The sound of my name in his mouth makes the hair on my arms stand up. It’s not just that he knows who I am. It’s the way he says it, like he’s been saying it to himself for a long time. Like it’s a word he’s already memorized.
"Atlanta. Savannah. New York. Chicago. You didn’t hide your trail as well as you thought, Amara. You just hid it from men who didn’t know what to look for."
"I guess I should've worked on my stealth," I mutter, my grip tightening on the knife. "How long have you been sitting there?"
"Long enough to know you’re better at picking locks than you are at checking your six," he says, standing up.
He’s massive. The profile I read said six-three, but in this room, in this moment, he feels like a mountain. With a predatory grace, he moves with a fluidity that shouldn't belong to a man that size. He doesn't move toward me, not yet. Mirroring my recent move, he walks to the window.
"The men outside are Bellantis," he says, his back to me. "They’ve been following you since you left your apartment at Lake and Aberdeen. They let you do the breaking in so they could catch you inside. You’re the intruder they blame, the body they leave, the fire they light after. The evidence dies with the building—and with you."
"Why tell me?" I ask, my eyes scanning the room for an exit he might have missed. "You're a Costa. Your family has been at war with them since before I was born. Why not just let them have me?"
He turns back to me, and finally, I see the intensity in his gaze. It’s not anger. It’s something much more dangerous. It’s obsession.
"Because you may have the one thing I’ve been missing for eleven years," he says, stepping into my personal space.
He’s close enough now that I can smell him—sandalwood, old paper, and something sharp and metallic. He doesn't touch me, but the air between us feels charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. I should be terrified. My brain is screaming at me to run, to fight, to do anything but stand here and drown in the depth of his dark eyes.
But I don't move.
"What's that?" I whisper.
"The motive," he says. "I have the money. I have the names. I have the dates. What I don’t have is the reason Vane’s trail keeps circling back to the night my family died."
I feel the breath hitch in my throat. My brother’s death wasn't just a random act of violence. It was a piece of a much larger puzzle. One that this man has been building in the dark for over a decade.
"Curtis," I say, the name a raw wound in the silence of the room.
Alessio’s expression softens, just for a fraction of a second, before the mask of the stoic protector slides back into place.
"Curtis Osei found the one thing Vane couldn't hide. The one thing that points back to the beginning of the war. And you’ve spent ten years making sure his death wasn't for nothing."
He reaches out then, his hand moving slowly, giving me every chance to pull my knife, to strike, to flee. He doesn't grab me. He tips my chin, fingers skimming behind my ear—checking for a wire, an earpiece, blood—then lets go. His touch is warm, his fingers calloused but incredibly gentle. It’s the touch of aman who knows exactly how much pressure it takes to heal or to kill.
"You’re done running, Amara," he says, his voice dropping to a feral whisper. "The Bellantis are coming through the front door in approximately two minutes. You have two choices. You can go out there and let them finish what they started ten years ago, or you can come with me."
"And if I go with you?" I ask, my voice trembling. "What then? Am I your prisoner?"
He leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. I can feel the heat radiating off him, a physical force that makes my knees weak.
"You’re my guest," he says, his hand sliding down to cup the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my ear. "And once you walk through those doors with me, you’re mine to protect. No one touches you. No one looks at you. No one even breathes in your direction without my permission."
It’s the most arrogant, possessive, terrifying thing anyone has ever said to me.
"I don't belong to anyone," I snap, trying to find my sass through the fog of his presence. "I’m not a piece of furniture you can just claim because you have a nice chair and a medical degree."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. It’s a beautiful, lethal thing.
"We’ll see about that," he says. "But right now, we leave."
The sound of a heavy boot hitting the front door echoes through the clinic. The Bellantis are inside.
Alessio doesn't panic. He doesn't even look toward the door. His eyes just remain fixed on mine. With his palm up, he reaches out his hand. A silent offer. A trap disguised as a lifeline.
I look at his hand, then back at his face. I’ve spent ten years alone. I’ve spent ten years looking over my shoulder, sleepingwith a gun under my pillow and a bag packed by the door. I don't know how to trust. I don't know how to stay.
But I know that if I stay here, I die. And if I die, Vane wins.
