ALESSIO
Beccs is asleep before her head even fully settles onto the pillow. I'm not surprised. Between killing a man, chasing me halfway across Vegas, and nearly getting herself shot, she's running on fumes.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, letting the ache in my ribs settle into something I can ignore. I need painkillers. Probably ice. Maybe even that hospital she's been nagging me about.
Later.
Right now...
I just want to watch her.
I almost lost her tonight.
The thought makes my stomach clench. I don't ever want to feel that again.
Watching that guard swing his gun toward her while I was still tied to that fucking chair...
helpless. The word tastes like poison. I couldn't move.
Couldn't shield her. Couldn't put myself between her and the bullet.
For a fraction of a second, I wasn't the man she'd come to rescue.
I was just another helpless bastard waiting for someone else to decide whether the woman I love lived or died.
Fuck that.
The last time I remember feeling anything close to this was after Massimo's accident.
Back then, we weren't brothers yet. Not really.
I'd thrown everything behind him anyway.
He was my shot at becoming more than another street rat clawing for scraps.
If he'd died... I would've been next. This is different.
Massimo's my brother. I'd die for him. But Beccs...
I'd burn the world down for her.
I'd fight the devil himself if it meant keeping her safe.
I reach over and gently brush a loose strand of hair away from her face.
She doesn't wake. Her eyelashes flutter ever so slightly against her cheeks.
Even asleep, she's stubborn. One hand is curled into the blanket like she's ready to argue with it if it gets out of line.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. My impossible Grease Monkey. She walked into the Collector's warehouse. Alone. To save me. God help the next man who tries to take her away from me.
Because there won't be enough of him left to identify.
I could stare at the one hand resting beneath her cheek, her breathing slow and even, her damp hair spread across my pillow, for hours. My pillow. The realization hits me harder than it should. For the first time in over ten years... the job hadn’t come first.
She had. I need to call Massimo. Should have called him from the fucking warehouse. Instead… A grin spreads across my face when I think about the things my little Grease Monkey and I did instead.
I brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear, careful not to wake her. "Sweet dreams, babe."
She murmurs something unintelligible and curls deeper beneath the blanket. I smile, then quietly reach for my phone on the nightstand.
More out of habit than anything else, I bring her contact up first and immediately regret it.
Reason for My Therapy Bill
I stare at the screen. Then I stare some more. The little menace. A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, quiet enough not to wake her. Because apparently after everything we've been through, my Grease Monkey still has the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old with a stolen Sharpie.
The irony isn't lost on me. Most women would've run screaming from a man like me.
Beccs stole a motorcycle, broke into a warehouse full of armed psychopaths, stabbed a guy, and somehow walked away convinced that I belong to her.
My thumb hovers over the screen. The stupid part is, she's not wrong.
Before her, my life ran on one setting: control.
No mess, no noise, nothing that could reach past the wall I'd spent years building.
Then a five-foot-nothing mechanic with grease under her fingernails and zero respect for authority crashed into it, and now I've got nightmares I actually talk about instead of drink through, and apparently enough unresolved trauma to fund a shrink's beach house—if I'd ever let one near me.
She diagnosed me and mocked me for it in the same breath. Efficient.
My gaze drifts to the woman drooling on my pillow. My bed. My penthouse. My life. For years, everything came second to the job. Money. Power. Territory. Revenge. Now half my head runs on: does she like it here, and what does she need? And I can't pinpoint when that started outranking the rest.
The insane part? I don't want it to stop.
I shake my head. Therapy bill. Jesus Christ.
If Massimo ever sees this, I'll never hear the end of it. Alessio Vitali, reduced to a punchline about feelings. If Gabe sees it, he'll frame the screenshot. And Damiano... fuck Damiano. He'd have it on a T-shirt by morning, right under a cartoon couch and a box of tissues.
I change it back.
Grease Monkey
There. The way God intended.
My thumb pauses over the heart. Then I leave it. Because some things are true whether I admit them or not. She rewired something in me I didn't know was broken, and I like the ache of it more than the numbness that came before her.
I make a mental note to check what she's changed my name to on her phone next.
Quietly, I leave the bedroom, pulling the door almost closed behind me. The penthouse is dark. Silent. The city glitters beneath the windows. I pull out my phone and hit Massimo's number. He answers before the first ring finishes.
"Alessio?" His voice is tight. Too tight. "You're alive?"
I frown. "Should I not be?"
A long breath crackles over the line. "We thought the worst when the Collector sent us those pictures."
