“So, let me get this straight. If you let the goods go, you stop a war with those men. And if you don’t… you start one.”
“I don’t intend to start a war,” he says.
“You think they’ll just walk away from millions of dollars’ worth of weapons because you ask nicely?”
One corner of his mouth lifts, but there’s no humor in it.
“I don’t ask nicely, Erin.”
Of course he doesn’t.
I look down at Paige again. There are faint marks still visible on her wrists and her lashes tremble every time the car hits a bump.
A wrought iron gate appears ahead, already sliding open before we reach it.
“So, what happens now?” I ask, as a stately house comes into view.
Augusto turns his shoulders toward me.
“For now, I make sure you and Paige are safe,” he says, firmly.
“And you?”
His eyes hold mine. They’re dark, opaque and possessive.
“I finish what I came here to do.”
My breath stutters, and the gate closes behind us with a heavy clang.
Finally, we’re safe.
And yet, when his gaze lingers on my skin a little too long, I realize the most dangerous thing in this entire situation isn’t the weapons, or the men who are probably hunting us, or the war that is now brewing.
It’s the way that, even now, with everything falling apart around us, I feel like Augusto Zanotti might just be my home.
Erin
Augusto is out of the car first, already scanning the perimeter, his presence shifting from lethal to controlled in a heartbeat.
“Easy,” he murmurs as I help Paige out beside me.
Her fingers tighten around mine the second her feet hit the ground.
I look around as we approach the house, trying to take in our new surroundings and searching for anything suspicious—not that I would know what to look for particularly.
The safe house is warm inside and the furniture is soft and homely. The only suggestion that this place has been used as a security hideout is the enormous electric panel by the door, which likely controls the gate, exterior lighting and security cameras.
Mallorie must hear our voices because she comes rushing out of a room, clutching her phone, her red hair especially untamed and her eyes wild.
“Oh my God—” She barrels forward, grabbing both me and Paige at once. “You’re okay. Thank God you’re okay.”
Behind her, a man—dark-haired, early thirties perhaps, another gym freak with biceps bursting from his tee—emerges from the same room and leans against the doorframe, watching us quietly.
“Hey,” Augusto says, kicking the front door closed.
The man nods once in reply.
“You must be Mallorie,” Augusto says, holding out his hand.
