“Don’t be,” I say, reaching out with my good hand to touch his cheek. His skin is hot, his stubble rough against my palm. “I’m here. I’m staying.”
He leans his forehead against mine, his eyes closing. We stay like that in the back seat while the driver carries us through the dark streets of Chicago, heading back to a house full of enemies and secrets. The silence is thick, heavy with the things we haven’t said yet, and the things we might never get the chance to.
When we pull up to the north gate of the compound, the same one we saw on the laptop screen, Alessio doesn’t move. His eyes track every movement of the guards, noting each shift in their posture. He’s looking for the traitor. He’s looking forthe person who sold his parents out twenty years ago, and the person who is trying to sell us out now.
“Dominic is going to want to know why we went loud,” I say, looking at the heavy iron gates as they swing open.
“Dominic can wait,” Alessio says, his voice returning to that hard, impenetrable shell. “I“I’m taking you upstairs. I’m cleaning this wound. Then I’m locking this house down until I find the person feeding Vane.”
“Alessio, we have bigger problems than a scratch. We have the manifest and the live feed. We need to tell them.”
He looks at me, and at last, I see the sheer, unadulterated terror he’s been hiding behind his rage. It’s not terror for himself. It’s for me.
“The only thing that matters right now is that you are safe,” he says. “The war can wait ten minutes. Dominic won’t. I’ll send the alert, then I clean the wound.”
He helps me out of the car, his arm around my waist, pulling me tight against his side. We walk into the house, and the warmth of the foyer feels like a lie. The smell of food is in the air, savory and rich, and laughter drifts from the dining room like the house is not bleeding secrets. It’s so normal. So domestic. And it’s all a target.
Turi appears at the end of the hallway, his face lighting up when he sees us. “Alessio! Amara! You’re back. I was starting to worry. I made the lamb?—”
He stops when he sees Alessio’s face. He looks at the blood on Alessio’s hands, then at the way I’m leaning into him. The smile vanishes, replaced by a look of deep, paternal concern.
“What happened?” Turi asks, stepping forward, his hands reaching out as if to steady us both. “Alessio, are you hurt?”
“We’re fine, Turi,” Alessio says, his voice clipped. He doesn’t look Turi in the eye. He just keeps moving, steering me toward the stairs. “Amara had an accident. I’m taking care of it.”
“An accident? Let me help, I can?—”
“No,” Alessio snaps, and the harshness of his tone makes Turi flinch. “I’ve got her. Go back to dinner, Turi. Tell Dominic we’ll be down when I’m finished.”
Turi stands at the base of the stairs, looking small and confused. My heart aches despite myself. He looks like the kind of man who cares about the souls of these men. I don’t know this house well enough to know if that is truth or performance. He looks like a man who has lost too much already, and seeing Alessio like this is just another blow.
“I’m okay, Turi,” I call back, trying to offer a small, reassuring smile. “Just a little clumsy.”
He nods slowly, his shoulders sagging. “I’ll keep a plate warm for you, child.”
Alessio doesn’t wait for the rest of the conversation. He whisks me up the stairs and into his suite, slamming the door behind us. The lock clicks into place, heavy and reinforced, but the inside latch remains under my hand.
He doesn’t turn on the main lights. Beside his stacks of medical journals and secret ledgers, he turns on a small desk lamp. He nods toward the edge of the bed, already reaching for the medical kit. “Sit. I need light on the wound.”
I sit. My legs feel like jelly, the adrenaline finally starting to drain away, leaving a hollow, shaking exhaustion in its wake. I watch him as he moves around the room, gathering supplies. He moves with a quiet, focused intensity, his hands steady as he cleans the cut, laying antiseptic and a fast pressure bandage over it.
But then, a heavy knock sounds at the door.
“Alessio!” It’s Dominic. His voice is a low rumble, vibrating through the thick wood. “Open the door. We need to talk. Now.”
Alessio’s jaw sets. The moment shatters, and the clinical focus slides into something colder as he steps back.
“Stay here,” he says. “If anyone but me opens this door without the code, you use the knife and the panic button by the bed.”
“I’m not an idiot, Alessio.”
He looks at me one last time, a look of fierce, territorial longing, before he turns and heads for the door. He unlocks it and steps out, closing it firmly behind him. I hear the low murmur of voices in the hallway—Dominic’s angry interrogation, Alessio’s calm, level responses.
I sit on the bed, my arm throbbing, the manifest with Vane’s signature folded flat in my jacket pocket, ink side out. I look around the room—the books, the medical tools, the secret vault hidden behind the wall. TThis isn’t just a suite. It’s a fortified room built for a man who has never trusted walls. It’s the home of a man who has spent his entire life waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And now, I’m waiting with him.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the manifest. I stare at Vane’s name. For ten years, this man has been a ghost, a nightmare that lived in the margins of spreadsheets and bank records. But he’s real. He’s alive. And he’s here.
