"Let them come."
The interruption is quiet. It is deadlier than a scream.
She freezes. Her mouth parts slightly.
“Let Dominic send a strike team,” I continue, my voice vibrating with a lethal, terrifying calm. “Let Matteo try to breach that iron door. Let Santi bring his best weapons. I’ll stand between you and every man who steps foot in this tunnel. Blood. Name. None of it matters. I’d burn the whole world down before I let you go.”
She stares at me. The magnitude of the vow hits her. I'm promising a fratricidal war. I'm tearing down the twenty-year legacy of my family for a woman who walked into my life a few hours ago.
"You can’t stand against your own brothers,” she whispers.
"Watch me."
I hold her gaze. I let her see everything churning in mine. I need her to understand the finality of her position. She's not an asset. She's not a defector. She's mine.
"The broadcast means nothing," I tell her. The words are sharp, cutting through the air. "Their lies mean nothing. The timestamp on that packet is broken. The stream iscompromised. That's a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, the only thing that matters is that you belong to me."
She absorbs the intensity. She searches my eyes for any sign of hesitation. I give her none. I give her only the bottomless possessive violence I hold for her.
The blanket slips from her shoulder again. She does not pull it up.
"They won't stop," she warns me. The fight drains out of her posture. The exhaustion of her entire life crashes down on her shoulders. "My family. Your family. The syndicate. They will never let us walk away from this."
"They don't have a choice."
I finally allow myself to touch her. The rage subsides just enough to grant me control of my hands.
I reach out. I wrap my fingers around the soft curve of her jaw. My thumb rests against her cheekbone. The skin is warm. It is real. It is the only truth I accept in this subterranean tomb.
She leans into the touch. The simple act of surrender nearly brings me to my knees.
She closes her eyes. A long, shuddering sigh escapes her lips. The tension leaves her spine. She accepts the fortress I am building around her. She accepts the blood I am willing to spill to keep her safe.
"What do we do?" she asks. Her voice is soft. Trusting.
The question shifts my brain out of the volatile rage and into pure tactical defense. The rage settles. The soldier takes over.
I drop my hand from her face. The separation is a physical ache.
"We fortify," I state.
I turn my back on her. I walk directly to the heavy iron door. The rusted hinges hold. The deadbolts are solid steel. I check the locking mechanisms. I slide the steel bar into place. The clang echoes through the tunnel, signaling full lockdown.
I move to the utility boxes Vincenzo rigged into the wall last year. I rip the cover off the main breaker. I bypass the external power grid. I switch the speakeasy lighting to the internal generator. The single overhead bulb flickers, shifts from sickly yellow to a harsh, sterile white, and hums with steady power. We're off the grid now. No external switch can plunge this room into darkness.
I retrieve my tactical bag from the corner.
I unzip the heavy canvas bag. The metallic slide of the zipper is deafening. I pull a fresh magazine for the Sig Sauer from the side pouch. Fully loaded. Brass casings gleaming.
My hand drops to my thigh holster. I draw the customized Sig Sauer. I confirm the chamber. The sharp, mechanical snap is the lullaby of the Costa family.
I check the chamber. One in. I place the weapon on the wooden crate, right next to the burner phone.
Catalina watches my every move. She doesn't blink at the sight of the gun. She understands the language of violence. She was raised in the same brutal world I was.
I pull three spare magazines from the bag. I line them up on the wood surface. The brass casings gleam under the harsh lights.
"Get dressed," I order without looking back at her. My voice is strictly operational.
