"Matteo's losing his mind," Dante says calmly. He shifts the SUV into drive. "The perimeter alarms at the compound have been tripping since you went off-grid. Bellanti strike force at the gates. But we are at war. The leak came from inside the perimeter. Santi locked it down. But we're at siege."
The words drop like anvils into the heated cabin.
Siege.
The Bellantis attacked the Costa compound. My family brought the assault to their gates. And I am sitting in the back of a Costa vehicle, wearing a Costa jacket.
My chest tightens. The oxygen leaves my lungs. I know what happens next. I know how mafia politics work. I am a Bellanti. My last name is the reason their gates are being assaulted. My bloodline is currently shooting at their family. I'm a liability. I'm the enemy.
I pull my hands away from Fabio. I press myself against the door, trying to create distance between us. The leather seat squeaks under my wet jeans.
"Drop me off," I say. My voice is thin, but I force it to steady. "Drop me off at the next intersection. I have cash hidden in a locker at Union Station. I have a fake ID. I can disappear."
Dante doesn't hit the brakes. He keeps driving, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Fabio goes still.
The frantic energy bleeds out of his shoulders. The checking-for-injuries panic vanishes. It is replaced by a terrifying stillness. The temperature in the back seat seems to drop twenty degrees.
He slowly turns his head. His eyes lock onto my face. The sharp line of his jaw clenches.
"What did you just say?" His voice is barely a whisper. It's the most dangerous sound I've ever heard in my life.
I swallow hard. The logical part of my brain insists I follow through. “Your family is under attack. By my family. If you bring me to the compound, Matteo will put a bullet in my head the second I step out of this car. Dominic will demand my execution. I'm a Bellanti. You can't bring me home."
"Home," Fabio repeats.
He ignores everything else I said. He zeroes in on that single word.
My jaw sets tight. I hate the tears burning the back of my eyes. "Drop me off, Fabio. It's the smartest play. I gave you the dock intel. We're even."
He moves so fast my body flinches before my brain registers it's him.
His large hands close around my shoulders. He pulls me across the leather seat, out of my defensive corner and directly against his chest. I gasp, my hands flying up to press against his wet shirt.
"Don't ever," he snarls, his face inches from mine, "ever calculate my actions again. Don't run the odds. Don't tell me what the smartest play is."
"Fabio—"
"You're not going to Union Station. You're not using a fake ID." His fingers bite into my shoulders. Not enough to bruise, but enough to anchor me. "Your family is dead to you. They sent a strike team to put a bullet in your spine. They planted a tracker in your bag. They don't get to claim you anymore."
My breath hitches. The certainty in his voice shatters my logic.
"I'm a Bellanti," I whisper, the truth tasting like ash on my tongue.
"You're mine."
The words echo in the small cabin. Not a negotiation. A statement of fact.
I stare up into his eyes. I search for the hesitation, for the regret, for the realization that I am ruining his life.
I find nothing but raw, scorched-earth possession. He's consumed by it. Right now, in this cabin, the war doesn't exist for him. His brothers don't exist for him. He only cares about keeping me alive and in reach.
I let out a shaky breath. My hands curl into the wet fabric of his shirt.
I could fight him. I could demand Dante pull over. I know how to disappear. I planned this defection for six months, mapped out safe houses in three different states, stocked burner phones and untraceable cash. I could vanish into the ether and never look over my shoulder again.
But looking at the man holding me together with his bare hands, I realize the truth.
