Chapter 9
PRIYA
My back hits the concrete wall with a dull thud.
The impact rattles down my spine, swallowed immediately by the solid, unyielding heat of Nico's chest pressing against mine.
His mouth is unforgiving. He kisses me like a starving man who has lived on cold rations and just found a feast. The hard plastic edges of the access keycard burn a hole in my pocket.
The tiny piece of black plastic carries the weight of a mafia empire.
My fingers curl around it through the fabric of his shirt.
Most men bring flowers on a third date. Mine brings security access to a fortified compound.
His lips finally break from mine. Air rushes into my burning lungs.
Nico doesn’t step back. His body is the wall.
There is no space between us. His chest heaves.
His eyes sweep over my face. He catalogues every eyelash, every bruised inch of my lips.
He is off his leash, running on instinct and testosterone.
His scent hits me again, baked into his skin, mixed with the sharp metallic tang of fresh blood and the grit of pulverized brick. He smells like a war zone. He looks like a gargoyle who just descended from a cathedral roof to murder someone for looking at me wrong.
My hands flatten against his chest. Tactical armor meets my palms. Kevlar and nylon. The gear is covered in a layer of dust.
"You're bleeding on my floor."
A low growl builds in his chest. The vibration transfers directly into my ribs. He doesn’t care about the blood. He doesn’t care about the tactical gear. He only cares about the fact that I am safe inside his arms.
"The floor can be replaced." His voice is gravel and smoke, harsh from barking orders and breathing dust. "You cannot."
I push against his shoulders. He is an immovable object, but the physical therapist in me brooks zero disobedience from stubborn patients. "Back up, Rambo. You need an assessment."
He drops his forehead to mine. He takes one long, ragged breath, stealing the air right out of my mouth, before finally pushing off the wall. The sudden absence of his heat leaves my skin cold. He steps back into the fluorescent light of the safehouse hallway.
The damage is extensive. Gray brick dust coats his hair, smudging the silver strands darker.
A vicious scrape runs across his cheek. His tactical shirt is scorched at the shoulder, the fabric eaten through where a Bellanti round grazed him during the perimeter sweep.
Blood drips steadily from his knuckles onto the linoleum.
He just tore through a Bellanti strike force. He reinforced the defense of his family's compound after the breach was already contained. He slaughtered his way back to me.
Panic tries to claw its way up my throat.
The rigid clinical structure I use to suppress my trauma screams at me to run.
The Bellantis firebombed the building next to my clinic.
They nearly destroyed my life once. Now, they are back, crawling around the edges of my rebuilt sanctuary.
The logical, surviving part of my brain demands I pack a bag, change my name, and disappear into the Midwest.
Then I look at Nico.
He stands still. His hands hang at his sides. He is not guarding the door. He is guarding me. His eyes never leave my face. His throat shifts as he swallows. He is waiting for my reaction. He expects the fear. He expects the rejection.
He is going to be incredibly disappointed.
"Kitchen. Now." I point down the hall.
His eyebrows snap together. A flicker of confusion crosses his face. The lethal enforcer of the Costa family doesn’t get ordered around by a civilian wrapped in his blanket.
"Priya." His voice holds a warning.
"Don't 'Priya' me. You're tracking biological hazards all over this ugly linoleum." I cross my arms over my chest, channeling every ounce of professional authority I possess. "Sit on the stool. Take the Kevlar off. If you bleed out in this hallway, I'm going to be extremely irritated."
The tension bleeds out of his frame, replaced by amusement. He turns on his heel. His combat boots thud against the floorboards. He moves with economy, wasting no motion, every step calculated and balanced. Even injured, he is the most dangerous thing in this city.
I follow him into the stark, metal-clad kitchen. The safehouse is devoid of warmth. No rugs. No pictures. No soft lighting. It is a bunker disguised as an apartment. It matches the man.
Nico unbuckles the tactical vest. The Velcro rips loudly in the quiet room.
He drops the armor onto the linoleum. The plates hit the floor with a bone-rattling crash.
He pulls the ruined black shirt over his head, wincing as the fabric drags across the scrape on his shoulder.
He tosses the ruined garment onto the counter.
The expanse of his bare torso forces a ragged sigh out of my lips.
Tribal and geometric sleeve tattoos cover both of his arms, twisting and locking together in violent, beautiful precision.
