Sandro chimes in, “Perimeter holding. No additional contacts.”
Renzo’s replacement, a soldier named Dante: “East gate secure. We’ve got bodies.”
I lean against the wall and let myself breathe. Once. Twice. The adrenaline is still burning, but the danger has passed.
“Casualties?” I ask.
Claudio checks his feed. “Two of ours wounded. None critical. They lost—” He pauses, counting. “Seventeen. Maybe eighteen.”
Eighteen men. Marco Castillo sent eighteen mercenaries to hit our compound, and every single one of them is dead or bleeding out on our concrete.
The message has been sent. And the reply is written in their blood.
I find her exactly where I left her.
The panic room door opens with a hydraulic hiss, and Alexandra is standing in the center of the room, fists balled at her sides, breathing hard. She’s not crying. Not curled in a corner. She’s on her feet, eyes wild, every muscle coiled like she was ready to fight whoever came through that door.
When she sees it’s me, a flood breaks in her expression. Not tears. Something deeper. Relief so raw it looks like pain.
“You’re alive,” she says.
“I’m alive.”
She stares at me. I stare back. I’m covered in rain and sweat and someone else’s blood. My vest has two impact marks where rounds hit kevlar. My hands are still shaking from the adrenaline.
“Are you hurt?” she asks, her voice cracking on the second word.
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
She crosses the distance between us in three steps and grabs the front of my vest, pulling me down to her level. Her eyes search my face, my neck, my arms—checking for wounds, for damage, for any sign that I’m bleeding.
“Stop,” I say.
She doesn’t stop, undoing my vest and eyeing me down. Her hands run along my ribs, my shoulders, pressing hard enough to check for broken bones. When she’s satisfied, she steps back,still gripping my open vest, and lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in her chest since I left.
“Eighteen men,” I say. “The Castillo’s sent eighteen men. They’re all down.”
“I don’t care about eighteen men.” Her voice is sharp, almost angry. “I care about whether you walked back through that door.”
I open my mouth to say something—what, I don’t know. Something dismissive. Something that puts distance back between us. Something that rebuilds the wall she keeps tearing down.
Instead, I put my hand on the back of her neck and pull her close.
She comes willingly, pressing her face against my chest. I feel her breathing, fast at first, then slower, steadying against me. My chin rests on the top of her head. She’s shaking. Or maybe I am. It’s hard to tell where she ends and I start.
We stand like that for a long time. Long enough for my heartbeat to slow. Long enough for the adrenaline to drain, replaced by a feeling building quieter and infinitely more dangerous.
I should let go. I should step back, rebuild the distance, remember who I am and what I do and why caring about anything is a liability.
And yet… I don’t let go.
Aurelio calls me to the war room at 4 AM.
I leave Alexandra in my quarters, with two guards outside the door and strict orders: no one enters, no one exits, until I return.
