Chapter 7 #2
Nico stops at the kitchen island. He places his blood-stained hands flat on the granite. He leans toward me. His eyes are pitch-black in the dim light. "I omitted data."
"You lied," I repeat, my voice dropping an octave.
"You told me the attack was a random sector sweep.
You knew exactly why they were there. You knew exactly how close they were.
You knew my entire life, my clinic, my patients, everything I built, was one wrong move away from becoming collateral damage again. "
"And I stood between you and the bomb," he says. The edge bleeds into his voice. "Nothing touched you. Nothing will ever touch you."
"That is not the point, Nico!" I slam my hand against the counter.
The sting flares in my palm, but I welcome the pain.
It keeps me grounded. "I rebuilt my life from their crossfire once.
Two years ago. My clinic nearly burned to the ground because of a Bellanti turf war.
You read my file. You knew that. You knew exactly what the Bellanti name meant to me. "
"Which is exactly why I kept the full truth from you." His voice is lethal and quiet. "If I'd told you how deep their operation ran, how close the weapons cache was to your walls, you would've run. You would have packed a bag and disappeared. I couldn't allow that."
"You don’t get to allow or deny my choices!
" I slide off the barstool. I stand up, forcing him to look down at me.
I don't back away. I invade his space, leaning close to the edge of the granite.
"I'm not a piece of machinery. I'm not an asset.
I'm a human being. I survived them once.
I get to choose whether or not I stand in the line of fire again.
You took my agency away. You made me completely blind to the danger in my own life. "
Nico's hands curl into fists against the granite.
His knuckles turn white. The blood smears against the stone.
"Your agency would have put you in the wind.
The Bellantis use micro-trackers. They use digital surveillance.
If you ran, you would have been an unprotected variable.
They would have hunted you down just to get to me. "
"So you locked me in a bunker and went to slaughter them instead?"
"Yes." The answer is absolute. No hesitation. "The first team inside that armory is dead. Their immediate weapons cache is destroyed. The load-bearing wall shared with your clinic is intact. But the full operation is not neutralized yet."
I stare at him. The terrifying competence of the man is overwhelming. He went next door, murdered an entire heavily armed squad of mafia soldiers, and made sure not to damage the drywall of my physical therapy practice.
The absurdity of the situation makes a hysterical laugh bubble up in my throat. I choke it down.
"You are insane," I whisper.
"I am efficient," he corrects. He walks around the kitchen island.
I immediately take a step back, my spine hitting the refrigerator. "Personal space, soldier. Don't try to crowd me right now. I'm furious with you."
He ignores the command. He steps directly into my space. The heat radiating off his body surrounds me. He lifts a blood-stained hand and fists the collar of his shirt just below my throat. The grip is deliberate, with dominance.
"You are angry," he murmurs, looking down at my mouth. "Your anger is entirely valid. My silence was a breach of trust."
I blink. The sass dies on my tongue. I prepared myself for a massive, aggressive argument. I expected him to gaslight me, to demand obedience, to tell me I was being irrational. Instead, he simply agrees with me.
"You... you admit you were wrong?" I ask, my voice faltering slightly.
"Tactically, I was correct," he counters smoothly. "My silence kept you anchored in a secure location. It prevented a chaotic flight response. The logic stands." His eyes snap back up to meet mine, hot and blinding. "But emotionally, it was a violation of your autonomy. I acknowledge the damage."
"Did you read a therapy textbook on the way home from the bloodbath?" I ask, staring at him in shock.
A dangerous smirk cuts across his mouth. The first time I've seen anything close to a smile on his face. It changes his harsh features, making the air in my lungs vanish. "I pay attention, Priya. I study my targets. And you are the only target that matters now."
"I'm not a target."
"You’re mine.” He leans closer. The smell of smoke and blood mixes with his deep, masculine scent.
"You’re furious because I lied. You’re justified.
Scream at me. Hit me. Break the dishes. Do whatever you need to do to process the anger.
But don’t think for one single second that you’re leaving this building. "
I press my hands against his solid, scarred chest. The muscle beneath his t-shirt is hard as iron. He doesn't budge. "I'm not collateral damage, Nico. I won't play the blind, helpless woman waiting in the tower while the mafia war burns the city down around her."
"You will never be collateral." He reaches up with his free hand.
He avoids touching my skin with his bloodied knuckles, instead using the clean back of his wrist to brush a stray curl of hair away from my cheek.
The touch is shockingly gentle coming from a man who just leveled a warehouse.
"You are the center. The war revolves around you now.
My family protects what belongs to us. And you belong to me. "
I look up into his eyes. The unyielding certainty in his gaze is terrifying. And thrilling.
I should run. The logical, clinical part of my brain screams at me to push him away, to walk out the door, to flee the Costa family and their inherited violence.
But the deeper, truer part of me knows the truth.
I have been running for two years. I have been hiding behind rigid routines and clinical detachment, pretending the world is safe.
The world is not safe. The world is full of firebombings and syndicates.
But this man. This lethal, emotionally stunted thing who pins me against appliances and wages war to protect my drywall. He is a fortress.
"If you ever lie to me again," I say, my voice steady, my eyes locked on his. "I'll medically dissect your good shoulder. I know exactly where the nerves cluster. I can make you cry."
The smirk returns. He leans his forehead against mine. "Understood."
"And you need a shower. You smell like a crime scene."
"Join me," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low purr that drags down my spine.
"Absolutely not." I push him back. He yields, taking a half-step back to let me breathe. "You lost your privileges when you omitted data. You get to wash the mafia off your skin all by yourself. I'm going back to sleep."
I duck under his arm and walk out of the kitchen. I keep my spine straight, refusing to let him see the heavy tremor shaking my hands. I march into the bedroom and climb into the center of his bed. I pull the quilt up to my chin.
The sound of the shower turning on echoes down the hall a moment later.
I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
The anger still simmers, but the panic is gone.
I know what he is. I know what his family is.
I know the stakes. I have every reason to be terrified, but as the smell of coffee drifts into the bedroom, fighting the scent of cordite, I feel something different.
I feel anchored.
The water shuts off. Footsteps echo on the hardwood.
The bedroom door opens. Nico steps in, a towel wrapped low around his waist, tattoos stark against his clean skin.
He walks to the edge of the bed. He doesn't ask for permission.
He pulls the quilt back, slides into the sheets, and drags me backward against his solid chest.
His arm wraps around my waist, locking me into place. He buries his face in my hair, inhaling deeply.
"Sleep," he commands softly.
I close my eyes. The war is waiting just outside the reinforced door, but in here, in the dark, the soldier is finally at rest.
The silence holds for hours.
At 7:15 AM, the encrypted phone on the nightstand cracks the silence. A harsh, repeating alarm tone blares through the room. It is a priority ping.
Nico goes from deep sleep to lethal alertness. He lunges across me, grabbing the phone. He stares at the glowing screen. The muscles in his back go rigid. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.
"What is it?" I ask, sitting up, clutching the quilt.
Nico turns his head slowly. The possessiveness in his eyes is eclipsed by cold murder.
"The pattern Vincenzo found," Nico says, his voice devoid of all humanity. “The compromised access inside my family’s compound.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, my stomach dropping.
"They didn’t just leak routes." Nico stands up, ignoring his nakedness as he moves toward the closet to grab fresh gear. "The armory next to your clinic wasn’t their only play. It was bait. A coordinated distraction."
He pulls a fresh tactical shirt over his head. The tattoos disappear beneath the black fabric.
"A distraction from what?" I demand, throwing the covers off.
Nico turns back to me. The gold watch gleams as he racks the slide of his handgun.
"The Costa compound perimeter has just been breached."