"Sienna," I say softly. The contrast in my voice makes her eyes snap to mine. "Look at me."
She shakes her head, her lower lip unsteady. "You're insane. You are all insane. You tortured those men in the private dining room?—"
"I did," I confirm smoothly. There is no point in lying to her. She is inside the inner sanctum now. She will see the blood. She will know the monsters. "He was a Bellanti soldier. He was part of a syndicate that slaughtered my family twenty years ago. He had information I needed, so I extracted it. I am a violent man, Sienna. But I will never, under any circumstances, bring that violence to you. Do you understand me?"
She lets out a wet, incredulous laugh. "You kidnapped me! You dragged me out of my life and locked me in a—a compound! That is violence!"
"That is preservation," I counter, my voice dropping an octave, thickening with a dark, obsessive certainty. I reach out, ignoring her flinch, and wrap my hands around her bare calves. Her skin is freezing. I chafe my large, hot palms up and down her lower legs, trying to force the circulation back into her shocked system. "You walked into a war zone. You saw the faces of my enemies and the faces of my men. The Bellantis would have found you bysunrise. They would have peeled your skin off to find out what you heard."
She chokes on a sob, her head falling forward. The copper curls spill over her face, hiding her tears.
"I am the only thing in this city that can keep you breathing," I tell her, sliding my hands up to cup her knees. "And I have decided that you are going to keep breathing. Here. With me."
"I don't even know your name," she whispers to the space between my hands.
"Dominic," I say. "Dominic Costa."
She inhales sharply. Even civilians in Chicago know the name Costa now. We've spent the last year establishing our legitimate fronts, buying up the Riverwalk, quietly choking out the old-money syndicates.
A sharp rap on the heavy bedroom door breaks the tension. Sienna jumps.
"Leave it," I call out.
The door cracks open, and Nico slides a massive, matte-black shopping bag inside before silently clicking the door shut. He made it in fourteen minutes. I'll make sure his cut from the south side operation reflects the efficiency.
I stand up, my joints popping. I walk to the bag and pull out the contents. A heavy crystal vase overflowing with lush, aggressively pink peonies. A black silk robe wrapped in tissue paper. A frosted glass jar of French hand cream.
I set the flowers on the nightstand right beside her. The cloying, sweet scent immediately cuts through the sterile air of the room,fighting the lingering smell of copper on my clothes. Sienna stares at the flowers as if they are a hallucination.
"Stand up," I tell her.
She hesitates, looking up at me with wide, terrified eyes. I offer my hand. I keep my palm open, steady, waiting.
Slowly, agonizingly, she uncurls her fingers from my suit jacket. She places her small, icy hand in mine. The moment her skin meets my palm, a jolt of pure, unadulterated possession slams through my spine. I close my fingers over hers, completely engulfing her hand, and pull her gently to her feet.
"The bathroom is through there," I gesture to the frosted glass doors to the left. "Take off that dress. Put this on." I hand her the folded black silk.
"Are you..." she swallows, her throat clicking. "Are you going to hurt me?"
I step directly into her space. The tips of her shoes touch my leather oxfords. I am so close I can feel the erratic heat radiating off her skin. I lift my free hand, tracing the backs of my knuckles down the soft, pale curve of her cheek. She shivers, her eyes fluttering shut at the contact.
"I am going to keep you," I murmur, my voice a dark, vibrating hum that I feel in my own chest. "Go."
She takes the silk and practically runs into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. The click of the lock makes me smirk. As if a hollow core door lock could keep me out if I wanted in. But I will give her the illusion of control for tonight.
I strip off my ruined dress shirt, tossing it into a corner. I unbuckle my shoulder holster, laying the heavy Glock on thedresser. I need a shower. I need to wash the blood of my enemies off my skin before I touch her again. But I can't leave the room. I can't let her out of my sight, even through a frosted glass door.
I sit in the leather armchair in the corner of the room, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees. I listen to the sound of the water running in the sink. I listen to her muffled, ragged breathing.
Every variable I usually track has been discarded. There is only one architecture left in my skull, and she is in the next room trying to lock me out with a two-dollar bolt.
Twenty years. I traded my youth, my peace, and my own sister's safety to build a weapon sharp enough to cut the Bellantis down. I arranged Lucia's marriage to the Butcher of the West to secure an alliance. I used my own flesh and blood as a pawn on a chessboard. The guilt of that has eaten me alive from the inside out, turning my heart into a black, necrotic stone. I swore I would never let another human being get close enough to me to become leverage. I swore I would die in this war.
And then she walked through a heavy oak door holding a vase of flowers, and the stone cracked.
The bathroom door unlocks.
Sienna steps out. The black silk robe drapes over her small frame, the hem pooling around her calves. She tied the sash in a tight, defensive knot at her waist. Her skin is scrubbed clean, flushed pink from the hot water. Her copper curls are damp at the ends, clinging to her neck. She looks like a fragile porcelain doll wrapped in shadow.
