CHAPTER 15
ANGELO P.O.V.
The infrared grain on the CCTV feed is absolute dog shit.
I’m staring at the flickering monitor, my eyes burning like someone rubbed sand in the sockets, tracking a blur near the forest perimeter.
A shadow moves through the tree line. It’s too fast to be a deer, too low to the ground to be a man walking upright.
My pulse spikes. Alessio’s scouts. They’re like dogs catching a scent, mindless and relentless, crawling through the brush because they know there’s a payout at the end of the leash.
I use a jagged, busted fingernail to scrape a spot of dried, crusted blood off the edge of the screen, my jaw tight enough to crack molars.
I’m supposed to want this. I’m supposed to drag his fucking sister out there, put a bullet in her kneecap, and trade her screams for his empire. But I look over my shoulder at the cot.
Fiorella’s dark hair is fanned out across the cheap, gray pillowcase, looking like some fallen saint in a concrete tomb.
Her breath hitches, a nightmare grabbing her by the throat.
It pisses me off. It pisses me off that she’s my only bargaining chip and suddenly I don't want to cash her in.
I want to keep her. The realization hits me like a crowbar to the ribs, a heavy proprietary rage clawing up my throat at the thought of those Silvestri fucks even breathing the same air as her. I step away from the monitors.
"Wake up, princess. The world is coming for us."
She jerks slightly but doesn't open her eyes, her breathing ragged. I kick the metal leg of the cot with the toe of my boot.
"Stop dreaming. The ghosts don't have anything left to tell you."
I don't wait for her to sit up. I move to the armory corner, my brain already switching into logistics mode. It’s the ritual of departure.
I grab my Beretta, strip the slide, and wipe it down with a rag slick with oil.
The chemical, metallic scent of gun oil cuts through the stale, sweaty air of the bunker.
I reassemble it, the sharp clack echoing off the concrete.
I start stuffing extra mags into the canvas go-bags, layering the heavy brass between medical gauze and a bottle of cheap, high-proof grappa.
Every ounce of gear is a reminder that we’re about to be targets completely out in the open.
Renato warned me about the kill order. Alessio put a bullet with her name on it right alongside mine.
It’s clown behavior, throwing away your own blood to save face, but it means I've got dead weight to drag through the Sicilian wilderness.
I grab a plastic zip-tie, thread it through a loose strap on my tactical vest, and bite down on the end to pull it tight. The hard plastic digs into my gums.
"If you try to run, I won't shoot your leg," I say, spitting the plastic end out.
"I'll shoot the man chasing you, then I'll break your spirit for good.
" I throw two heavy plastic canteens onto the table next to the bags.
"Check the seals on these canteens. I don't want to die of thirst because you were sloppy. "
Fiorella sits up abruptly. She doesn't grab the wool blanket to cover herself.
She doesn't shrink back. She just stares at the packed bags, her face devoid of the screaming panic she had a week ago.
The fear is gone, replaced by this hollow, sharp-edged resolve that makes my chest tight.
She rubs a smudge of dirt into the fabric of the cot with her thumb, her fingers trembling just a little bit, but her face is a goddamn stone wall.
She looks at my boots, traces a line up to my eyes, and processes the reality without making a sound.
"We’re leaving?" Her voice is a dry rasp, scratching the air.
"Alessio sent his dogs. They found the scent."
I expected her to plead. I expected her to beg me to let her talk to her brother, to negotiate a peace deal that doesn't exist. Instead, she just sits there taking it in.
I turn around and grab a pile of heavy clothes from the shelf—black tactical pants, a thick thermal shirt, and heavy leather boots.
I dump the whole pile right onto the cot next to her.
"Your brother doesn't want you back, Fiorella," I tell her, watching her face for the break. "He wants you silent. Permanently."
She looks at the gear, then back at me. Her jaw shifts, tight and hard. She sees the total betrayal. The bastard disowned her with a kill order, and now she’s stuck relying entirely on the man who threw her in a hole to begin with.
I grab a pair of thick wool socks from the table and toss them at her. They hit her right in the chest. She catches them without even looking away from my face.
"Then I suppose I have to make sure he's disappointed," she says.
