"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because she does not belong to a contract," I state fiercely. "She does not belong to her father. She belongs to me. I will not have her looking at me like I am a debt collector holding a blade to her throat. She is my woman."
Dominic stares at me for a heavy moment. He understands the curse of our bloodline. When a Costa man claims a woman, the rest of the world ceases to exist. He sees the absolute unyielding truth in my posture.
He nods once. "The money is transferred. The syndicate is whole. The debt is yours to do with as you please."
I reach across the bar. I pull out the physical promissory note signed by Arthur Reeves. The piece of paper that chained Clara to the mafia. I grab a heavy silver ashtray and a silver lighter from the counter.
I flick the lighter. The flame catches the edge of the thick paper. I watch the signature of the man who sold his own daughter turn brown, then black, then curl into ash.
I drop the burning contract into the silver tray. I watch it disappear until there is nothing left but a grey mountain of debt. It is the most expensive fire I have ever built. And the most necessary.
Turi watches the fire consume the paper. "She will run, Matteo. If you take away the chain, she has no reason to stay in the dark with us."
I stare at the ashes. "If she runs, I will follow her. But she will not be kept here by a piece of paper."
I pick up the silver tray. The metal is warm against my palm. I leave the shipping logs with Dominic. I do not say another word. I turn my back on the cleaners and the blood and my cousin, walking straight back to the elevator.
The ride up to the penthouse is agonizing. My ribs rattle against my lungs. My pulse thuds heavily in my ears.
What if Turi is right? What if she takes the exit?
I am a brutal man. I am forty-four years old. I have spent my entire adult life executing orders, crushing skulls, and drowning in the trauma of my father's murder. Clara is sunshine. She is chalkboard dust and fresh linen. She is a civilian who gradesspelling tests and bakes cookies. She does not belong in a world where men blow up buildings for leverage.
I want to lock her in the biometric closet and swallow the key. I want to cage her in my bed and keep her isolated from the rot of Chicago.
But I love her.
The truth slams into my skull right as the elevator doors part.
I love her.
It is feral, instantaneous, and permanent. I love her enough to burn the chain.
I step out into the massive, silent living area. The penthouse is dim. I walk down the hall. I stop outside the office door. I knock twice.
The deadbolt clicks. Clara opens the door. She is still clutching the thick wool throw around her shoulders, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. Her hair is messy. Her eyes are sharp.
"You're back," she says, her voice cautious. She scans my clean shirt, then looks down at the silver tray in my hands. The ashes are still smoking slightly. "What is that?"
I walk past her, heading toward the kitchen. The kitchen is my sanctuary. The place where I bake bread in the middle of the night to silence the dead. It is the only place I can have this conversation.
She follows me. She climbs onto one of the tall barstools at the marble island.
I set the silver tray down on the counter between us.
"When you arrived here," I start, my voice low, completely devoid of its usual demanding edge. "I told you that your father sold you. I told you that his debt was a million dollars, and because he handed over the stolen Bellanti logs, your life was forfeit. I claimed you as collateral."
Clara stares at the tray. "I remember. You were very clear about owning me."
"I lied."
Her head snaps up. "What?"
"I don't own you by contract." I push the silver tray an inch closer to her. "That is your father's promissory note. The contract that bound you to the Costa syndicate. I bought it from the family treasury five minutes ago. Then I burned it."
