I cross my arms over my chest. "I am perfectly aware of the architectural layout of this penthouse. I just watched you slaughter five men downstairs. Do you honestly think I'm going to walk out onto the Chicago streets at three in the morning?"
"I will give you a security detail. A convoy. A new identity." He takes a step forward. The sheer mass of him eclipses the kitchen lights. The thick gold chain resting against his collarbone catches the gleam of the under-cabinet lighting. Silver streaks at his temples give away the brutal twenty years he has survived since finding his father in the rain. "I will buy you a house in a different state. You are free."
"I don't want a house in a different state."
"Your apartment is a crater, Clara. The Bellantis blew it to hell. You have nothing out there."
"Exactly." I step directly into his space. The distance between us vanishes. The sheer heat radiating off his body is a crushing anchor. A wall of pure, unadulterated protection. "My apartment is gone. My car is probably wired to explode. My father sold me to a crime syndicate to cover his gambling debts. My entire civilian life is currently resting at the bottom of a dumpster."
His jaw locks. The muscles tick violently beneath his coarse beard. "Which is why you need to leave. Before the war touches you."
"The war already touched me." I poke him hard in the center of his chest. It is like poking a solid brick wall. "Arthur Reeves dragged me into this. You pulled me out of the line of fire. You bought my debt. You gave me a safe place to sleep. You stood in front of a tactical hit squad and painted the alley red to make sure nobody got through that door. And then you burned the only thing binding me to you."
"Because you are not a transaction." The ferocity in his tone vibrates right through the floorboards. "You are not collateral."
"I know." I tilt my head back to meet his dark, obsessive stare. "Which is why I am staying. Because I want to."
The absolute shock on his face is priceless. The terrifying Underboss of the Costa family, the man who orchestrates violence with a flick of his wrist, is short-circuiting in the middle of his own kitchen.
He grabs my hips. His massive hands span the entire width of my waist. He hauls me flush against his solid body. The intoxicating, uniquely Matteo scent of spice, aged rum, and heatsurrounds me. It is the scent of a sanctuary. The scent of a man who builds fortresses and fills them with fresh bread to quiet the demons in his head.
"You do not understand what you are accepting," he murmurs, his nose brushing against my temple. "The logs your father stole. The ones I just handed over to Dominic. They prove the Bellantis are importing military-grade munitions through the south side docks. This isn't a small territorial dispute. This is going to be a bloodbath. The streets are going to run red."
"So keep me off the streets."
"I kill people, Clara."
"I noticed." I wrap my arms around his thick waist, resting my cheek against his chest. The steady, heavy thud of his heart is the most comforting sound in the world. "I also noticed you left one alive downstairs to send a message. Very cinematic. Very Godfather."
A harsh, breathless laugh escapes his throat. He buries his face in my neck. His coarse beard scratches against my sensitive skin. The contact is an anchor in the middle of a hurricane. The absolute surrender of the most dangerous man in the city.
"You are insane," he whispers against my collarbone.
"I am a third-grade teacher. Insanity is a prerequisite for the job."
I tighten my grip on him.
"My life is gone. My red pens, my lesson plans, my favorite coffee mug with the chip on the handle. Arthur took all of it. I am not going to pretend I'm not furious about that. I am devastated. But I am not going to let the Bellantis win. And I am not going tolet you push me away just because you want to play the tragic, lonely martyr."
Matteo pulls back just enough to look at my face. The obsessive possession in his dark eyes is absolute. A physical weight pressing down on me. He lifts a hand, tracing the curve of my cheek with a calloused thumb.
"I am selfish," he states simply. "I gave you the door, but if you had actually walked toward it, I would have locked it. I would have swallowed the key. I was lying."
"I figured."
"You are mine."
"I know."
"Not a debt. Not a contract." He frames my face with both hands. The gentle touch is entirely at odds with the blood drying on his boots. "Mine. My woman. My absolute priority."
"Yes."
The single word seals the pact. The twenty-year war raging inside Matteo's mind finally goes silent. The tension bleeding out of his massive frame is a tangible shift in the room's atmosphere. He exhales a long, shaky breath, resting his forehead against mine. We stand in the center of the kitchen, surrounded by the remnants of midnight baking and the invisible scars of our pasts.
"Come with me," he commands softly.
He drops one hand to grip mine, lacing our fingers together. He turns and leads me out of the kitchen. We walk down the long, shadowed hallway of the penthouse. The luxury of thespace is a stark contrast to the violence lurking just beyond the reinforced walls. Thick Persian rugs muffle our footsteps. Dark mahogany trim frames the bulletproof windows looking out over the glittering, rain-slicked Chicago skyline.
