Epilogue
PRIYA
The high-decibel proximity alarm severs the air of the armory vault.
Red emergency lights pulse from the ceiling, painting the scarred oak workbench in brutal crimson flashes. The sound is brutal. It drills directly into the eardrums, designed to shock and disorient.
Nico doesn't flinch.
The man hovering over me vanishes. The enforcer snaps back between one breath and the next.
He rolls off the bench, bare feet hitting concrete without a sound.
His body is a map of violence—tribal ink, rigid muscle, a violently scarred torso slick with my sweat.
His right hand is already wrapped around the grip of the tactical rifle he chambered the moment the alarm hit.
He steps squarely in front of me. He creates a human shield out of his own flesh and bone without a single hesitation.
The monitors mounted on the far wall flare bright white, cutting through the red strobe. Four camera feeds stitch together a seamless view of the street outside the safehouse. Three massive, matte-black armored SUVs form a blockade across the asphalt. Heavily armed men pour out of the vehicles.
My bare skin prickles in the sudden drop in temperature.
I slide off the workbench and snatch the tactical shirt he tossed aside earlier, pulling it back over my head.
The fabric hangs loose around my body, torn at the collar from Nico’s hands.
My clinical training tries to categorize the spike of adrenaline in my bloodstream, demanding logical action to counteract the fight-or-flight response.
Ground the joints. Stabilize the core. Breathe through the nose.
Nico stares at the center monitor. The rigid, aggressive set of his shoulders suddenly drops by a fraction of an inch.
A tall man steps out of the lead SUV. He wears a tactical jacket. Even through the grainy surveillance feed, the sharp, ruthless lines of his face are unmistakable. He moves with a coiled, terrifying precision.
"Dante," Nico says. The single word is a low, gravelly rasp.
He lowers the barrel of the rifle. The safety clicks back into place. He turns to face me. His eyes trace the chaotic state of my hair, the flush lingering on my chest, the bloodstained shirt I am desperately trying to pull closed.
"The perimeter is secure," Nico says. He crosses the short distance between us. His large hand cups my jaw. His scent radiates from his heated skin. "My family sent an extraction team. The safehouse is compromised. We’re leaving."
My fingers fumble with the ragged edges of the shirt, knotting the torn fabric at my waist. Sarcasm is my oldest, most reliable armor. "I guess the honeymoon phase in the mafia lasts exactly four minutes."
The corner of his mouth twitches. The obsession burns right back into his eyes. He leans down, pressing a claiming kiss against my mouth. His thumb strokes the skin beneath my ear.
"The honeymoon phase is going to last for the rest of your natural life," Nico murmurs against my lips. "Right now, we move."
He turns away, instantly shifting back into a tactical commander. He pulls on his pants, then drags a clean black t-shirt over his head, concealing the violent scars and the ink. He tosses a Kevlar vest onto the workbench beside me.
"Put that on."
I stare at the reinforced body armor. "Nothing says romance quite like a bulletproof vest."
"Humor is a defense mechanism," Nico counters. He checks the magazine of a sidearm and slides it into a shoulder holster. "Put the vest on, Priya. We’re driving through a war zone."
I scoop the master keycard off the edge of the workbench where Nico set it aside before he tore the shirt over my head. I tuck the plastic securely into the shirt's breast pocket. I secure the heavy Velcro straps of the vest around my ribs. The weight of it is suffocating.
It is a physical reminder that the danger outside this room is real.
My fingers press flat against the plastic edge of the master keycard through the fabric.
The card that grants me protected access inside the Costa perimeter.
The card that permanently ties me to this lethal, beautiful, damaged man.
I chose this. I’m not a hostage. I’m his partner.
We exit the armory vault. The air in the hallway is stale, laced with the metallic tang of old blood and the sharp chemical bite of brick dust still clinging to Nico from the Bellanti armory beside my clinic.
Dante Costa stands in the center of the safehouse living room. Two other heavily armed men flank the front door. Dante's eyes lock onto Nico, sweeping over his younger brother with clinical efficiency to assess for injuries. Then, his gaze shifts to me.
There is no warmth in Dante's expression.
He is a predator assessing a new variable in his territory.
I straighten my spine. I refuse to look away.
I have spent my life rebuilding from the ashes of mafia violence.
I will not be intimidated by a man in a tactical jacket, no matter how terrifying his reputation is.
