I do not pull out. I stay buried deep inside her, my softening cock still resting flush within her.
The blizzard continues to scream outside, throwing snow and ice against the barricaded windows. The Bellanti bodies freeze in the snowdrifts around the perimeter. The extraction team is still grounded, waiting on a dawn window.
I do not care.
The world outside this cabin does not exist. The war, the family, the vengeance—it all fades into irrelevance.
I wrap my arms around her waist, holding her tight against my chest. She rests her hand on the back of my head, her fingers tangling in my silver-streaked hair.
I close my eyes.
For the first time in twenty years, I am not cold.
Epilogue
REESE
The rhythmic,concussive thud of rotor blades vibrates through the warped pine floorboards beneath us. It starts as a low, ominous hum in the center of my chest, a physical pulse that builds rapidly into a deafening, mechanical roar. I blink against the dim, gray morning light filtering through the splintered gaps in our barricaded windows. The fire we built last night has burned down to a pile of glowing orange embers, fighting a losing battle against the sub-zero chill radiating from the cabin walls.
I am cocooned in a scratchy wool blanket, tucked so tightly against Santi's side on the bearskin rug that I cannot tell where his heat ends and my own begins.
His left arm is locked across my waist, heavy and immovable. He is already awake. I suspect he has been awake for hours. He possesses a terrifying capacity for stillness, a silent watchfulness that never fully powers down.
"They are here," he states. His voice is low against my ear, rough with sleep and the lingering, intense aftermath of what we did on this rug only a few hours ago.
He shifts, sitting up in one fluid, economical movement. The freezing air immediately bites at my bare shoulders, raisinggoosebumps along my collarbones. I reach blindly for my clothes, scattered across the dusty floorboards in the chaotic aftermath of his possession.
Santi does not scramble. He does not rush. He moves with that lethal, aristocratic grace that has defined every moment of our survival. He pulls a fresh black shirt from his canvas bag, his muscles bunching and rippling beneath the dark fabric. He grabs his Glock from the floor, checking the chamber with a sharp, mechanical click that echoes loudly in the small room.
"Costa men?" I ask. I pull my thermal sweater over my head. My entire body aches. My thighs tremble slightly. It is a good ache. A deeply permanent, physical reminder that I am his.
"Yes." He holsters the weapon at his hip. "Stay behind me."
The helicopter touches down in the clearing outside. The sheer force of the downdraft shakes the cabin walls, rattling the hinges and sending a fine dusting of snow drifting down from the exposed wooden rafters.
I strap my leather boots on, my fingers clumsy with the stiff laces. The reality of what happens next settles over my shoulders like a weighted net. We are leaving the isolated simplicity of the wilderness. We are stepping out of the brutal survival vacuum and directly into Chicago. Into his world. A world of iron gates, heavily armed guards, and a long blood feud that dictates every breath his family takes.
Santi moves to the oak table we shoved against the door. He grips the edge and effortlessly drags the massive piece of furniture aside, the wood screeching loudly against the floorboards. He kicks the splintered front door open.
The blizzard has finally broken. The storm has passed, leaving behind a blinding, endless expanse of pristine white powder beneath a sharply brilliant blue sky.
A sleek, black helicopter sits directly in the center of the clearing. Men clad in dark winter combat gear are alreadyspreading out, their boots crunching heavily in the deep snow. They move with terrifying military precision, securing the perimeter with assault rifles raised.
One of them steps forward from the pack. He stops a respectful ten yards away from the porch and lowers the barrel of his weapon toward the snow.
"Santi," the man calls out.
"Status," Santi barks back. His tone is different now. The soft, fierce devotion he showed me on the rug is locked away behind an impenetrable wall of authority. He is the Shadow again.
"Perimeter is secure. We have all eight bodies out back—three from last night, five from the dawn assault. Site is contained. Cleaners are already en route to scrub the site." The operative’s gaze flicks briefly to me, then instantly snaps back to Santi.
I stand on the porch and stare at the strike team. They look at Santi the way men look at a god of war. They do not look at me directly. It is a deliberate, trained avoidance. But I see the rapid calculation in their peripheral vision. They are cataloging my presence. The civilian. The charter pilot. The woman wearing their lethal boss's jacket.
Santi turns to face me. He reaches out, ignoring his men. His hand slides beneath my hair, wrapping warmly around the back of my neck.
"Ready?" he asks, his gaze cataloging my expression.
"I don't exactly have luggage," I say dryly, gesturing to my empty hands.
