Her mouth falls open. Pure outrage paints her features. "You hijacked my entire existence in one afternoon."
"I secured your existence." I correct her again. My thick, coarse beard scratches against my collar as I tilt my head. "If you had gone home today, the Bellanti cleaners would have been waiting in your hallway. They would have dragged you into a van. They would have tortured you to find out where your father went. They would have left your body in an alley to send a message."
My own words taste like ash. The image of her bleeding out in the rain flashes behind my eyes. The war room in my mind violently rejects the scenario. I will burn Chicago to the ground before a single drop of her blood touches the pavement.
"They don't care that you grade spelling tests, Clara." I keep my voice low. A heavy, dark rumble. "They only care that your last name is Reeves. You are leverage. You are a target."
She stares at me. The reality of the violence finally starts to sink through her stubbornness. Her soft, clean scent spikes with a sharp note of adrenaline.
"And what are you?" She challenges me. Her voice is quieter now. Steadier. "Are you going to torture me?"
"No." The word is absolute.
"Are you going to use me as bait?"
"Never." My jaw tightens. The very thought makes my blood boil.
"Then why am I here?" She gestures wildly to the opulent penthouse. The velvet sofas. The abstract art. The gleaming kitchen. "If I'm not a hostage and I'm not bait, what is my purpose in this cage?"
Because you are mine.
I don't say the words out loud. Not yet. She isn't ready for the feral reality of my obsession. She thinks this is a business transaction. She thinks the million-dollar debt is the reason she is locked in this tower. Let her think it. Let her focus her anger on the ledger instead of the man standing in front of her.
"You are collateral." I feed her the lie smoothly. "Until I verify the shipping logs your father provided. Until I dismantle the Bellanti armories. You stay here. You stay safe. That is the end of the negotiation."
"I am not a piece of furniture." She marches right back into my personal space. The bravery on this woman is staggering. She points a perfectly manicured finger at the center of my chest. She pokes the heavy muscle hidden beneath my tailored shirt."I don't sit in a corner and wait for men to finish their little turf wars."
The contact is a live wire, sparking a raw, low-belly burn I haven't felt in decades. My hand moves before my brain can stop it.
I catch her wrist.
My massive, calloused fingers wrap completely around her delicate bones. I don't squeeze. I hold her. The contrast of my dark, scarred skin against her pale softness is a visual brand.
Clara gasps. She tries to yank her arm back. I hold firm.
"This isn't a little turf war." I pull her half an inch closer. Enough to let her feel the brutal heat radiating off my body. "This is a twenty-year blood feud. Men die every single day. Your father handed you a death sentence. I handed you a lifeline. You will take it. You will stay in this penthouse."
She stares up at me. Her wide eyes track the sharp lines of my face. She takes in the grey at my temples. The darkness in my stare. The absolute, unyielding stone of my posture.
"You're a bully." She whispers the insult. It lacks venom. It sounds almost breathless.
"I am a Costa." I release her wrist slowly. My thumb drags over her pulse point before I let completely go. "Bullying implies I want to hurt you. I don't. I want to keep you breathing."
She steps back, rubbing her wrist where my skin touched hers. The defiance is still there, but the edges are softening. She is a smart woman. She is doing the math. She knows the streets of Chicago are a slaughterhouse right now. She knows the heavysteel doors of this elevator are the only things standing between her and a shallow grave.
"Down the hall." I point toward the long corridor extending from the living room. "Last door on the left. Master suite. It has a lock on the inside. You can lock me out. You can barricade the door. You can do whatever you need to do to feel safe."
She looks down the dark hallway. She looks back at me.
"Where are you sleeping?" She asks. The suspicion is thick.
"I told you." I walk back toward the wet bar to grab my scotch. "I don't sleep."
"Everyone sleeps." She argues purely out of habit. The sassy teacher correcting the difficult student.
"Not me." I knock back the rest of the amber liquid. The burn is comforting. It matches the fire in my veins. "There is a guest room opposite yours. My clothes are in there. But I will be out here. On the couch. Or in the kitchen."
She studies me for a long moment. She is looking for the lie. She is looking for the hidden trapdoor in my logic. She won't find one. I am exactly what I appear to be. A massive, violent man entirely obsessed with keeping her safe.
