"Yes."
"The Bellantis will retaliate. The war is going to escalate."
"It is already escalating," I tell her honestly. "They tried to breach my restaurant. They tried to take you. There is no negotiation left. We will burn their ports. We will systematically dismantle their operations until there is nothing left but dirt."
Clara does not flinch at the violence in my words. She accepts the darkness. She accepts the brutal reality of my existence.
"Will you be safe?" she asks, searching my eyes.
"I am a Costa," I answer smoothly. "I am the nightmare they check under their beds for. Nothing kills me, Clara. Especially not now. I have too much to come home to."
She smiles, a soft, beautiful expression that punches straight through my armor. "You better come home. You still owe me a baking lesson."
I lean down, pressing my lips firmly against her forehead. The gesture is a vow. It is a permanent mark of my protection. "Every night. Whatever you want."
I pull back and look around the pristine, commercial-grade kitchen. The flour bins. The marble counters. This place was my asylum. Now, it is our fortress.
"Are you hungry?" I ask her, my voice gruff with lingering emotion.
Clara laughs, a bright, chiming sound that bounces off the steel appliances. "It is four in the morning, Matteo. We just survived a mafia hit, you burned a million dollars, and you want to know if I'm hungry?"
"I need to keep my hands busy," I admit, staring at the soft curve of her lips. "If I don't start kneading dough right now, I am goingto throw you over my shoulder, carry you into the bedroom, and not let you out for a week."
Her eyes widen slightly, a flush of heat creeping up her neck. She bites her lower lip, considering the threat.
"Start baking," she says, her voice suddenly breathy. "Before I change my mind about the bedroom."
I turn toward the pantry. My mind is clear. The rain is gone. The morgue is gone. The war outside these walls will rage, but inside this penthouse, I have secured my absolute victory.
She is mine.
9
Clara
The fragile grayashes of a million-dollar contract form a gray mountain on the pristine black marble of the kitchen island. A gentle draft from the overhead vents catches the top layer. Dark flakes scatter across the sterile surface.
The proof of my father's cowardice is gone.
The silver tray sits cool against the stone, holding the remnants of his burning vow.
Silence dominates the penthouse. The heavy, pressurized quiet of a secure bunker suspended high above the Chicago streets.
Matteo stands completely still. His massive chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven increments. The brutal lines of his face are carved from pure tension. His dark eyes track my every movement, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He incinerated a fortune. He burned the only piece of leverage keeping me tethered to this cage. He gave me the door.
I sweep the remaining ashes into my palm. The burnt paper crumbles into fine dust against my skin. I walk over to thestainless steel trash can, press the pedal with my bare foot, and dump the remains of my former life into the garbage.
I wipe my dusty hands on my sweatpants.
"You're going to stain the marble, Costa," I say.
The words break the frozen spell in the room. Matteo blinks. The raw, territorial aggression radiating off his giant frame shifts into something desperately confused. He expects me to run. He thinks the gesture of burning that paper was going to send me sprinting for the private elevator, terrified of the blood and the violence and the mafia war brewing exactly one floor below us.
He clearly doesn't know teachers. I have handled violent parents, screaming children, and active shooter drills. A brooding, overprotective mobster who stress-bakes focaccia at two in the morning is a walk in the park.
"Clara." His voice is a low, gravelly rasp. "I should have put you on a plane."
