I pulled out my phone and texted the head of security.
Double the guards on Stefan. He doesn't leave the building without me. No exceptions.
The response came immediately.
Understood. Already assigned two outside your apartment and two in the hallway.
Good. Not enough, probably, but better than nothing.
I should tell Stefan. Should explain why I was suddenly locking him down after weeks of letting him move freely around the club. Should be honest about the threat and let him make his own choices about how to handle it.
But the thought of FBI agents grabbing Stefan—interrogating him, pressuring him, threatening him—made something dark and possessive coil in my chest.
I'd promised Stefan he always had a choice. That the door was unlocked. That he could leave if he wanted to.
Now I was taking that choice away.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
***
Stefan noticed the new security within twenty-four hours.
I came home to our apartment—I'd stopped thinking of it as "my" apartment weeks ago—to find him standing by the doorwith his arms crossed. Two guards were visible through the peephole, stationed in the hallway.
"Want to explain why there are suddenly armed men outside our door?" he asked.
"Security precaution."
"That's not an answer." His green eyes were sharp. Challenging. "There weren't guards yesterday. Or last week. Or any time in the past month. This is new, Matteo. Why?"
I should have known he'd notice. Stefan was too smart to miss the sudden restrictions. Too observant to accept vague explanations.
"The trial's getting closer," I said carefully. "We're tightening security across the board. Standard procedure."
"Bullshit." He moved toward me. "I tried to go downstairs this morning. To the club. The guards told me I needed to wait for you. That I couldn't leave without you." His voice was tight. "That's not standard procedure. That's a cage."
The word hit like a physical blow.
"Stefan—"
"Don't." He held up a hand. "Don't try to soften it or make excuses. Just tell me the truth. Why am I suddenly being locked down after you spent weeks promising me I had freedom? That I had choice?"
I could lie. Could maintain the fiction that this was just about the trial. Could avoid the conversation that would make me look exactly like what I was: possessive, controlling, unwilling to risk losing him.
But Stefan deserved honesty. He always had.
"The FBI surveillance has intensified," I said. "They're watching Inferno constantly. Following our movements. And they know about you."
His face went pale. "They know I'm here?"
"Yes. Giuseppe probably told them everything. About your mission. About you getting caught. About you choosing to stay." I moved closer. "You're exactly the kind of leverage they'd want, Stefan. Someone with information about both families. Someone they could pressure into testifying."
"I wouldn't—"
"I know you wouldn't. But they might not give you a choice." I couldn't keep the edge out of my voice. "If they grab you—if they pull you in for questioning—they'll pressure you. Threaten you. Offer you deals. And if you refuse to cooperate, they might charge you with something to force your hand."
"Charge me with what? I haven't done anything."
