My jaw locks until it aches.
“I’m not sacrificing myself,” I grind out. “I’m not letting you die for me either.”
The words rip out of me too loud, like I’m fighting the world and not just the woman pressed into my chest.
For one heartbeat, the chaos blurs.
It’s just her and me and the stink of cordite and old oil. Her breath ghosts hot against my neck. Her hands knot in my shirt like she’s anchoring herself to the storm instead of outrunning it.
I tip my head, press my forehead to hers.
One stolen second.
Our noses brush. Our mouths hover a breath apart. I could kiss her. I could slam her into these crates and remind her exactly who’s worth bleeding for.
Heat rolls off her like another impact.
She looks at me like I’m already dead.
Like she’s already grieving what she hasn’t lost.
“Santino,” she whispers, voice shaking, “if you die—”
“I’m not fucking dying,” I snap—softer than it sounds. “Not here. Not for him.”
Not for Carlo.Not for any of them.
If I go out, it won’t be on their terms.
The gunfire stutters into a pattern. One magazine runs thin. Another’s already light. Carlo’s pace never changes.
Patient.
Surgical.
He doesn’t understand.
Fear is my native language.
I was raised in it.Baptized in it.Drowned in it—then dragged back.
I pull back just enough to take her in. Blood smears her cheek that isn’t hers, a fingerprint of someone else’s life marking her mine. Her lashes are wet—but she’s not crying.
She’s furious.
Good.
Anger survives when grief would drown.
“On my mark,” I whisper. “You run. If you look back, I’ll drag you out by your hair, and you’ll hate me for the rest of your life. Are we clear?”
Her chin trembles, then locks.
“I hate you already.”
Something that might be a laugh scrapes out of my chest. Or a fracture.
“Perfect,” I murmur. “Stay alive, and you can tell me about it later.”
