driving me insane," Sandro breathed against her collarbone, his fingers digging into her hips. "I am losing my mind over you."
"Show me," Zina demanded, her voice a breathless, ragged whisper, pulling his face back up to hers.
He didn't hesitate. The lovemaking was frantic, consuming, and deeply desperate.
Stripped of the elegant luxury of his bedroom, the desk became the anchor for their collision.
Sandro pulled her dress down, his hands mapping the soft curves of her body with a possessive, reverent urgency.
Zina arched into his touch, her breath hitching as his mouth traced the swell of her breasts, drawing a long, shuddering moan from her lips that echoed in the quiet study.
When they finally came together, the connection was so intense it bordered on pain.
Sandro drove into her, his powerful thrusts matching the frantic rhythm of her racing heart.
Zina wrapped her long legs tightly around his waist, anchoring him to her, her fingernails biting into the muscled landscape of his back.
Every slide of their bodies was a silent, desperate argument. You will not die. You will not leave me.
The heat was overpowering, the friction burning away the lingering ghosts of their pasts.
Sandro buried his face in her neck, his breath hot against her skin, his control shattered by the overwhelming love he felt for the woman beneath him.
Zina matched his pace, her head falling back as the blinding, agonizing pleasure built inside her, tightening her muscles until she was consumed by it.
She shattered first, a beautiful, breathless cry escaping her lips as the climax rolled through her in a violent wave.
The sound of her surrender was all it took.
Sandro followed her over the edge a second later, a deep, guttural groan tearing from his throat as he poured himself into her, collapsing forward to rest his frame against her chest.
They stayed like that for a long time, the only sounds in the study the rapid, synchronous beating of their hearts and their ragged, uneven breathing.
Sandro pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of her neck, his arms wrapping securely around her waist. Neither of them had conceded the argument, but as Zina held onto his broad shoulders, tracing the damp skin of his back, she knew one thing with certainty. She was never letting him go.