My fingers thread through his dark hair, avoiding the dampness at his temples. He is breathing hard. The heavy rise and fall of his chest shudders against my ribs.
He pulls back abruptly. The loss of his body heat is a physical shock to my system. His dark, brooding eyes scan every inch of my face. He checks my shoulders, my arms, my hands.
He stops at my neck. He leans in, a slow, predatory inhale at my pulse point that makes my knees buckle. His massive, bloodstained fingers cup my jaw.
His thumb presses against the pulse point at my throat.
The rhythm under his thumb is frantic. I am shaking.
"You're safe." His voice is a low, gravelly rasp. "They're dead. All of them."
"Are you hurt?" The question comes out of my mouth before my brain can process the sheer absurdity of it. He is dripping blood onto the imported hardwood floor. His knuckles are split. A dark smear stains the left side of his jaw.
"Not mine." He drops his hand from my throat, stepping back. The feral, protective edge rolling off him sharpens the air in the room. He looks down at his clothes, a grimace twisting his mouth. "I need to wash this off. I'm getting it on you."
"I don't care."
"I do." He points a rigid finger toward the center of the master bedroom. "Get me a clean shirt from the dresser. Black. Wait for me there."
He does not wait for an argument. He turns on his heel and strides across the bedroom toward the master bathroom. Theheavy thud of his boots echoes through the silent penthouse. A second later, the sound of running water kicks on.
The adrenaline crash slams into me, heavy and inescapable.
My knees buckle. I catch myself against the doorframe of the closet, my fingers digging into the wood. The quiet of the penthouse rushes back in, ringing in my ears. Ten minutes ago, the perimeter alarms were screaming. Men with explosives were trying to breach the walls. Now, there is nothing but the hum of the climate control system and the distant splash of the shower.
I force myself to stand upright. My legs feel like wet sand. I push off the wall and walk back out into the main bedroom. My shadow stretches long and thin across the floor. This place is a fortress. Soundproof walls, private elevator, biometric locks. I am locked in a gilded cage above a mafia restaurant, sold by my own father to settle a gambling debt. Arthur Reeves traded his daughter for his own miserable life. He handed over stolen Bellanti shipping logs, painted a target on my back, and left me to the wolves.
Only the wolf turned out to be a giant who bakes focaccia at two in the morning and slaughters hit squads in the dark to keep me safe.
The massive king-sized bed sits tangled and unmade in the center of the room, a stark reminder of the safety we just lost. I bypass it, heading straight for the colossal oak dresser against the far wall. I pull open the top drawer. Neatly folded stacks of black t-shirts line the interior. Everything about Matteo Costa is meticulous. Organized. Controlled. I grab a shirt off the top of the stack. The fabric is heavy, high-quality cotton. The sheer size of it is ridiculous. I could wear it as a cocktail dress.
I turn back toward the door, clutching the shirt to my chest.
Down the hall, a soft rectangle of light spills out onto the floor.
The door to his office is ajar.
Matteo never leaves that door open. It is a reinforced steel slab, usually sealed shut with a keypad lock. The alarm tripping must have overridden the magnetic catch when he rushed out to get me into the panic room.
My bare feet make no sound on the hardwood as I approach the gap. I should go back to the bedroom. I should sit on the edge of the mattress and wait like a good little hostage. But I am Clara Reeves. I do not take orders well, especially not from brooding mafia bosses, no matter how good they smell.
I push the heavy door open.
The office is a war room. The walls are lined with high-resolution monitors. Half of them display a grid of security feeds. I glance at the bottom right screen and instantly regret it. The alleyway behind Il Corvo. Bodies lay motionless in the rain-slicked pavement. I tear my eyes away from the screen, my stomach pitching sideways.
Focus on the desk.
A massive slab of polished mahogany dominates the center of the room. It is covered in organized chaos. Blueprints of the city, stacks of burner phones, and the stolen Bellanti shipping logs. The papers that cost my father his soul and bought my life.
I step fully into the room, drawn toward the desk. The air in here feels different. Heavy. Stale. Like a tomb.
A single desk lamp casts a harsh white circle over the center of the wood. Right in the middle of the light sits a worn manila file folder. The edges are frayed. The paper is yellowed with age, a sharp contrast to the crisp white printer paper of the Bellanti logs surrounding it. He must have pulled this out right before the breach.
A heavy silver cross, the metal oxidized and dark, rests on top of the closed folder like a paperweight.
I step closer. The name on the tab of the folder is written in faded black ink, thick and aggressive.
COSTA, CARLO.
