"Hold the lower perimeter," Matteo commands the soldier on the other end of the line. "Do not let them breach the elevator shafts. Anyone steps foot in the lobby, you execute them. No prisoners. No survivors."
He ends the call, his grip on the phone white-knuckled. He shoves it back into his pocket.
"The Bellantis," I whisper.
"They didn't wait." Matteo circles the island. His strides are long, predatory, and brutally purposeful. "They brought a secondary assault team. They are hitting the restaurant again. They are trying to breach the building."
He reaches me in two steps. He doesn't ask. He grabs my waist and lifts me entirely off the stool, hauling my body flush against his chest. The heavy gold chain presses into my collarbone. His usual dark, spicy scent is instantly overpowered by the sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline.
"You stay behind me," Matteo growls, his voice dropping into a feral, guttural register. The twenty years of silence. The trauma. The obsessive need to protect what is his. It all coalesces into this single, violent moment. "No one touches what is mine. No one."
10
Matteo
Steel shutters grind.Heavy titanium plates slam down over the floor-to-ceiling glass, the deafening mechanical roar drowning out the distant wail of city sirens. Thick steel locking mechanisms engage with the reinforced floor tracks, echoing through the massive penthouse with a brutal, final boom. Red emergency lights strobe across the marble surfaces of the kitchen, casting violent shadows over the spilled white flour. The entire penthouse seals. A perfect, impenetrable vault suspended five stories above the Chicago streets.
My burner phone vibrates violently against my thigh.
Clara stands frozen by the kitchen island. Her chest heaves. The oversized shirt she wears slips off one pale, soft shoulder.
I draw my Glock. My heavy thumb clicks the safety off. The sharp metallic snap cuts through the silence. No one touches her. No one breathes her air.
I answer the phone. "Talk."
"Lobby breach," Dominic's voice barks through the speaker. Semiautomatic gunfire erupts in the background, followedby the distinct, heavy thud of Costa soldiers returning fire. "Secondary Bellanti squad. They tried the loading dock first. Blew the service doors. We have them pinned at the elevator banks."
My jaw locks. The muscles in my thick neck pull tight. I reach out and grip Clara's hip with my free hand, pulling her soft curves flush against my side.
"Leave none alive," I growl.
"Already done," Dominic replies. A wet, sickening crunch sounds through the line. "Turi sealed the exterior doors remotely. They walked into a slaughterhouse. Keep your lockdown engaged. Nobody rides that private elevator tonight."
The line goes dead.
I toss the phone onto the flour-dusted marble counter.
The threat is contained. The Bellanti trash is bleeding out on the Italian tile of the lobby below us. The family protects the fortress. Dominic has the ground level. Turi controls the grid. The Costa syndicate is a lethal machine, and they are executing my enemies exactly as trained.
I stare at the heavy reinforced steel doors of my private elevator. Unmoving. Silent.
Clara is safe.
She presses against my ribs. Her small hands grip the dark fabric of my black shirt.
Her scent rises above the sharp metallic tang of adrenaline. Clean skin. Sweet soap. The hot, heavy spike of pure arousal.
The twenty-year roar of rain and sirens vanishes from my skull. The endless, suffocating loop of Carlo's blood soaking into the pavement, the sterile chemical stench of the county morgue, the deafening silence of a twenty-four-year-old man burying his father. Gone.
Utter silence.
The only sound in my entire world is her breathing.
Clara.
My woman.
I holster my weapon.
