"My feelings aren't the issue here," I growl, though we all know that’s a fucking lie. "My judgment is. I know my people. I know my estate. If there was a leak coming from my house, I would have found it. I’ve already gotten rid of the staff we didn't trust. The people left are loyal."
"And your wife?" Enzo asks.
"She’s not a suspect. She’s a Caruso," I say, the words landing with finality. I’m defending her with a conviction that surprises even me. I think about her sleeping against my chest an hour ago. I think about the way she looked at me after I took that bullet.
She isn't the rat. She can't be.
"Fine," Matteo sighs, holding up his hands. "But tighten the perimeter, Rafe. If the Irish are getting this close, someone is feeding them. If it’s not her, then find out who the fuck it is before we lose another shipment."
I stand up, the motion sharp and aggressive. "I'll find them. And when I do, I’m going to make sure they regret every goddamn breath they ever took."
I walk out of the room, the weight of their suspicion settled in my gut like lead. They think I’m softening. They think I’m beingplayed. But as I drive back to the estate, all I can think about is the way Gia’s hand felt in mine when I was semi-unconscious in that hospital room.
She’s the only truth I have left. I won't let them turn her into a target.
The next day, the house feels different. The suspicion from the meeting is a lingering shadow, but instead of pulling away, I find myself pulling her closer. If I’m going to protect her, she needs to know how the machine works. She needs to be more than just a person walking in the halls.
"Sit," I say, gesturing to the chair beside me in the study.
Gia looks at me, her brow furrowed. "I thought this room was off-limits for 'household matters' today."
"It's not about the household," I say, sliding a map of the estate across the desk. "We have the Brotherhood summit coming up. Logistics. Security. Territorial optics. I want your perspective."
She blinks, her sassy mouth actually hanging open for a second. "My perspective? Rafael, I don't know anything about territorial optics."
"You know how to read people," I counter, leaning back. "You know how a guest feels when they walk into a room. You know where the gaps are in the social layer. Look at the guest list. Tell me who hates who, and where we should seat them, so I don't have to clean blood off the tablecloths."
She studies the list, her fingers tracing the names. I watch her work, her concentration absolute. She points out a rivalry between two captains I hadn't even considered and suggests a shift in the arrival sequence that would minimize contact between the rival factions.
"You're good at this," I mutter, my gaze moving from the papers to her face.
"I spent my childhood being a fly on the wall at my father’s meetings," she says, her voice gaining a sharp, bitter edge. "Like I’ve already said, you learn a lot about the world when people forget you’re in the room."
"Well, I’m not forgetting you’re in the room, Gia." I reach out, my hand covering hers on the map. "But if you're going to be by my side for this, you need to be able to do more than just seat people. You need to be able to protect yourself."
"I have guards for that, Rafael."
"Guards can be killed. Guards can be bought." I stand up, pulling her with me. "Come with me. I have something to show you."
I lead her down to the sub-level of the mansion, past the wine cellar, into a room that most guests never see. It’s a private tactical range, the air smelling of oil and cold steel. The walls are soundproofed, the lighting harsh and clinical.
I walk to the back wall and open a locked cabinet. I pull out a compact Beretta, its matte black finish gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
"This is a handgun," I say, my voice dropping into a low, instructional tone. "It is not a toy. It is a tool. And today, you’re going to learn how to use it."
Gia looks at the weapon, her eyes wide. "Rafael, I don't think?—"
"I don't care what you think. I care that you stay alive." I step behind her, my body a solid, hot weight against her back. I reach around, my hands covering hers as I guide them to the grip. "Finger off the trigger. Always. Feel the weight. It’s an extension of your arm."
The proximity is heavy. I can feel the curve of her hips against mine, the scent of her perfume mixing with the sharp tang of gun oil. My breath is hot against her ear as I explain the safety protocols, the slide, the magazine.
"Now," I whisper, my hand steadying hers as we aim at the silhouette target fifty feet away. "Breathe. Slow and steady. When you're ready, squeeze. Don't pull."
Her first shot goes wide. The crack of the nine millimeter is a sharp, percussive slap against the soundproofed walls. She flinches against me, her shoulders tensing, but I don’t let go. My hands, one on the pistol grip, one steadying her wrist, remain firm. My chest stays pressed against her shoulder blades, my hips flush against the curve of her ass.
“Again,” I command, my voice low against her ear. “Focus. It’s just you and the target. Everything else is noise.”
She nods, a tiny movement I feel through my whole body. We spend the next hour in that clinical, harshly lit room. The air is cold, tasting of oil and cold steel. Her sass melts away, replaced by a quiet, fierce concentration. Shot after shot, magazine aftermagazine. Her posture improves. Her aim tightens. The rounds begin to cluster in the center of the paper silhouette. It stops being about defense. It becomes about shared focus. About the trust of my body wrapped around hers, guiding, correcting, supporting.
