A knife flashed in her hand, small and practical, hidden somewhere along her belt. She slashed with a quick, desperate arc. The blade whispered past my cheek, close enough to feel the wind against my skin. I caught her wrist before she could recover and twisted until her fingers opened and the knife clattered to the concrete.
Wild now, she kicked and I adjusted, catching her in a chokehold, releasing then pressing her back to the wall, my forearm firm against her collarbone, pinning her without effort. Up close, I could see the dread trying to fight its way through her anger, the realization dawning that she wasn’t winning this.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I heard the lie in my words. “But I will.”
“Are you like obsessed with him or something,” she hissed.
I smiled. Obsession felt neat, harmless. What I felt for Remo was a tide, a surge, something that could drown a city without apology. Not correcting her, I let the truth sit there between us, heavy and ugly.
“I’m protecting him,” I murmured.
“Remo Rossi is an Underboss, deadly to the max. You’re nothing but a nutcase, a threat.”
“Not to him.” I leaned. “Just to you.”
She struggled again, pride refusing to let her stay still. I drove my knee into her thigh hard enough to buckle her leg. This time, she crumpled to the floor with a choked groan, clutching the muscle. I crouched and caught her jaw, forcing her to meet my red stare, wanting her to understand that this wasn’t personal.
“What do you want?” she gritted.
“The truth.”
“What truth?”
“That Remo doesn’t need you. He never did.”
“You’re insane,” she spat. “Stay away from him.”
I laughed, a soft, chilling sound that made her flinch. “You should thank me.”
“For what?”
“For saving him.”
She froze, her breathing hitched. “What?”
“I killed the men who took him. All of them.”
“You’re lying.” She jerked her face out of my grasp.
“Am I?” I tilted my head. “Did they not question why there was so little resistance when Lorenzo arrived? Why the warehouse smelled like copper, piss and shit? Why none of the men ran? Why the floor was littered with their useless asses?”
Her face paled, recollection surfacing. “They did,” a whisper.
“He was about to die, and I didn’t let that happen.”
“You’re—” Her voice shook, eyes widening. “Oh my God, you’re unhinged.”
“No. I’m devoted.” I stood. “Stay away from him.”
“I won’t.” The defiance in her eyes was admirable. Almost.
“Next time we meet, I won’t be this gentle.”
Before she could answer, the distant growl of an engine rolled through the night, low and familiar, and every nerve in my body snapped tight. The sound traveled straight through me, turning my pulse erratic, not because I feared Alessia or the fight, but because the thought of him seeing me like this, seeing what I was becoming in his name, felt like a blade poised over my throat.
I released her and stepped back. She tried to crawl toward the fallen knife, obstinate even now, and I nudged it away with my shoe. “Touch that and you’ll regret it.”
Headlights flashed across the dark walls. I moved to the heavy loading door, opening it. At the threshold, I glanced back once, memorizing her crumpled shape on the floor, the angerthat still burned in her gaze, and felt a strange, reluctant kinship. We were both orbiting the same man, both willing to bleed for him.
