CHAPTER 11
ANGELO P.O.V.
I was staring at the ceiling fan, tracking its slow, lazy rotation, listening to the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the motor fighting a losing battle against the damp bunker air.
The concrete floor beneath the thin, sweat-slicked mattress was freezing, but I didn't feel the cold.
I just felt the dead weight of the woman sprawled across my chest. Fiorella was completely out, her dark chestnut hair splayed like a massive ink stain across my collarbone, her chest rising and falling in an exhausted rhythm against my ribs.
I hated the quiet. The hum of the air filtration system was driving me out of my fucking mind because the silence after what we just did was louder than the act itself.
I picked a stray thread of emerald silk off my forearm.
Just a tiny, shredded piece of the gown I’d ruined earlier, sticking to my sweaty skin.
I rolled it between my fingers and threw it away.
This wasn't supposed to happen. I came to this island for blood, to burn the Silvestri name to the ground, to make them pay the toll they owed my family.
But instead of feeling like a ghost exacting revenge, the steady heat of her skin against mine was making me feel dangerously, stupidly human.
It pissed me off. It was a weakness I couldn't afford, a massive fucking liability piling up right on top of my lungs.
"Stay asleep, little Silvestri," I muttered to the empty room, my voice a rough scrape against the concrete walls. "You’re a heavy debt to carry."
My hand moved on its own, running a calloused thumb down the length of her spine, tracing the bumps all the way down to the base of her neck.
That’s when I saw the violent purple bruising blooming on her wrists.
The zip-ties. My zip-ties. The thick, ugly marks bit deep into her pale skin, a physical map of my own brutality.
She shifted in her sleep, her bare thigh sliding right between my legs, a soft moan escaping her lips that had absolutely nothing to do with fear and everything to do with seeking my heat.
I gritted my teeth. The physical proof of my violence was right there staring me in the face, a massive fucking roadblock to this weird, heavy protectiveness blooming like a goddamn tumor in my gut.
I was the monster who marked her, but right now, in this concrete hole, I was the only thing keeping her whole.
I reached down and grabbed the rough, military-grade wool blanket, pulling it up with uncharacteristic care to cover her bare shoulders. The scratchy texture dragged over her skin, but she just pressed closer to my cooler temperature.
"I'm the only one who gets to ruin you," I whispered to the top of her head. "Don't move."
A sharp, discordant crackle erupted from the encrypted comms unit on the bedside table, shattering the quiet like a gunshot.
I was moving before the second burst of static even hit the speaker.
I slid out from under Fiorella with the smooth, silent grace of a predator, leaving her on the mattress while I snatched the earpiece.
I jammed it deep into my ear as Renato’s strained, professional voice cut through the frequency.
He sounded miles away, but the panic was right there in the static. Perimeter breach.
My bare feet hit the freezing concrete floor, sending a jolt of ice straight up my spine. The adrenaline spiked in my throat, hot and metallic. I grabbed my Beretta off the table, checking the chamber. The metallic clack echoed too loudly in the small room.
"Speak. How many?" I demanded, keeping my voice dead low.
"Four thermal signatures," Renato barked through the static. "And a drone. They’re sweeping the rocks."
I tapped the screen of the tactical tablet next to the radio.
The blue light illuminated my face as I watched the red dots flickering on the topographic map, slowly descending the ridge.
I could hear the distant, muffled chop of a helicopter rotor miles away.
Alessio’s scouts. The kill order wasn't just a threat bouncing around the underworld anymore; it was a squad of guys in night-vision goggles looking for the heat signature of our ventilation exhaust. The bunker was going to be a tomb in about ten minutes if we stayed, but if we ran, we were exposed targets in the rugged Sicilian dirt.
"Status of the north ridge?" I asked, my eyes burning holes into the red dots.
"Compromised. They’re closing in fast, Angelo."
"They're early. Alessio is desperate." I shoved the tablet into my bag. "Renato, get to the secondary extraction point. Now."
I cut the comms and lunged back toward the bed.
Fiorella was just starting to stir, her honey-amber eyes fluttering open, completely disoriented.
I didn't give her a second to figure it out.