The fire in her amber eyes is pure Silvestri. It’s the same arrogant, burn-the-world-down fire that wiped out my family, and looking at it makes me want to crush her windpipe and shield her from the bullets at the exact same time. It’s a sick fucking joke.
I walk to the small rusted table in the kitchen area, rip the top off a can of peaches, and grab a slab of cold, salted meat.
I sit down and eat with a fast, predatory efficiency.
Calories mean survival. Fiorella gets up, walking barefoot across the freezing floor, and sits across from me.
She mirrors my posture. It’s a total mind fuck, this absurd moment of domesticity.
Two enemies sitting at a rusted table in a concrete box eating garbage while a private army sweeps the trees above us.
She doesn't hesitate. She doesn't wait for permission.
She just sits there, adapting to the shitstorm.
I shove the tin of peaches across the table toward her, using the tip of my combat knife. The metal scrapes loudly against the rust.
"Eat. You’ll need the sugar for the climb."
She stares at the yellow syrup, her face bathed in the dim, buzzing overhead light, before grabbing a fork. "I hope it chokes him. Everything Alessio has built."
She tastes like revenge and looks like a fucking queen.
Leaving her blood in these woods would be a massive waste.
I push my chair back, the legs screeching against the floor, and stand up.
The grime of this bunker is clinging to me like a second skin.
I need to wash the stink of the recycled air off my body before we hike out.
"I'm using the shower," I tell her, walking toward the narrow bathroom down the hall. "Don't move from that spot, Fiorella."
She stabs a peach half. "Where would I go, Angelo? Into my brother's bullets?"
I grunt, leaving the bathroom door cracked.
It’s a tactical habit so I can hear if someone breaches the heavy iron door, but with her, it’s a challenge.
I strip off my shirt, the cold air hitting my scarred back.
I know what I look like. A map of failures and knife fights.
I unbuckle my belt, sliding the holster off, and hang it on the back of the bathroom door—tucked away but easy to reach if she tries anything stupid.
The pipes hiss as I turn the rusted knob, spitting out freezing water before it turns hot, smelling faintly of lye soap and damp concrete.
Steam starts to fog the cracked mirror over the sink.
I step into the cramped stall, the water beating down on my shoulders, but my ears are dialed into the hallway.
Part of me wants her to try something. I want an excuse to put my hands on her and feel her fight me again.
The door pushes open fully.
I turn my head, water running into my eyes.
Fiorella steps into the small bathroom, her bare feet silent on the wet tiles.
She doesn't hesitate. Her amber eyes are locked dead onto mine through the thick steam.
She grabs the hem of her cotton shirt and pulls it over her head, letting it drop carelessly.
It lands with a soft smack in the puddle forming on the floor.
She kicks the discarded clothes into the corner with a defiant toe, completely naked, standing in my space like she owns the fucking bunker.
"I'm tired of waiting for you to take what you want," she says, her voice echoing off the concrete walls.
My breath catches in my throat. She isn't submitting. She’s invading.
"You don't know what you're asking for, piccola," I warn, my voice dropping an octave, completely hoarse over the roar of the shower.
She steps right into the narrow stall with me. The cold air follows her in, but the hot spray hits her chest, making her gasp. She reaches out, her wet fingers sliding over mine, and firmly takes the bar of lye soap right out of my hand. She doesn't back down.
"Look at me."
"I haven't looked at anything else for a week," I bite back, the tension in my groin pulling tight.
She lathers the soap between her hands, the slick foam building, and slides the bar over the hard ridges of my collarbone.
Her touch is heavy. Intentional. The water is roaring in our ears, her dark chestnut hair clinging to the sides of her neck, the steam thickening the air until it’s hard to breathe.
I’m losing control of the room. I’m the one with the gun on the door, but she’s the one dictating the pace.
She drops her hands lower, washing the thick, ugly scars on my chest. Her movements are slow, almost clinical, but there’s a dark, fucked-up electricity jumping between us.
She steps closer, leaning in until her wet breasts press flush against my hard abdomen.
She tilts her head, tracing a long, jagged scar on my ribs with the very tip of her tongue.
She tastes the salt, the cheap soap, the sweat.
"Does this one hurt?" she whispers against my wet skin.
"Everything hurts when you touch it like that," I growl.