To protect her, Tonio would have to become the threat. Stage a break-in or a robbery. Or be direct and deliver a warning she’d never forget. He would become the architect of her terror—poison the only real connection he’d felt in years. The irony was sharp, personal, and necessary.
As dusk bled into night,the church grounds dissolved into shadowed shapes. The building loomed against the indigo sky, its Gothic angles slicing the air. A wind stirred the overgrown yews, lifting dead leaves that skittered across the gravel.
Tonio’s heart jolted when he saw her. A single golden square—the rectory window—spilled light onto the path. Sofia walked toward it, eyes fixed and determined, moving like she owned the night. Irritation pricked him. Reckless or naive—either way, wrong. Digging where others had buried secrets was one thing; doing it after dark was another. She had no idea how close danger waited.
Tonio lowered his hood, letting the shadows blur his face. No chances. A thick scarf tucked into his jacket hid his mouth, gloves covered scarred knuckles, and loose jeans and scuffed boots rendered him anonymous. He tightened his shoulders, adjusted his gait, found the softest patches of gravel—and closed in, silent.
She moved like someone without any fear of the world and the dangerous predators that lived within it, confident, sure. The problem was that she didn’t know the ground beneath her feet. Tonight, he needed her terrified enough to run.
Her step faltered before she saw him. The air changed; she froze, like a rabbit sensing a hawk, her breath snagging. Her fingers didn’t just twitch in her pockets; they closed into white-knuckled fists.
He let the pause stretch, pulling at her nerves until they thinned.
When he stepped into her path, she flinched, a sharp, involuntary gasp escaping.
“Walk away,” he said, low and flat.
For a heartbeat, pure animal fear filled her eyes. Then she seemed to compose herself—chin rising, defiance snapping into place like a brittle shield.
The fuck?
He dropped his voice to a coarser timber. “You’re asking the wrong questions in the wrong place. Dangerous questions.”
Her grip tightened on the bag. “Who sent you?” she demanded, steady even as the tension radiated off her.
He almost smirked at her nerve. In one controlled move, he closed the distance; his gloved hand clamped her wrist like a vise. She gasped as he hauled her close, spinning her until his face was inches from the back of her head. The damp, heavy air of the church grounds swallowed the fleeting hint of her perfume.
“Your mother’sgone,” he hissed close to her ear. “You’ll be next if you don’t stop asking fucking questions and leave.”
He twisted her arm. A cry of pain was torn from her as he shoved her forward. She hit the ground, her cheek grinding into the leafy gravel. Before she could scramble up, his knee drove into the small of her back, pinning her. She bucked; he pressed harder, her wrist locked in his grip.
“Stay down,” he growled.
Her breath came in ragged, sharp pulls. He was bigger, heavier, relentless. One hand went to his jacket; the fabricwhispered as it moved. When the gun caught the light, it was sudden—black and unyielding.
He pressed the muzzle to the back of her skull, the metal cold and absolute. She shuddered violently. For a fraction of a second, a sick twist of self-loathing struck him—then he shoved it down. Softness wouldn’t help in this situation. He couldn’t afford it.
A sob ripped out of her. She shut her eyes, her body going still in wait for the shot. He let the quiet stretch.
“This is your only warning,” he said, his voice low and lethal. “Stopasking questions. Go home. The past is the fucking past. Next time it won’t be a warning. Next time, you will be dead.”
He withdrew the gun. His hand closed in her hair, and he slammed her face into the dirt and gravel once more. She curled into herself, coughing, the earth staining her skin. He was already moving, fading toward the tree line before she could get her bearings. He melted into the dark; a branch cracked once, then silence.
From the trees, he watched her scramble up, small and frantic, looking about. He stayed until the fear he needed had settled in her eyes—until he was sure she would run—and then he melted back into the dark and left her there.
Tonio shutthe motel door and bolted it, more from instinct than for safety. He tossed his jacket over the chair, pulled off his gloves, and ran a hand down his face. He should’ve been relieved. He’d done what he set out to do—scare Sofia off. She had to have gotten the message. She had to. Cursing under hisbreath, he grabbed his phone and dialed. It rang twice before a voice picked up.
“Tell me it’s done,” Luc said, skipping any greeting.
Tonio sank onto the edge of the bed. “Depends on your definition.”
A pause. Then a sigh. “Tonio.”
“She’s scared,” he said, his voice flat, as if reporting someone else’s mistake. “I put her on the ground, put a gun to her head, told her to drop it.”
Another pause. “And?”
Tonio clenched his jaw. “She’s stubborn, but not stupid. She’ll back off.”