Dante gives a single, sharp nod. The assessment is over. I passed.
"The South Side armory network is burning," Dante says to Nico. His voice is a low, dangerous edge. "Matteo wants you at the compound. Now."
"The cars secure?" Nico asks, his hand planting firmly at the small of my back. The heat of his palm seeps through the Kevlar and cotton, branding me.
"Fully armored. Convoy formation." Dante turns on his heel. "Move."
The transition from the claustrophobic safehouse to the armored SUV is a blur of coordinated tactical movement.
Nico keeps his body positioned between me and the open street the entire time.
He shoves me into the backseat of the middle vehicle, climbing in right behind me and slamming the heavy, reinforced door shut.
The locks engage with a heavy, metallic thud.
The convoy accelerates. The engine roars through the reinforced floor. The tinted windows turn the neon lights of the Chicago skyline into smeared, bloody streaks of color.
Nico pulls me across the leather seat. He tucks me against his side, his arm wrapping around my shoulders like an iron band.
His other hand rests on my bare thigh below the hem of his shirt, thumb drawing slow circles against my skin.
He needs the contact. The twenty-year grief, the constant grinding paranoia—it all requires an anchor. I am that anchor.
"Are you hurt?" Nico demands, his voice barely audible over the hum of the tires.
"I'm fine." I analyze the rigid line of his jaw.
My physical therapist training kicks in, reading the tension holding his muscles hostage.
"You're the one with a bullet wound in your shoulder.
You just cleared an armory and carried me around a vault.
Your rotator cuff is going to require extensive rehabilitation. "
A low sound escapes his throat. "I don’t care about my shoulder. I care about you."
"If your shoulder gives out, you can’t shoot properly. If you can’t shoot, you can’t protect me." I lift my chin in challenge, glaring at him in the darkness of the cabin. "Logic, Nico. Try to use it."
He stares at me. The feral obsession in his eyes intensifies, thickening the air between us. He leans down, biting the sensitive curve of my neck.
"You are going to drive me insane," he whispers against my skin.
"It's a short trip."
The convoy exits the highway, climbing into the North Side. The urban decay of the South Side gives way to sprawling estates and heavy foliage. The transition is jarring. We’re leaving the war zone and entering the fortress.
The SUVs slow down. Through the windshield, wrought-iron gates emerge from the darkness.
Ten-foot-high limestone walls stretch out in either direction, crowned with razor wire and high-resolution surveillance cameras.
This is the Costa family compound. This is the epicenter of the Chicago underworld.
The gates swing open silently. The convoy rolls onto the pristine, circular driveway.
The main house is a restored limestone mansion. Breathtaking, imposing, terrifying. Less a home, more a fortified embassy. Armed guards patrol the perimeter, blending into the shadows of the manicured hedges.
The vehicle stops. Nico shifts instantly. He kicks his door open, steps out, and offers his hand.
I place my palm in his. His grip is crushing. He pulls me out of the SUV and tucks me securely against his side. His hand returns to the small of my back, a solid, unyielding brand. He doesn't let go. He guides me up the wide stone steps toward the oak front doors.
"Stay close to me," Nico orders.
"I have a bulletproof vest strapped to my chest. I'm not wandering off to check out the landscaping."
The oak doors pull open before Nico even reaches for the handle.
The interior is a staggering display of wealth and preparation.
Vaulted ceilings, dark mahogany floors, and crystal chandeliers clash violently with the reinforced steel plating visible along the doorframes.
The air smells like expensive espresso, woodsmoke, and the faint, metallic scent of gun oil.
A crystal vase sits on the foyer console, packed with fresh pink peonies.
The petals are bigger than my fist. Someone has been here this morning.
Nico doesn't pause in the foyer. He marches me directly down a long, wide corridor. His stride is long, demanding that I walk faster to keep pace. His hand remains a vice at the base of my spine.
Voices echo from the end of the hall. Deep tones cut through by sharper, melodic women's voices.
We step through a wide archway and enter the compound's industrial kitchen.
The room is massive, outfitted with commercial-grade stainless steel appliances, double ovens, and a butcher-block island in the center. Nico told me this kitchen is Matteo's domain. The beating heart of the Costa family. It is also currently packed with the most dangerous people in the city.
The conversation dies the second Nico and I cross the threshold.