Page 37 of Betrayal of the Mafia Rebel
The cocoon is complete. The war is raging outside the oak doors. The Bellanti family is mobilizing. My brothers are gearing up for a slaughter. Something inside the intel chain still doesn't sit right. But in this bed, in this silent room, the universe is aligned. She is breathing against my chest, filled with my seed, permanently mine.
I stare up at the dark ceiling, the shadows stretching across the soundproof panels. Let the strike teams come. Let them try the gates. I will slaughter every single man who takes a step toward this room. The protector in my blood is awake and starving for violence. The man holding Catalina is finally at peace. I hold her tighter, my arm locked around her waist, and prepare to take the city apart brick by brick.
Epilogue
CATALINA
Heavy muscle crushesme deep into the mattress. Sunlight slices through the gap in the velvet curtains, catching the dust motes dancing in the warm air. The scent of smoke, motor oil, and sun-warmed metal clings to the duvet, wrapping around me like a second skin.
His arm hooks around my waist. The grip tightens, dragging my back flush against a wall of a chest.
"Mine," a rough, sleep-roughened voice grumbles into the curve of my neck.
His stubble scrapes against my skin. The sting is sharp, immediate, grounding. A low hum of satisfaction vibrates from his throat when I lean back into his heat. Fabio Costa doesn't wake up slowly. He snaps into consciousness with the territorial aggression of a predator verifying its kill is still in the den.
"Good morning to you too, caveman," I murmur.
A calloused hand sweeps up my ribs, the thumb dragging along the edge of my breast. "You're awake. Why didn't you wake me?"
"Because watching you sleep was the first peace and quiet I've had in my life."
He flips me over. The mattress groans under his weight as he settles possessive across my hips, his forearms bracketing my shoulders. His eyes pin me to the pillows. He searches my face for regret. For the panic that should follow a Bellanti waking up inside the Costa stronghold.
He finds nothing. I'm where I belong.
"You smile like you won a war," he says.
“I survived a night in a flooded Prohibition drainage pipe, dodged a strike team sent by my own bloodline, and successfully infiltrated the most secure bedroom in Chicago. I'd say I'm doing all right."
A low growl rumbles in his chest. "You didn't infiltrate shit. You were carried."
"Details. The point stands."
He crushes his mouth to mine. The kiss is a violent, consuming brand. His tongue sweeps past my lips, tasting, claiming, wiping out any lingering thoughts of the world beyond this locked oak door. He devours my smart mouth until my logic short-circuits. Heat pools low in my stomach. The feral desperation in his grip proves the events of the long, chaotic night were real.
He pulls back, his breathing ragged. "Stay in this bed. I'll bring you food. You don't have to leave this room for the next ten years."
"Tempting. Truly. But I'm not a hostage, Fabio."
"You're my woman."
"Exactly. Which means I don't hide." I push against his chest. It is like trying to move a granite boulder, but he eventually yields, rolling onto his back with a sigh. "I have to face them eventually. Your brothers. The men who've spent a generation bleeding my family dry. Delaying the inevitable just makes me look weak. Bellantis are many terrible things, but we aren't cowards."
His jaw locks tight. "They won't touch you. If one of them so much as breathes wrong in your direction, I will snap his neck. Blood or not."
The murderous certainty in his voice should be terrifying. A normal woman would run screaming for the nearest exit. I just smile, charmed. The terrifying monster of the Costa family is leash-whipped, and he doesn't even care.
"I appreciate the homicidal loyalty. But let's try not to murder your family before breakfast."
I slide out of the tangled sheets. The cold air of the bedroom bites at my bare skin. My ruined clothes from last night are gone. In their place sits a neat stack of fresh garments on the velvet bench at the foot of the bed. Someone must have left them outside while we slept. The terrifyingly efficient Costa network at work.
I pick up the stack. Black leggings, thick and soft. A fitted charcoal-gray cashmere sweater. Clean underwear. None of the restrictive, hyper-tailored silk the Bellanti compound dressed me in. This is functional. Comfortable.
"Gemma brought them," Fabio says, watching my every movement from the bed. "Before dawn. She knocked. I told her to leave them at the door."
"She has good taste."
I pull the clothes on. The cashmere is incredibly soft against my bruised, exhausted muscles. The leggings hug my curves. I catch my reflection in the gilded mirror above the oak dresser. My hair is a wild, tangled mess. My lips are swollen. A purple bruise blooms along the side of my neck. Fabio's signature, written into my skin. I look nothing like the composed, mathematically precise mafia princess who walked into that damp speakeasy tunnel yesterday.
