I cross my arms and wait for Stefano to reach us, my brain already grinding through solutions.
Private security…Rotating protection so it doesn’t look like babysitting…Unmarked exterior cameras tied into our system…Buy the neighboring properties so we own the block without advertising it.
There’s always a way.
There has to be.
Because the look she gave me when I mentioned moving her shop?
Fire.
God, I love that fire.
She’s not fragile. She’s not porcelain.
She’s a storm wrapped in silk, and if I try to lock her in a tower, she’ll resent me for it. Maybe even hate me. And I wouldn’t survive that.
I stop near the gate just as Maverick reaches his brother.
The greeting is pure old-world Italian. No hesitation. No ego. They clasp forearms, lean in, kiss each other’s cheeks like they’ve done it a thousand times before, then pull into a solid embrace that looks less like ceremony and more like loyalty carved in stone.
Different suits. Same blood.
Spike steps up beside me, sliding his phone into his pocket.
“My sister just texted me in all caps,” he says dryly, “about how my VP is a jerk and suggested I fire him and replace him with her. Any clue as to why?”
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.
“Told her we were moving her shop into the compound,” I admit. “But Sunny made a valid point. She’d lose business because people are afraid of our walls.”
Spike goes still.
“You actually told her that?” he asks slowly.
“I was thinking out loud.”
“With Abigail?” he deadpans. “That’s your first mistake.”
I huff a breath.
“I’m not trying to control her. I’m trying to keep her breathing.”
“I know,” Spike says, and there’s no humor in his voice now. “But you start taking pieces of her world away, even for good reasons, and she’ll start shrinking. And you didn’t fight to get her back just to watch that happen.”
I drag a hand over my jaw.
“She almost died,” I say quietly. “More than once.”
“And she survived through all of it,” he shoots back. “Because she’s strong. Not because she was hidden.”
Behind us, Maverick and his brother approach. Stefano is every bit his brother. Sharp. Same calm predator eyes. Same effortless confidence. His suit probably costs more than my bike.
But I barely register him.
My focus is still on the house across the compound.
“She looked at me like I’d suggested burning her life down,” I mutter. “Like I didn’t trust her to handle it.”
