We pull into a private, cobblestone alleyway in the Gold Coast, just three blocks from the main brownstone. The alley ends in a dead end, surrounded by towering brick walls topped with iron spikes. At the end of the alley stands a two-story structure made entirely of reinforced steel and ballistic glass.
Santi kills the engine. "Perimeter is clear."
I step out first, my hand resting on the butt of my weapon beneath my tailored suit jacket. I reach back, wrapping my hand tightly around Sienna's waist as I lift her down onto the pavement. My grip lingers, fingers pressing into the wool of her coat, before I guide her forward. She is wearing a dark green wool coat I had delivered this morning, her copper hair spilling over the collar.
I guide her to the front of the glass building. The interior is empty, but the morning sun floods the space, illuminating the massive custom-built stone basins, the state-of-the-art climate control vents, and the reinforced steel workbenches.
Sienna stops dead in her tracks. Her mouth parts.
"It's entirely off the grid," I tell her, my voice dropping low near her ear. "The deed is buried in three ghost shells. The glass is bulletproof. The doors require a biometric scan to open. Santi has already installed a direct line to the compound's security hub." I turn her gently by the shoulders to face me. "It's yours, Sienna. A greenhouse. A shop. Whatever you want to make it. You will never have to stop working with your hands, but you will do it where no one can ever touch you."
Tears well in her eyes. She doesn't speak. She just throws her arms around my neck, burying her face in my chest, holding on to me so tightly I feel it in my bones. I wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her hair.
"Thank you," she chokes out. "Dominic... thank you."
"I will give you the world, Sienna. You just have to let me paint it in armor."
I pull back, swiping a tear from her cheek with my thumb. "Let's go inside. I want you to see the back room. I had a reinforced walk-in cooler built for the?—"
I stop.
My eyes catch on something on the ground, just inches from the heavy steel front door of the new shop.
It's a sleek, black envelope.
The blood in my veins turns to ice. This location is a secret. Fabio finalized the shell-company purchase at 3:00 A.M. last night. Santi swept the perimeter at dawn. No one knows this building belongs to the Costa family. No one.
"Dominic?" Sienna asks, feeling the sudden, violent tension locking every muscle in my body. "What's wrong?"
"Santi," I bark, my voice echoing off the brick walls of the alley.
Santi is out of the SUV in a second, his weapon drawn, his eyes scanning the rooftops. He moves to cover Sienna without being told, placing his massive frame between her and the open alley.
"Keep her behind me."
I step forward, crouching down in front of the reinforced glass door. The envelope is unmarked. I pull a pair of black leather gloves from my coat pocket, slip them on, and pick it up. The paper is heavy and expensive.
I slide my thumb under the flap and break the seal.
Inside is a single, glossy photograph.
I pull it out. The breath completely leaves my lungs.
It is a picture of Sienna. She is stepping out of the armored SUV in front of the brownstone, her copper hair catching the cold Chicago streetlight. One hand is reaching back toward the vehicle, her thin cotton sundress clinging to her damp skin as she shivers in the Chicago air. The angle is from across the street—a long lens, patient and precise, shot from the shadow of a parked vehicle or a darkened storefront window. They caught the exact moment he claimed me.
I recognize the moment. Last night. The moment we arrived at the compound after L'Ombra. She had been outside the vehicle for less than fifteen seconds before Santi ushered her through the reinforced front door. Fifteen seconds in the dark, and they already had the shot.
My vision edges in red. The Bellantis didn't just burn down her shop to send a message. They slipped this photograph under thedoor of a secret location we bought hours ago to send a different message entirely.
We see you. We know where she stands. We are patient enough to wait.
I turn the photograph over. Scrawled in thick, black ink on the back are four words.
Welcome to the neighborhood.
I crush the photograph in my fist, the glossy paper snapping under the violent pressure of my grip. A terrifying, cold clarity washes over me.
They used a long lens and a street-level angle, possessing the patience to wait for a fifteen-second window. This could be external surveillance—a Bellanti team with a telephoto lens and the resources to watch our compound around the clock. That alone is devastating. It means they've mapped our movements, timed our arrivals, catalogued the faces entering and leaving the brownstone.
