She sees me sitting in the chair, bare-chested, covered in a map of faded knife scars and bullet grazes that document twodecades of violence. Her eyes widen, tracking the heavy slabs of muscle across my chest, the dark hair trailing down my stomach, disappearing into the waistband of my tailored slacks.
She swallows visibly, her pulse hammering at the base of her throat.
"Come here," I command.
She freezes. Every instinct in her body is screaming at her to run. But there is nowhere to run. She takes a tentative step forward, her bare feet sinking into the plush rug. She crosses the room, stopping an arm's length away from my chair.
I reach over to the nightstand and pick up the frosted glass jar of hand cream. I unscrew the lid. The scent of shea butter and lavender fills the space between us.
"Give me your hands," I say.
She slowly extends her arms. Her hands are locked in a painful, nervous cramp. I take her right hand in my left, turning her palm up. The skin is ravaged. Tiny, jagged scratches from rose thorns crisscross her delicate wrists. Dirt is permanently embedded in the callouses at the base of her fingers. She labors. She bleeds for a few dollars an hour in a shop that likely barely covers her rent.
The thought of her struggling, of her bleeding for anyone or anything, sends a wave of dark, violent protectiveness crashing over my sanity.
I dig my fingers into the cream, the scent of lavender filling the air between us. I take her wrist, my fingers circling the bone like a shackle, and drag her hand down until it's pinned against the hard, corded muscle of my thigh. She gasps, her knucklesbrushing the expensive wool of my slacks and the scorching heat radiating from my skin beneath.
I am mapping her. Learning the geography of her hands the way I learn the layout of any building I intend to occupy permanently. Every callous, every thorn-scar, every chapped knuckle—I drag my thumbs across all of it, slow and deliberate, the cream letting me move without friction, without mercy. The sound of skin on skin is a quiet, unhurried rhythm in the dark room. I'm claiming the nerves beneath her skin.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, trying to pull back. "My hands are ugly."
"Do not insult what is mine," I growl softly.
I watch her face as I work. The terror is slowly bleeding out of her eyes, replaced by a heavy, dazed confusion. The repetitive, soothing motion of my thumbs, the sheer heat radiating off my body—it is dismantling her panic one careful degree at a time. Her breathing slows. Her eyelids flutter, heavy and drooping.
"You're exhausting," she mumbles, the adrenaline crash finally hitting her system like a freight train.
"I know," I say smoothly. I switch hands, taking her left hand, applying more cream. I work it into her cuticles, my thumbs dragging down the length of her slender fingers.
She sways on her feet, her knees buckling slightly.
I drop the jar. I catch her by the waist, pulling her forward. She collapses into my lap, her legs tangling with mine, her head dropping heavily onto my bare shoulder. The black silk of the robe slides open slightly, exposing the pale curve of her thigh against my dark slacks.
She doesn't fight me this time. Her body has simply given up. The shock, the fear, the sensory overload of being dragged into a mafia stronghold—it has drained her battery to zero.
I wrap my arms around her, securing her against my chest. Her breath ghosts over my collarbone, warm and steady. I press my lips into the crown of her hair, inhaling the scent of her.
"Sleep," I murmur against her scalp.
"Can't," she whispers, her voice slurred. "I have to... the peonies..."
I look at the flowers on the nightstand, then back down at her, her copper curls fanned across my bare chest.
"Vincenzo is scrubbing your records right now," I tell her, my voice a low, private rumble meant only for this room. "Your lease. Your accounts. Your name in every city database that has it. If they've had eyes on L'Ombra long enough to photograph your van, they already have your plates—which means this is a race, not a guarantee. But I have good men, and I have a head start." I pull her tighter against me, my hand flattening against the small of her back. "You aren't going back to the shop because I won't let them use it to find you. That's the only reason."
She doesn't argue. She simply lets out a long, shuddering sigh, her body going completely limp against me.
I sit there in the dim lighting of the bedroom, holding the woman who just became the greatest vulnerability I have ever possessed. The Bellantis have eyes everywhere. They have spent a year reverse-engineering every fragmented routing header Lucia left them, and they are getting closer. They know our businesses. They know our aliases. If they find out about her, they will strike at her to break me.
I run my hand down the length of her silk-covered spine, pulling her tighter against my body until there is no air left between us.
Let them try. Let the syndicates plot. Let the entire city of Chicago burn to ash. I have spent my entire life destroying myself to build an empire.
Now, I have a queen to put on the throne. And I will slaughter anyone who tries to take her crown.
3
Sienna