Pictures. Oh shit, I'd forgotten about the pictures. Damn, Beccs is messing with my head. She is becoming a distraction I can't afford right now.
"I'm fine," I assure him.
"That's debatable."
"I've been worse."
"Now that's true." There is a smile somewhere in Massimo's voice, but he still sounds uptight.
I'll give him a second to fill me in. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Massimo doesn't laugh. "The Collector said he had you."
"He did." Just thinking about Cesar raises my blood pressure to very unsafe heights. "Beccs and Rossi got me out, but—"
"Hold on," Massimo interrupts. "Gabe's calling on the other line. I'll patch him through."
The line goes dead for a moment, then I hear the sound of another line opening. A click. Massimo comes back.
"I've got Gabe on the other line."
Another click.
"Alessio?" Gabe's voice sounds as relieved as Massimo’s did a few minutes ago. Damn, did I really look that bad? "You stubborn bastard."
"How's Audra?" I ask first. The last time I saw her, she'd been bleeding out in Gabe's arms.
A short silence follows. Then Gabe laughs. "She's fine."
Relief loosens something in my chest. "Good. Good. I'm glad to hear that."
"We've been a little busy."
The bastard sounds entirely too pleased with himself. "Oh?"
"We got married."
I blink. "What?"
"It was a secret ceremony."
I stare out at the Vegas skyline. "Wow! Well…"
"Yeah."
"She almost dies, and your first thought is, let's get married?"
"Pretty much."
I shake my head. "Congrats?"
"Thanks." He pauses, then changes the subject, "How'd you get out?"
I glance toward the bedroom door where Beccs is sleeping. "It's a long story."
"Knowing you, somebody died."
"Several somebodies."
"Fair."
"If you two hens are done henning," Massimo interrupts dryly, "can we get back to the Collector?"
That instantly kills the mood.
"I know who the Collector is."
"I know who the Collector is."
Gabe and I speak at exactly the same time. The line goes dead silent. Massimo swears. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Nope," Gabe says.
I rub a hand over my face. "He's not dead."
"You two fuckers are giving me a headache." Massimo sounds one step away from coming over and shooting both of us.
"Gabe. First. Talk."
I push away from the kitchen island and start pacing.
My ribs immediately object. Fuck them. I keep walking.
On the other end of the line, Gabe fills Massimo in.
Apparently, Audra recognized Cesar on one of the pictures on Gabe's phone. He was a go-between the Reapers and the Mexicans. By the time Gabe’s done, the line has gone silent.
Completely silent. I stop pacing. It's the first time I've ever heard Massimo run out of words.
The only sound over the speaker is the slow exhale of his breath. Followed by a dry laugh. I can fully imagine Massimo pinching the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. Not amused.
Disbelieving.
"Cesar?" he chokes. "The Collector."
Neither Gabe nor I answer. We don't need to.
"Ten years," Massimo mutters. "For ten fucking years, the fucker was still alive. Hunting us, planning. And we had no fucking idea." He lets out another humorless chuckle. "What the actual fuck?" Massimo finally asks.
"Yeah."
"What the actual fuck?" he repeats.
I almost smile. It's not often Massimo runs out of words.
"I thought you killed him." Massimo's accusation lands squarely on Gabe.
"So did I." Gabe sounds annoyed now. "I stabbed him in the chest."
"Apparently not well enough." Massimo fumes.
"Shit, fuck you." Gabe retorts.
Massimo chuckles, but it's a short, humorless sound. I know how tight these two are. And I'm not letting Cesar throw a wedge into that.
"Cesar said Gabe missed his heart by not even an inch. Also, let's not forget that Bello was supposed to check that they were all dead," I cut in.
The laughter dies instantly. Silence settles over the call again. Ten years later, and Bello is still causing problems.
"So Gabe fucked up," Massimo concludes.
"Hey."
"And Bello fucked up."
"That's fair."
Massimo exhales. "Okay."
I can practically hear him reorganizing the disaster in his head. "Let's move on."
I stop pacing. Because this next part is somehow worse. "Apparently, Nicoletta, you two remember Cesar's little sister?" I let the name hang there for a second or two while listening to two sharp inhales.
Massimo's voice turns dangerously quiet. "The little girl."
"Yeah."
The one Bello was supposed to lock in the shed. The one we never bothered thinking about again. Assuming she had gone to live with relatives. So yeah, fuck. You know what they say about assuming and asses and all that…