"All of it," he said, voice rougher than before. "What you saw, what you heard, why Marco really wants you back."
I rubbed my wrists where he'd held them, but I could still feel the phantom warmth of his hands at my waist. My pulse hadn't slowed. If anything, it had gotten faster.
Trusting Alessio Valestri was insane—he was my father's enemy, a mafia don, probably more dangerous than Richard and Marco combined. But he also hadn't killed me yet. Hadn't dragged me back to Boston. Was asking questions instead of following orders.
Maybe that meant something.
"Richard's running weapons for the Sinaloa cartel," I said, voice steadier now. "Using my father's properties as transfer points. I saw the emails, heard them on speakerphone, confirming shipments. Tuesday delivery, warehouse three at DeLuca Properties, pier seven. Payment through Cayman account 847392-B." The numbers rolled off my tongue with perfect clarity. "They've been partners for months, maybe longer. And I'm supposed to be the respectable cover—the senator's beautiful wife with the impeccable pedigree who makes him look legitimate."
Alessio's expression went very still. Very cold.
"But you overheard them."
"Richard realized I was sitting where I could see his screen. He saw me see it." My hands were shaking again. "They know I know. And with my photographic memory, I'm not just a witness—I'm a walking database of everything that could destroy them both. Marriage won't fix that. I'm too dangerous to let live."
"So you ran."
"Wouldn't you?"
His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I'd have run smarter. No credit cards, no patterns, no trail."
"Sorry, I'm not a professional criminal," I snapped. "Some of us were raised to believe our fathers were legitimate businessmen."
That landed. I saw it in the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something that might have been sympathy crossing his face.
"Marco played you," he said quietly. "Played all of us, probably. The blood debt, the psychiatric story, sending me specifically to retrieve you—it's a trap. If I kill you, he owns me. If I refuse, he gets his war. Either way, he wins."
The words settled over me like a shroud.
"Then why are you still here?"
Alessio reached down, picked up the gun I'd dropped, and checked the chamber with practiced efficiency. "Because I don't like being played. And because something about this whole situation stinks."
He looked at me again, and this time there was something different in his expression. Assessment, yes, but also a decision.
"You're coming with me," he said. "Not to your father. Not to Boston. Somewhere safe while I figure out what the fuck is really happening."
"And I'm supposed to just trust you?" My voice cracked. "The man my father sent to collect me?"
"No." He tucked the gun into his waistband, then held out his hand. "You're supposed to recognize that right now, I'm the only thing standing between you and a bullet. Your father wants you dead. Your fiancé wants you dead. The cartels will want you dead once they realize what you know. I'm offering you a third option."
"Which is?"
"Survival."
The word hung in the air between us. Outside, the neon sign flickered and buzzed. Highway traffic hummed in the distance. My whole life had been luxury and safety and careful lies, and now I was standing in a roach motel in stolen thrift store clothes with a mafia don offering me survival like it was a gift.
I looked at his outstretched hand. Looked at his face—hard and dangerous and oddly honest in its brutality.
"Then why do I feel like I just went from one cage to another?"
His smile was sharp as a blade. "Because you did,principessa. But at least this cage has better security." The endearment dripped with mockery.
I stared at him for another heartbeat. Two. Measured the exhaustion dragging at my bones against the terror still fizzing in my bloodstream.
Then I took his hand.
His fingers closed around mine—warm, callused, surprisingly gentle for a man who'd kicked down my door and disarmed me in under ten seconds.
