"Open the gates," Dante orders.
The guard hesitates. He shines a flashlight into the back seat. The beam hits Fabio's face, then slides over to me.
The guard freezes. The flash of recognition is unmistakable. He knows exactly who I am. He tightens his grip on his rifle.
Fabio snarls. The sound rattles off the windows. He twists across the seat and over me, blocking the light with his shoulder.
"Get that light out of my car before I take your eyes," Fabio roars.
The guard stumbles back, quickly clicking the flashlight off. "Apologies, Fabio. I didn't?—"
"Open the fucking gates," Fabio snaps.
The guard nods frantically and signals the gatehouse.
The iron gates slowly grind open.
Dante rolls the window up and drives through.
We pass the outer wall. The restored limestone mansion looms ahead, an imposing fortress of power and violence. The grounds are swarming with activity. Men in tactical gear move with brutal efficiency.
Dante parks the SUV near the side entrance, right next to the industrial kitchen doors.
He kills the engine. "Matteo's inside. I'll go first. Give me thirty seconds to clear the room."
Dante steps out of the car.
Fabio turns to me. The anger from dealing with the guard vanishes. He reaches up, his knuckles gently brushing against my cold cheek.
"You're safe here," he says softly. It's a promise etched in stone. "Don't flinch. Don't look away from them. You belong here now."
I take a deep breath. I nod.
He pushes the door open and steps out into the frigid night air. He turns back, offering me his hand.
I look at his large, calloused palm. A killer's hand. The same hand that hasn't let go of me.
I place my hand in his.
His fingers close around mine, warm and solid. He pulls me out of the SUV and tucks me securely against his side. His arm wraps around my waist and locks there.
We walk toward the side entrance.
The air smells like cold stone, wet pavement, and the sharp tang of gunpowder drifting from the wall. The reality of the mafia war presses down on my chest with every step.
But anchored against Fabio's side, surrounded by his scent of motor oil and smoke, my chest stops caving in.
I feel fortified.
Dante pushes the metal doors open. The bright, sterile lights of Matteo's industrial kitchen spill out into the night.
I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and walk into the lion's den.
Matteo Costa stands at the stainless-steel island. He's covered in sweat and soot, a tactical vest strapped tightly over his chest. He holds a tablet in one hand and a radio in the other. He looks up as we enter.
His eyes lock onto me. The resemblance between him and Fabio is striking, but through the fear pounding behind my ribs, Matteo's eyes read calculating, cold, stripped of mercy. He's the underboss. The man my files said orchestrates the slaughter.
Matteo drops the radio onto the steel counter. The clatter rings loudly in the quiet kitchen.
