I look undone. And for the first time in my life, I look free.
Fabio stands up. He ignores the clean clothes laid out for him, pulling on a pair of tactical cargo pants and a black t-shirt that stretches tight across his chest. He's a loaded gun in human shape, and every safety is off for me.
He closes the distance between us, standing behind me in the mirror. His hands swallow my hips. He stares at the bruise on my neck, raw satisfaction tightening every line of his face.
"Ready to brave the lion's den?" I ask, meeting his eyes in the reflection.
"They're the ones who need to be ready," he rumbles.
He takes my hand. His calloused fingers swallow mine. We walk out of the soundproof sanctuary and into the hallway of the restored limestone mansion. The Costa compound is a fortress of wealth and lethal efficiency. Oak doors line the corridor. Imported rugs muffle our footsteps. High above, hidden within the ornate crown molding, the glass lenses of surveillance cameras track our every move.
I clock the security grid on instinct. Four cameras in this hall alone. Interlocking fields of view. Bulletproof glass in the massive arched windows at the end of the corridor. The Bellanti compound was built on paranoia and fear, a gilded prison designed to keep the rats from eating each other. This place is different. This fortress points its guns outward. The people inside are allowed to breathe.
We reach the grand staircase. The low hum of voices drifts up from the ground floor, threaded with espresso and roasting garlic. The industrial kitchen. Matteo's domain.
My steps slow for a fraction of a second. The weight of two decades of spilled blood presses down on my shoulders. I am Catalina Bellanti. My last name is a curse in this house. The men downstairs have been carving pieces off my family for years.
Fabio feels the hesitation. He stops on the limestone landing. He doesn't offer soft words or gentle encouragement. He turns, his frame blocking the staircase.
"You want to go back to the room, we go back. If you want to walk out the front gates, I'll burn them down and we walk out. You give the word, Catalina."
"No." I lift my chin. "I'm not hiding. I just need a second to remember that I'm not a prisoner anymore."
"You're a queen in this house," he states, the feral intensity in his tone vibrating through the stone walls. "Act like it."
A genuine, sharp laugh escapes me. "Only you could make a pep talk sound like a death threat."
"I'm serious."
"I know you are." I squeeze his hand. "Let's go."
We descend the stairs and turn the corner into the open-concept industrial kitchen. The space is state-of-the-art. Gleaming stainless steel countertops, a commercial six-burner range, multiple double ovens, and a butcher-block island in the center.
The room goes dead silent the second my boots hit the tile.
The Costa brothers are gathered around the island. Dante stands near the espresso machine, his posture coiled, a hard scowl etched into his features. Enzo sits on a barstool, fingers moving in precise bursts across a tablet, his calculating eyes flicking up to assess me in less than a second. Matteo stands at the stove, a wooden spoon frozen mid-stir over a cast-iron skillet of sizzling peppers and eggs.
The tension in the room presses against my ribs.
Fabio steps slightly in front of me, his shoulder acting as a physical shield. The territorial aggression practically smokes off his skin. He sweeps his eyes over his brothers, issuing a silent, violent warning.
I refuse to cower behind him. I step out from the shadow of his frame, planting myself firmly at his side. I cross my arms beneath my breasts and jut my hip out.
"Morning," I say. The word drops into the silent room like a live grenade.
Matteo blinks. He looks at Fabio, then back to me. A slow, knowing smirk curves the edge of his mouth. He taps the wooden spoon against the skillet and turns the burner down.
"She speaks," Matteo says. "And she doesn't flinch. I told you, Dante. Fabio finally found someone crazy enough to put up with him."
Dante grunts, pouring a shot of espresso into a small ceramic cup. "She's a Bellanti."
"Was," Fabio snarls, his voice a low, vibrating threat that rattles the copper pots hanging above the island. "She is a Costa now. Any man in this room who forgets that goes through a wall."
"Relax, giant," Enzo says, not looking up from his tablet. "Nobody's questioning who she belongs to. We're just recalculating the logistical nightmare of housing a Bellanti heiress while her father orchestrates a citywide manhunt. The transit hub feeds are jammed with Bellanti chatter. They're looking for you, Catalina."
"Let them look," I say smoothly. "They won't find anything. They're searching the South Side blind spots because they think I'm running scared. They don't have the tactical imagination to realize I walked straight into the North Side stronghold."
Enzo finally looks up. A flicker of genuine professional respect sparks in his calculating eyes. "She's right. The enemy lacks imagination. It's their greatest weakness."
