For once, I lead him. I tug him gently toward the door, and he follows—large, bloodstained, dangerous… but letting me guide him as if my touch steadies him. We step back into the warehouse, and the first thing I see is Rocco.
He’s pulling a shirt over his head, the movement tugging at the bandages wrapped around an angry cut on his side. I gasp. Before I can think, I move forward quickly, reaching him in a few steps.
“Rocco,” I breathe, placing my hand on his forearm. “Are you okay?”
A deep, rumbling growl erupts behind me.Alessandro.
I glance back at him sharply—he looks seconds from ripping Rocco away from me—but then I turn back to Rocco.
Because he’s someone who protected me. He’s the one who chased danger with Alessandro. He deserves worry. He deserves kindness.
Rocco chuckles, even though it clearly hurts. “Yes, ma’am. I’m okay. I promise.”
He starts to say more—but Alessandro steps forward, grabs my hand off Rocco’s arm, and immediately threads his fingers through mine like he needs to stake a claim.
Rocco laughs harder this time, shaking his head. “Boss,” he mutters under his breath.
My cheeks warm. But I don’t pull away from Alessandro.
Rocco nods toward a closed door across the warehouse. “You don’t need to worry about me,” he says amused. “You should see the other guy.”
I look toward the door. Then up at Rocco. And then at Alessandro. And then notice Dante now standing with us, silent but watchful. Something in my chest settles. Fear, yes—but also a strange, calm certainty. “Well,” I say, lifting my chin, “that’s what we were about to go do.”
Dante huffs a sound that might be a laugh.
Alessandro squeezes my hand tighter.
And together—we walk toward the interrogation room.
Chapter 18
Elena stays close to my side as we approach the interrogation room—close enough that her shoulder brushes my arm, close enough that I can feel every breath she takes.
I want to tell her to wait outside. I want to protect her from what she’s about to see. But she squeezes my hand before I can speak, and something inside me goes quiet. She came here for me. She chooses to stand with me.
So I open the door.
The guy is tied to a chair in the center of the concrete floor, hands bound behind him, blood dripping from his split lip and chin.
Dante steps in beside me, eyes sharp, posture loose but deadly. He gives one order, low and cold: “Wake him up.”
One of our men splashes a bucket of water on the shooter. He jolts awake with a gasp, sputtering.
Elena instinctively flinches at the violent motion. It’s tiny… barely noticeable… But I feel it. Like a blade twisting in my chest. She shouldn’t have to see this. But she stands her ground, fingers tightening around mine.
Dante circles the chair like a wolf. “Who sent you?”
The man refuses to answer.
Dante’s voice sharpens. “Who gave the order?”
Another flinch from Elena. Her nails dig into my palm. Silence.
Rocco leans against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for the cue to take over. He’s itching to finish this, I can tell.
Dante grabs the shooter by the jaw, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Your friend ran. And he left you to take the fall.”
His voice turns lethal.