I dropped my full weight onto the mattress, straddling her hips, and clamped my hand brutally hard over her mouth.
Her scream died against my palm, a muffled, vibrating vibration that went straight into my bones.
I pinned her down with my forearm braced across her collarbone, dropping my face inches from hers.
The sharp, metallic scent of her panic instantly filled my nose.
Her breath was hot and wet against my palm.
I pressed my thumb hard into the pressure point right beneath her jaw, forcing her frantic eyes to lock onto mine.
"Zitta! Not a single sound," I hissed, my face a mask of stone. "Look at me. Look at me and breathe."
I watched the raw terror rip through her eyes and I hated that I had to be the one to put it there again.
It was exactly like the night I snatched her, dragging her into the shadows, and I knew it was tearing right through her fragile mental state.
A single tear broke loose, tracking down her cheek and pooling in the crease of my hand.
I lowered my mouth to her ear, my breath hitting her skin. "Your brother's men are on the ridge, Fiorella. They aren't here for a rescue. They have a kill order for both of us."
Her entire body went totally slack for a split second. The realization that her own blood had signed her death warrant hit her like a sledgehammer, and then she began to tremble violently beneath me, shaking so hard her teeth chattered.
"Alessio doesn't want you back," I whispered, driving the nail into the coffin of her old life. I felt a sick, dark satisfaction knowing I was the only thing standing between her and a bullet. "He wants you erased."
I let go of her mouth and sprang off the bed.
I grabbed my tactical trousers and shoved my legs into them, yanking my boots on with practiced, mechanical efficiency.
Every second was bleeding out. I reached into the metal locker, ripped an oversized black tactical jacket off the hanger, and threw it right at her face.
"Cover yourself," I barked.
She struggled to sit up, her movements completely uncoordinated and clumsy, trying to hide the shredded remnants of her silk gown under the heavy, rugged fabric.
She was a tactical liability right now, her hands shaking too much to even find the armholes.
I grabbed my tactical vest and zipped it up, the sound ripping through the room like a serrated blade.
"Move faster, or I'll carry you naked," I snapped, the smell of gun oil and heavy nylon filling the space. "Put it on. Now."
As she yanked the heavy canvas over her arms, she let out a sharp hiss of pain.
The stiff, rough interior of the jacket caught hard on the raw burns covering her wrists.
I froze. My eyes dropped to the injuries, staring at the destroyed skin I’d caused.
For one split second, the guilt punched me straight in the ribs.
I did that to her. I wrecked her, and now I was the only asshole who could save her from it.
I shoved the thought away, hardening my face back into total indifference. Guilt gets you killed.
I stepped into her space and reached out, batting her shaking hands away to help her with the zipper. The rasp of the metal zipper was loud as I pulled it up, my knuckles deliberately brushing the soft, pale skin of her throat.
"Don't look at them," I commanded, staring right into her panicked eyes. "The pain will keep you awake."
A heavy, dull thud reverberated through the bunker walls.
It wasn't a gunshot. It was the distinct, sickening sound of a breaching charge being set on the exterior mountain entrance.
The low-frequency vibration traveled straight through the concrete floor, vibrating up through the soles of my boots.
Dust started falling from the ceiling joints, raining down in a fine gray mist.
I grabbed a spare magazine off the table and slammed it into my belt pouch. Time was up. We were officially rats in a cage.
"They're at the main door," I said, grabbing my flashlight but keeping it off. "We have three minutes before they blow the seal."
I grabbed her by the forearm, keeping my grip firm but staying the fuck away from the burns, and hauled her toward the secondary hallway.
It was completely lightless. I didn't turn the tac-light on; I knew every inch of this floor plan by memory, and any light would give us away the second the door blew. Fiorella stumbled blindly behind me, her legs totally weak from being locked up for days and from how hard I’d taken her an hour ago.
Her fingernails dug desperately into the back of my tactical vest, trying to stay upright in the pitch black. The narrow hall smelled like stagnant, dead air. I could feel her erratic, frantic heartbeat pounding right through the heavy nylon of my vest.
"Step where I step," I told her, my voice a low growl over my shoulder. "If you fall, stay down until I come back for you."