I drive my elbow into his gut, doubling him over, then slam him down so his face grinds the waxed tile. The knife is still spinning on the ground. I kick it away, then lean in close, my mouth to his ear.
“Tell your boss if he wants her, he’ll have to take her out of my cold dead hands.”
His accent slips—Sicilian, not Boston like the file Cai gave me says. I smile, showing all my teeth.
He tries to headbutt me, but it’s weak. I don’t bother retaliating. Just grip his skull and press until his cheek scrapes off a layer of skin on the floor.
Dahlia hasn’t moved. She’s watching, arms folded, face blank. But her eyes are wild, bright with something that’s not quite fear. It’s not hate, either.
The hallway is dead silent now. Everyone’s waiting to see what I’ll do next.
I drag the asshole upright, force him to stand. Blood is running from his nose, bright on his shirt. I check him for more weapons—nothing obvious. I search his pockets, find a phone, wallet, brass knuckles taped flat to his thigh. The phone is a burner, the kind you use for exactly one job.
I hold it out, make a show of it. “Smile for the camera,” I say. “You’re about to go viral.”
Then I twist his arm behind his back and snap it at the elbow. He crumples to the ground and smashes his face, the sound of his nose breaking is sweet.
“Stay the fuck away from her,” I snarl. “If I see you again, I’ll bury you under the chapel.”
He groans, his arm flopping to the side, then hisses something in Italian. I don’t speak it, but the meaning is clear: war.
Fine. I love war.
I leave him there, bleeding and shaking, and stalk back toward my girl. My hands hurt, but I flex them open and closed, feeling the bones click and pop.
The crowd has thinned, but Dahlia is still there. She hasn’t moved an inch. When I walk up, she tilts her head.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says.
“I wanted to.”
She looks at my hands, then at the blood spatter on her shoe. “You know you’ve just started a war, right?”
I grin. “You’re welcome.”
She laughs, but her eyes never leave mine. I can see her pulse thumping at the base of her throat. I want to touch it, bite it, mark her as mine.
Campus security shows up, interrupting my moment. Two of them, both older, both ex-military with the walk to match. They stop a good ten feet back, eyes on the body, then on me.
“Everything under control, Mr. Ellis-Black?”
I nod. “He tripped.”
They look at each other, then at the mess, then at the ring of students pressed flat against the walls.
“Should we call an ambulance?”
I shrug. “I wouldn’t bother.”
They nod, and one radios it in. The other just stands guard, making sure nobody gets close.
I turn back to where Dahlia is waiting. She hasn’t moved. There’s a streak of blood on her shoe and a spray across her cheek. Her eyes are huge, but not scared. She looks at my hands, then at my face.
“Was that really necessary?” she asks.
I think about it, then shake my head. “No.”
She sighs and shakes her head, but I see the edge in her eyes. The one that says she likes that I protected her.
