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Her brows knit. “I hit you.”
“I know. Try it again. This time, do it on purpose.”
She hits cleaner this time, with more force. The strike catches exactly where I’ve told her it should, reverberating up through my rib and punching a sharp wheeze from my lungs.
A short, surprised laugh escapes her, and my chest tightens for reasons completely unrelated to the hit.
I show her how to escape a chokehold. She reads the reversal mid-move, and her twist knocks us off-balance, causing us to crash to the floor. Her back hits the mat, and my forearm braces across her collarbone. I pin her to the floor, though not roughly enough to hurt her. We’re both breathing heavily.
Three very, very long seconds that pass.
Dark green flecks I haven’t noticed before appear in her eyes, and her hands rest on my forearm where it crosses her chest.
Not pushing. Not pulling. Just present.
“You’re dangerous.” The words come out as intended, but my tone doesn’t.
“Don’t act surprised.”
That’s a classic Lucia Romano response.
I push off the mat and offer her my hand, which she accepts without hesitation. Her hair has come loose from its tie and fallen around her face. She looks entirely herself, and the room shrinks around us.
I pull a small folding knife from the equipment drawer by the door and press it into her palm. The surgical-grade blade has a titanium handle and is light enough that a person could forget they’re carrying it.
“Marco, I’m a doctor. I don’t carry weapons.”
“Think of the knife as more of a tool. You have tools at the hospital, yes? Equipment to help get the job done? Same idea.” I close her fingers around the handle. “For when I’m not around.”
She stares at me, then at the knife, her teeth grinding into her lower lip as she works through an argument she assembles and dismantles in real time. Heaving a sigh, she slips it into her pocket without a word.
I tell her to cool down with stretches and run through the first three redirects on her own until the movements feel automatic. She nods, already resetting her stance. I leave before the sight of her, flushed and focused, undoes what remains of my discipline.
My phone buzzes on the shelf, and I pick it up to find several messages from Nico.
Caruso has resurfaced. We’ve had feelers out for months, but he’s been a ghost. No financial footprint, no travel records, nothing. Until now.
A contact in Naples spotted him meeting with a known Volkov agent on the ground. Whatever they’re planning involves a shipment, and the timing is no coincidence. This started the same week the Bratva began surveilling Lucia. I think she’s connected to this, Marco. Either as leverage or as a loose end they want tied off.
Apparently, the threads of this case are all unraveling simultaneously.
Chapter 9
Lucia
The fluorescent lights of Trauma Bay One glare overhead, and the sharp scent of antiseptic burns the back of my throat.
Matteo lies on the gurney, blood soaking through several layers of packing that bloom red no matter how much pressure I apply. My hands slide across his skin, slick and sticky. I’m pressing, pressing, pressing against a wound that won’t stop seeping his essence, and somewhere beneath the panic, I already know it will never stop, that no amount of pressure in the world can prevent the inevitable.
“Get me another unit!” My dream voice shouts hoarsely.
This time, I’m both the attending and the sister, feeling like I’m split down the center and neither half can do enough to save my brother.
Though Matteo’s lips move, his eyes are already losing their light.
You should have been faster, Lu.
I wake up gasping.
