Theo’s text lights up my phone again.
Theo
One of the men is talking. He’s naming contacts.
Good. I’ll bleed them dry, one confession at a time. But when my thumb hovers over the screen, my eyes drag back to the window, to where she moves across the garden like she doesn’t have a target painted on her back.
Fucking reckless.
I slam the glass down and turn away, jaw locked. I should put more men on her, double the perimeter. Hell, I should lock her back in the safe room until I know every Mancini in Naples is six feet under. But she’d fight me, push me, needle me with that sharp tongue of hers until I either silence her or give her exactly what she wants.
And that is something I can’t afford.
My desk phone rings. It’s Romiro. I answer, more out of habit than patience.
“Brother,” he drawls, too smug for the hour. “Heard about your little blackout. Mancinis getting bold, huh?”
“Not bold,” I deadpan. “Stupid.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Eli is questioning whether you can protect his sister from the Mancinis. He already has the Outfit he needs to deal with.”
“Tell him there’s nothing to question. The Castello is more secure than his own bedroom. We made a deal, and if he doesn’t understand that I’m capable enough, he needs to come get his sister.”
I end the call before his nonsense can grate on my nerves even further. Silence floods the office again, broken only by the ticking of the antique clock on the wall.
And beneath it, faint but relentless, her laughter from outside. It worms under my skin, dangerous in a way bullets never were.
I tell myself to focus. To plan. To prepare for whatever shitstorm is heading my way. But all I can see is Mara, bathed in sunlight, too soft for this world. Too soft for me.
And I’m already in too deep.
I should’ve leftit at one lesson. She’s already a distraction, and every second I waste in this room with her is a second I’m not following my own rules. A second I’m not making the Mancinis pay for transgressions.
But liabilities get people killed, and Mara Folonari is the walking definition of one. That’s the only reason I’m here.
She steps onto the mat without hesitation this time, leggings and a tank clinging to her like she chose them just to irritate me. Her hair is pulled back, exposing her throat, and my jaw tightens when I realize I’ve noticed. I’m starting to notice a lot of things about her that I shouldn’t.
“Again?” she says, her voice deliberately aloof, but her eyes sparkle like she’s already plotting how to get under my skin.
“Again,” I confirm, tone clipped, final. I circle her once, slow and deliberate, forcing her to follow me with her gaze. “Yesterday was stance. Today is ground defense. Most attacks end there. If you can’t break free, you’ll die.”
She folds her arms, smirking. “So romantic. You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”
“This isn’tmeantto be romantic. It’s for your safety,” I snap, ignoring her while motioning with my hand. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Hands ready. This time, you fight to get free.”
She takes the stance I showed her yesterday, but it’s halfhearted, her weight uneven, her arms loose. She’s doing it wrong on purpose.
“Sloppy,” I snap. “Again. Tighter this time.”
Her lips curl. “You say the sweetest things.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I step in, close enough to smell her skin, close enough to feel her shift back a fraction. My hand clamps over her wrist, dragging her arm higher, angling her elbow. She tries to hide the shiver that runs through her. I pretend I don’t notice.
“Most attackers will go for your wrists, your throat, or the ground,” I tell her. “If you don’t break free, you’ll die. And it won’t be clean. Or painless.”
Her smile sharpens. “You’ve got a lot of gray hairs.”
I snap my finger in front of her face. “Focus.”
