Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
She woke to his arm around her, heartbeat steady against her back. No fear, no adrenaline—only warmth and a silence that felt like home.
The tracker, the hunt, his confession—none of it felt like a storm. It felt like a foundation. She had faced his dark world, drawn a line, and pulled him back. The man holding her was proof.
She shifted, and his arm tightened, a sleeping reflex that made her smile.
He stirred, a slow smile gracing his lips as if emerging from a perfect dream. His eyes, heavy-lidded with sleep, blinked open to find her watching him.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice rough with the night.
A soft smile touched her lips. “Hey, yourself.”
He didn’t answer with words. His hand found the warm curve of her waist, his fingers splaying possessively. He drew her to him, closing the last inch between them. When his mouth found hers, the kiss was slow and deep—less a beginning and more a confirmation.
The trust from the night before—her choice, his honesty—fueled the heat that bloomed between them. It was a quiet understanding that turned her soft sigh into a gasp as he settled his weight between her thighs, the hard heat of his erection a promising press against her inner thigh.
“Still dreaming?” she whispered against his mouth.
“Only if you are,” he said, his forehead resting against hers.
His hand slipped under her shirt, his palm a brand as it glided up her stomach to cup her breast. The wet, hot pull of his mouth on her nipple sent a jolt of pure heat low in her belly. Her moan was raw and morning-rough, her hips rocking against him.
“Off,” she whispered, her nails scraping down his back.
Fabric rustled and was kicked aside. Then it was only skin, and the solid pressure of him nudging her entrance, slick with her readiness.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice gravelly with need.
“Inside,” she breathed, her legs wrapping around his waist. “Now.”
He pushed in, and the world narrowed to the feeling of him filling her completely. This was different. Not escape, but a homecoming. A silent conversation of touch and trust. Her body yielded around him as if made for his, every deliberate stroke a seal on the promise they’d made in the dark.
When she came apart, it was with his name on her lips, a broken cry as her body clenched around him. He followed, a quiet groan muffled against her neck as he spilled into her, his own release a shuddering surrender.
They stayed locked together, trembling, the frantic thud of their hearts slowing into one steady rhythm.
Eventually, he eased out and collapsed beside her, pulling her into the safe harbor of his arm. He pressed a kiss to her hair.
He brushed a curl from her cheek. “Dreamed we were on a boat. You, in a yellow sunhat, yelling at me for rocking it.”
“I don’t own a sunhat.”
“You did. Looked ridiculous. Perfect.” His fingers traced a slow line down her spine.
She watched his eyes, the warmth in them shifting into something deeper, more unguarded.
For a fleeting second, his gaze held a raw, almost wounded intensity that made her breath catch.
Then, as if he’d felt a door swing open too wide, he looked away, the moment vanishing behind his usual controlled calm.
It was there and gone—a glimpse of a man standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down at something that both thrilled and terrified him.
“We drank cold beer, fought over the last sandwich. You pushed me in.”
She huffed a quiet laugh. “Deserved it.”
“Probably.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Want to do it for real? Small yacht. Some security. Unfortunately, it can never just be us, but we can make them stay below deck.”
“I’d kill you by day three.”
“I’d swim back with a corkscrew in my teeth.”
She tucked her face against his neck, her smile warm against his skin. This was the kind of morning she never thought she’d get with him—soft, stupid, ordinary.
“Stay wrecked a little longer?”
“Always,” he whispered, pulling her closer while the morning waited outside the walls.
An hour later, they were in the operations room. The transition was almost automatic—the calm of the bedroom giving way to the quiet focus of screens and data. Tonio scanned a logistics report, methodical and precise.
The door opened, and the last vestige of morning peace shattered. Luc and Carlos stepped in, all business—coiled, sharp, carrying the weight of whatever crises had followed them from before dawn.
Sofia felt that old instinct prick at her spine: rise, step aside, disappear while the real decisions were made. But Tonio didn’t glance her way. He didn’t need to. His attention was already on the men, on the task, on what had to happen next.
“Sofia stays,” Tonio said, his voice leaving no room for debate. He dragged out the chair beside him, his gaze locked on Luc—not in challenge, but in unwavering conviction. It was a statement of fact, backed by everything he was.
A beat.
Carlos’s brow lifted. All eyes went to Luc. The Don’s jaw flexed once as he weighed the precedent against the asset. Then he gave a single, sharp nod—not an approval given, but a decision made.
Sofia exhaled without realizing it.
Luc took the seat opposite Tonio, and Carlos leaned against the console behind him, creating a tight, focused triangle.
