I don't want to go anywhere else.
My entire life has been a series of cold calculations. Surviving my father, surviving my cousins, mapping exits and counting steps, hiding in the shadows while monsters tore each other apart in the light.
Fabio is dangerous. But he's a dangerous man who stands in front of me, not behind me. He is the first place in twenty-four years that has ever felt safe. He is the first place that has ever felt like it belongs to me.
I choose to stay.
I stop fighting his hold. I let my head drop against his chest. His heart hammers against my cheek, a steady, violent drumbeat.
His arms wrap around me, crushing me against his frame. He exhales a harsh, ragged breath, burying his face in my damp hair. He holds me like I'm the only solid thing left on the planet.
Dante clears his throat in the front seat.
"Matteo's going to ask questions," Dante says quietly. He does not sound angry. He sounds resigned. "He's running point on a siege. Dominic's mobilizing the North Side perimeter. When I pull through those gates with a Bellanti in the back seat, they're going to want answers."
Fabio does not look up from my hair. He does not loosen his grip on me.
"Tell Matteo to lower his weapon before I break his jaw," Fabio says. The threat is casual, final. "Tell Dominic to standdown." Telling the Don to stand down. My pulse spikes at the weight of it.
Dante sighs. "Give me something to work with, brother. You know how they get. They need a classification."
Fabio finally lifts his head. He meets his brother's eyes in the rearview mirror.
"She's mine," Fabio says. His voice is a low, vibrating rumble that travels straight through my ribs. "She is staying with me. She sleeps in my bed. She eats at my table. Anyone who has a problem with it can handle it with me in the training yard. That's the end of it."
The silence in the SUV is unbroken.
Dante nods once. "Understood."
That's it.
No arguments. No mafia posturing. Fabio claims me to the enforcer of the Costa family, and Dante simply accepts it. The weight of that acceptance presses down on my chest. It is so foreign. In my family, every alliance was temporary. Every claim was a vulnerability to be exploited.
Here, a claim is an iron shield.
I close my eyes, letting the steady hum of the tires against the pavement lull my shattered nerves. Fabio continues to rub my arms, his large hands working the freezing dampness out of my bones. He doesn't speak again. He doesn't need to.
We drive through the dark streets of Chicago. The city blurs past the tinted windows. The neon signs and streetlights bleed into a continuous stream of color. I don't map the route. I don't count the turns. I don't calculate the distance to the enemy stronghold. For the first time in my life, I surrender control.
Thirty minutes later, the SUV slows down.
We approach the North Side. The architecture shifts. The buildings grow larger, older. We turn onto a private, tree-lined street.
At the end of the block, the stone walls rise into the night sky. Wrought-iron gates stand closed. Floodlights illuminate the perimeter. Armed men in tactical gear patrol the grounds, their silhouettes sharp against the imposing structure of the restored limestone mansion.
The Costa compound.
The enemy fortress.
My stomach drops. The reality of crossing this threshold hits me hard. I am a Bellanti. My family's blood is literally on the hands of the men standing guard at those gates.
Dante flashes the headlights.
The guards do not open the gates immediately. Two men step forward, assault rifles held at the low ready. They approach the driver's side window. Dante rolls it down just enough to be seen.
"Status," Dante says.
"Bellanti strike force hit the west wall twenty minutes ago," the guard replies, his voice tight. "Santi and Enzo pushed them back. Two dead on our side. Five dead on theirs. They retreated, but they are regrouping. Matteo has the compound on full lockdown."
