"Casualties," I demand.
A beat of silence. When Fabio speaks again, the volatility in his voice has been replaced by something worse—a thick, devastated fury that I recognize because I have worn it myself.
"Two. Vittorio and Sal. They caught them in the crossfire near the office. Vittorio took one in the throat. Sal took two in the chest." A sharp, shuddering breath. "They're gone, Dom."
I close my eyes. Vittorio Ferretti and Salvatore Bianchi. Cousins from the old neighborhood. They followed us from Pine Valley, leaving their families behind just to fight our war.
"Rig the building," I say, my voice carved from granite. "Burn it all. The crates, the cash pallets, the walls. Leave nothing standing."
"Already pouring the gasoline," Fabio says, and I hear the savage edge return to his voice—the rage crystallizing into action, the grief converting to fuel. This is how Fabio survives. He doesn't mourn. He destroys.
I sit in the war room, listening to the distant, tinny roar of the ignition through Fabio's open mic. I imagine the flames consuming the Bellanti money, the drugs, the infrastructure. Amulti-million dollar blow. It will start a street war we aren't fully prepared to fight.
I don't care. Let them come.
Santi's voice comes through the second channel, calm and measured: "I can see the glow from the waterfront. Ashland is burning."
"Hold your position until Fabio's team clears the area," I say. "Then pull back. Both teams to the safe house on Halsted. No one comes back to the brownstone tonight."
"Copy," Santi says.
"Copy," Fabio echoes, his voice hoarse.
I kill the comms and sit in the silence of the war room for a long time. The bourbon is warm in my hand, untouched. Two men dead. Two families I will have to face. Two more names carved into the ledger of debt I carry.
But the docks are ours. And the Ashland hub is ash.
I will burn every brick in Chicago to the bedrock before I let them touch a single hair on her head.
The adrenaline fades into a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. I climb the steel-reinforced staircase slowly, leaving the war room's blue glow behind me. The brownstone is dark and quiet. I check my hands. The knuckles are clean—I didn't throw a single punch tonight. The violence was my brothers'. The command was mine.
I take the stairs to the private suite slowly. I don't know what I am walking into. I don't know if any of this will mean anything to her, or if it just proves I am the monster she fears.
I unlock the heavy oak door and step inside.
The main bedroom is dark, save for the ambient glow of the city lights bleeding through the massive windows. The bed is empty. The black duvet is pushed back.
Panic, cold and sharp, spikes in my chest. "Sienna."
"I'm here."
Her voice comes from the attached master bathroom. I walk toward the open door. The warm yellow light spills over the marble floor. She is sitting on the edge of the massive sunken tub, still wearing the black silk robe I gave her. Her copper hair is a wild, messy halo around her pale face. Her eyes are wide, taking me in.
She sees the tension radiating from my shoulders. She sees the exhaustion carved into the lines of my face. But there is no soot on my jaw. No blood drying in the cracks of my skin. I did not leave this building. I sent my brothers into the fire and stayed behind to guard the woman sleeping in my bed.
She doesn't scream. She doesn't flinch.
"You didn't go," she says quietly. It is not a question.
"No."
"But something happened."
I lean against the doorframe. The last three hours press down on my shoulders like wet concrete. "I sent Fabio and Santi. Two separate operations. The Bellanti docks and their distribution hub on the Ashland warehouse line."
Her amber-hazel eyes search my face. "Why didn't you go?"
The answer is so simple it terrifies me. "Because you are here."
