I start to move, and it isn't the frantic thrusting of a man in a hurry. It’s a slow, deep grind, a circular motion that keeps the friction constant, keeping us both on the jagged edge of release. I feel every ridge of her, every contraction of her muscles as she tries to hold onto me.
My hands find hers, our fingers interlocking, pinning her to the bed. I want her anchored. I want her to feel that I am not leaving this room without a reason to return.
"Amara," I groan, my pace picking up just a fraction as the heat starts to coil in the base of my spine. “Amara. Stay with me.”
"Yes," she cries out, her voice breaking. “Alessio... I love you. I love you.”
The words land in the space between two heartbeats. I go still. For one breath I let them be the only thing in the room. Then, rough, from somewhere under the wall she cracked: “I know. God help me, I know.”
The words hit harder than any bullet ever could. They shatter the last of my control, the last of the disciplined walls I’ve built around my heart. I let out a low, guttural sound, my thrusts becoming deeper, harder, more desperate. I’m not a professional now. I’m just a man who is terrified of losing the only thing that makes him feel alive.
She starts to go—the way her internal muscles begin to pulse and snap around me, the way her breath snags in a high, thin sob. I don't stop. I drive into her, my movements relentless, my focus entirely on the way she shatters beneath me.
"Come for me," I growl. "Show me how much you need me."
She screams my name, her body convulsing as the climax takes her, waves of heat rolling off her skin. I follow her a second later, my own release hitting hard enough to leave me hollowed out and gasping. I bury my face in her shoulder. I come hard,shaking above her, the barrier between us the only practical thing I still remember.
We stay like that for a long time, tangled together in the sweat-soaked sheets, the only sound the ragged synchronization of our breathing. The clock on the wall is ticking, a reminder that the world is still turning, that the war is still waiting.
In here, in the dim light of this room, we are safe.
I pull back eventually, easing out of her, then gather her against my chest and keep the connection as long as I can. I wipe a stray tear from her cheek with the pad of my thumb, my chest tight with a tenderness that demands protection.
"I have to go soon," I whisper.
"I know," she says. She reaches up, her hand cupping my jaw, her touch steady. "Go. Kill him. Finish it for Curtis. For Carlo. For Riza. For everyone they buried. And then come back and help me pack."
I freeze. "Pack?"
A small, tired smile touches her lips. "I’m not running, Alessio. I’m staying. Truly staying. I saw the empty drawers beside the one I already stole.”
A lump forms in my throat, a pressure I haven’t trusted since before the war made me old. I lean down and kiss her, a soft, lingering touch that carries the weight of everything I can't put into words.
"I’ll be back," I promise. “I’ll come back. Whatever it takes.”
I roll off her, the cold air hitting my skin like a thrown brick. I stand up and start to dress, the transition back into the doctor, the vault, the vengeful son, feeling heavier than ever. I pull on my tactical gear, my hands moving with practiced ease, but my eyes never leave her.
She sits up, wrapping the sheet around her, watching me with a fierce, quiet pride. She doesn't ask me to be careful. She doesn't tell me to stay. She knows who I am, and she knows what I have to do.
I grab my primary weapon and check the chamber. The metallic click echoes in the silent room. I holster my sidearm, adjust my vest, and turn to the door.
I stop with my hand on the handle and look back one last time.
She sits in the dim room, unblinking, waiting for the war to take me back.
"Amara," I say.
"I'll be right here," she answers.
I nod, pull the door open, and step out into the hallway. The hush of the compound is gone, replaced by the low hum of men preparing for slaughter. I see my brothers downstairs, a sea of dark suits and tactical gear, their faces grim and set.
Dominic is at the center, his eyes meeting mine as I descend the stairs. There is no more rage in his gaze, only a cold, shared purpose. Turi is locked below. Vane is waiting at Wabash. And the Costas are going to war.
I step into rank next to Matteo. He doesn't look at me, but he reaches out and grips my shoulder for a split second. A silent acknowledgment of the pain we’re both carrying, and the blood we’re about to spill.
"Move out," Dominic orders.
We walk out into the pre-dawn chill, the air sharp with the scent of the lake and the coming storm. The black SUVs are waiting, their engines idling like low, growling beasts.
