"There's no difference." His jaw locks tight. The muscles bulge beneath his skin. "Twenty years of war. Twenty years of your family putting bodies in the ground. You think handing over a few shipping schedules buys you a clean slate? Your uncles murdered my family."
The accusation hangs in the air. Two decades of blood feud press down on us. The blood in the streets. The retaliation. I am standing in front of a man whose parents and uncle were executed by my bloodline. The grief does not look like sorrow on him. It looks like feral, destructive rage.
"I'm not asking for a clean slate. I'm asking for asylum." I keep my voice clipped and professional. "I give you the inside workings of the Bellanti machine, and you give me a way out. Starting with getting me out of this freezing sewer."
A dark, humorless chuckle escapes his chest. He closes the distance. Two feet away. The heat rolling off his frame chases away the remaining chill in the air. The scent of motor oil is intoxicating. My body betrays my logic. My thighs press together against the slow burn. The worst possible time to find a man attractive. My life is on the line, and my hormones decide to throw a parade.
"You don't dictate the terms of your surrender, Catalina." He says my name with a gritty promise. He strips away the polished, aristocratic Bellanti veneer and turns the syllables into a threat.
"I'm not surrendering. I'm negotiating."
"Negotiations require leverage. You have a burner phone and a leather bag." He steps closer. He looms over me, a physical manifestation of intimidation.
"I have the location of the South Side armory. The security codes for the river warehouses. The daily guard rotation for my uncle's private estate." I list the items like a ledger. "I know when the shipment of textiles arrives at the 43rd street docks tomorrow night. I know what is hidden inside those crates. You want to crack one of the Bellantis’ strongest routes. I have the sledgehammer."
He stares down at me. The quiet pulls tight like piano wire. He's evaluating my use. Weighing my life against my intel. The muscle in his cheek says he hates that I have leverage, hates that a Bellanti is outmaneuvering him in his own territory. A muscle jumps in his cheek again. The hostility is bright. Underneath it, something rawer waits.
"You're lying." His low growl breaks the silence.
"About which part?" I raise an eyebrow, leaning slightly into his space. A dangerous game. "The armory? The warehouses? The guard rotations?"
"About all of it. A Bellanti doesn’t betray their own blood. It goes against your programming. This is a trap. You’re bait."
"My aunt Maria betrayed her blood. She tried to leave." The words tumble out raw and jagged. "She was executed. The lesson was taught to me in a stiff black dress before I was old enough to know what a funeral was. Don't tell me about my programming. I was programmed to survive."
Fabio's eyes flash. The pure aggression wavers for a fraction of a second, replaced by sharp, focused attention. The Costa intelligence network is flawless. He knows what happened to Maria Bellanti. He knows the gas station. He knows the art teacher. His chest expands as he takes a slow, deep breath. The scent of smoke flares again, grounding in a world built on lies.
"Survival means staying hidden," he murmurs. The shouting drops. The low, vibrating danger takes its place. "Walking into my territory is suicide."
"Walking into your territory is my only option." I refuse to back down. The space between us is nonexistent. I can feel the heat radiating from his chest. The sharp line of his jaw is locked tight.
"I could snap your neck right now. Leave you to rot in this tunnel." He raises a hand. His fingers, thick and calloused, hover inches from my throat. He does not touch me. The almost-touch is torture. My skin prickles. Fire races across my collarbone in anticipation.
"You could," I agree softly. "But you won't. Because you need me."
"I need the intel. I do not need you."
"They are a package deal." I offer a tight, defiant smile. I practiced my resting bitch face in the mirror for a decade. It is a Bellanti family heirloom. "I memorized the ledgers. I burned the hard copies. The drive is useless without the decryption phrase in my head. You kill me, the information dies with me."
He drops his hand, frustrated by the checkmate. He steps back, the loss of his body heat immediate and devastating. The cold river air rushes back in.
"You are a liability," he growls.
"I'm your new best friend."
He scoffs, a harsh, abrasive sound echoing off the brick. "Don’t push your luck, Catalina. You’re a prisoner. Nothing more. You stay in this tunnel until I verify the first piece of intel. The 43rd street docks. If the textile crates are there, we move to the next step. If it is a lie, I come back here and finish the job."
"I'm not staying in this damp, freezing crypt." I cross my arms, emphasizing my curves beneath the coat. His eyes drop to my chest instantly. The feral instinct in his gaze spikes. Heis fighting a violent war inside his own head, tearing between absolute distrust and raw physical attraction.
"You’re staying where I put you." His voice drops an octave. It becomes a command. An absolute authority.
"There's no heat down here. No food. I'm shivering."
He steps directly into my space again. The solid wall of his chest brushes against the front of my coat. The physical contact sends a violent shock through my system. Every nerve ending ignites. My oxygen cuts off.
"You will survive the cold," he murmurs, his face inches from mine. "It is far better than what your uncles would do to you."
He is right. The stone is a luxury compared to the Bellanti basement. The steel door at the end of the tunnel groans, settling into its hinges. We both snap our attention to the metal. The paranoia is shared. We are enemies, standing on opposite sides of a decades-old blood feud, but right now, in this subterranean space, we share a singular goal. Survival.