“We found Young,” Luc said, laying the map on the table. “He’s heading for the old Hayworth airstrip. Decommissioned, but the runway’s still long enough for a light jet. Perfect for a quiet, desperate exit.”
Sofia clutched her mug. The senator wasn’t just escaping—he was trying to control the narrative.
Carlos pointed to a spot on the layout. “We hit him there. Quick in, quick out. He’s desperate, but not stupid.”
Tonio shook his head once. “He’s past strategy. He’s in spite mode now.”
The words echoed his confession: the son, the buried crime, the feds. Young wasn’t trying to win. He was trying to burn the whole game down on his way out.
“He’ll try to spin it,” Sofia said quietly.
Three sets of eyes swung toward her.
She swallowed, then went on. “A failing politician doesn’t just run. He makes it look like he’s being chased. If he disappears, he controls the story.”
Tonio’s gaze sharpened, folding the information into what he already knew.
Luc’s eyes narrowed. “And if he succeeds, he becomes a martyr instead of a coward.”
“Exactly,” Sofia said. “The only thing that kills his voice is exposure. Cameras. Eyes. You don’t have to change what you’re doing—just make sure he can’t slip away in the dark.”
Luc’s expression shifted—recognition, not revelation. “Force daylight on him.”
Carlos grunted. “Turn the airfield into a fishbowl.”
Tonio sat back, thoughtful. He wasn’t taking her plan; he was taking her angle and fitting it into his own strategy.
“Fine,” he said. “We keep the team and the hit. But we leak enough to make the place public. FBI. Press. He loses the exit—and he loses control of the story.”
Carlos nodded. “He walks into his own spotlight.”
Luc gave the final call. “Make it happen.”
Sofia didn’t celebrate, didn’t smile. She wasn’t running their world—she’d simply pointed at a blind spot in theirs. Luc folded the map and rose from the table. The shift in the room was immediate—the conversation turning clipped, purposeful.
Carlos was already on his phone. “I’ll reroute the team. We’ll need eyes on the fence line and a second unit staged on the access road.”
“Make sure they’re clean,” Luc added. “If Young so much as smells us, he’ll bolt.”
Carlos nodded and disappeared down the corridor.
Luc turned back to Tonio. “We need a controlled leak. Not loud—precise.”
Tonio tapped the table. “Use Macaulay.”
Luc’s brow lifted. “The finance reporter? I thought she hated us.”
“She does,” Tonio said evenly. “But she hates politicians more. And she’ll know the story checks out because it came from you.”
Luc’s mouth pulled into a thin, knowing line. “I’ll handle it.”
He stepped out to make the call, leaving Tonio and Sofia alone at the table.
Sofia sat quietly as the men planned, the hum of strategy surrounding her like a machine she didn’t belong in. She stayed put, neither shrinking nor intruding.
Tonio reached for his gun on the counter, checking it with a practiced motion. To her, it didn’t seem like a performance—not anymore. He did not need to hide anything from her now.
“You don’t have to be in here for this,” he said, not looking up.
“You told them I stay.”
“I meant in the conversation.” He finally met her eyes. “Not the operation. Find Mia or Gabriella once we leave and stay with them until this is over.”
She nodded. He was right.
Luc returned, slipping his phone into his jacket. “Macaulay bit. She thinks she’s getting an exclusive. The FBI will be there within the hour.”
Carlos reappeared. “Team’s staged. Two SUVs, four on foot, drones in the air within fifteen minutes.”
She saw Tonio stand, his posture sharpening into what she recognized as his work mode—a calm, lethal focus.
Luc tossed him a set of keys. “You’re in the lead car.”
“Fine.” Tonio caught them without looking.
Carlos nodded at her. “She staying behind?”
She saw the muscle in Tonio’s jaw flex. “Yes.”
The meeting ended, and the men headed toward the door with sharp, purposeful movements. Sofia rose and followed a few paces behind, keeping to the shadows of the hallway, letting them lead while she stayed just out of the way.
The shift from tactical sterility to opulent living space was jarring. The sound of Mia and Gabriella talking softly drifted from an adjoining room, a reminder of why she stayed.
Tonio stopped. Luc and Carlos gave a curt nod and moved ahead, out the front door into the morning, giving them a sliver of privacy.
She watched the man she knew recede, his every movement becoming precise and controlled. The hunter was taking over. But before the shift was complete, he turned to her, his hand cupping her jaw—not soft, but certain.
“You’d better come back in one piece,” she said.