Scars crisscross his torso. Some are old and faded to silver.
Others are pink and angry. He absorbed decades of violence because his family taught him how to survive it.
He sits on the metal stool. He rests his hands on his spread thighs. He waits.
I retrieve the trauma kit from the secure cabinet above the sink. The metal clasp snaps open loudly. I pull out antiseptic wipes, gauze, and a basin. I run the tap, waiting for the water to turn lukewarm. The mundane task grounds me. The rushing water drowns out the chaotic spiral of my thoughts.
The black keycard feels like a lead weight in my pocket.
I turn back to him. I carry the basin and the supplies to the battered steel counter. I step right into the V of his spread thighs. His knees instantly bracket my hips. The move is subconscious. He needs me trapped. He needs to know exactly where I am.
I dip a clean rag into the warm water. I wring it out. I press the damp cloth against the scrape on his jaw.
He hisses through his teeth. His hands twitch on his thighs, fighting the instinct to grab my wrists. He forces himself to remain still.
"Stop acting like a baby. It's just water." I wipe away the crust of blood and soot.
"I'm not a baby." He bites out the words.
"I'm assessing your terrible bedside manner."
"My bedside manner is legendary. My patients love me." I move the rag down his strong neck, tracing the edges of the ink. "My patients also generally avoid engaging in heavy artillery fire before their appointments."
The corner of his mouth twitches. The attempt at a smile dies before it fully forms. The darkness returns to his eyes. He tracks my movements. He watches the way my warm brown fingers contrast against his tattooed skin.
"They breached the compound." His voice is flat. The mask is back, the one he wears to deliver bad news.
My hand pauses over his collarbone. "You said it was a distraction."
"It was." He swallows. The prominent Adam's apple bobs sharply. "They hit the compound gates on the North Side to pull us away from the South Side. They wanted our eyes on the wrong end of the city. We neutralized the threat."
"Neutralized." I scoff, tossing the pink-stained rag into the basin. "Such a clean word for a very messy reality."
"They’re dead, Priya. Every man who stepped onto Costa land is dead." He delivers the body count with zero remorse. He states it like a weather report. Rain is falling. Bellantis are dead. The sky is blue.
I tear open an antiseptic wipe. The sharp chemical smell of alcohol cuts through the heavy scent of his arousal and violence. I press the pad against the torn skin on his shoulder.
He doesn't flinch.
"And the access pattern?" I ask quietly.
His stillness breaks. His hands shoot up, gripping my hips bruisingly. His thumbs dig into the soft flesh of my waist through the shirt. The grip is iron, a silent demand for my undivided loyalty.
"Vincenzo’s tracking the data pattern." Nico refuses to look away from my eyes. "The anomaly is still active. The compound is secure for now."
"But you gave me the keycard anyway."
Neither of us speaks. The hum of the old refrigerator fills the void. The tactical monitors in the next room cast a faint blue glow across the hallway.
"I gave you the card because you belong there." He pulls me an inch closer. My stomach brushes against his bare chest. "You belong with me. My home is your home. My family's protection is your protection."
I drop the antiseptic wipe onto the counter. I reach into my pocket. My fingers close around the hard plastic. I pull the black keycard out and hold it up between us. The Costa crest is embossed in the center, matte black on gloss black.
"Do you know what this looks like to me, Nico?" I keep my voice steady. "It looks like a target."
His eyes flare with sudden, violent rage. Not at me. At the world. At the fact that he cannot put me in a glass box and keep me safe.
"No one’s ever going to touch you." The vow is a blood oath. "I’ll tear this city apart before a single piece of shrapnel reaches you. I hit that armory tonight to clear the first threat from your perimeter. I will do it again tomorrow. I will do it every day for the rest of my life."
"That’s exactly my point." I drop the card onto the metal counter.
The plastic clatters loudly. "I spent my entire adult life running from the crossfire.
The Bellantis nearly destroyed my clinic.
I rebuilt it with my own two hands. I created a controlled life.
I wake at six. Coffee at six-fifteen. I treat patients.
I go home. I control every variable because the last time I let one in, the building beside mine went up in flames and took half my life with it. "
Nico's grip on my hips tightens painfully. He hates the words. He hates the trauma he cannot erase. He sees the warehouse floor. He sees the empty chair at his father's table. We are two people irreparably broken by the same monsters.