Page 18 of Betrayal of the Mafia Rebel
"They broadcast it," my voice is a harsh rasp. It doesn't sound like mine.
She blinks once. The intelligence behind her eyes processes the data instantly. She is a Bellanti defector. She knows the operational playbook.
"To the syndicate?" she asks.
"To everyone," I reply. The words are heavy stones dropping onto the concrete between us. "It was intercepted on the Costa encrypted channel."
She processes the implications. Her spine straightens. The blanket slips slightly, revealing the pale curve of her shoulder. I catch the movement. My muscles twitch with the violent need to cover her up, to shield her from the phantom eyes of the enemy.
"What did it say?" she demands. There is no tremor in her tone.
I point a finger at the burner phone sitting on the crate.
She swings her legs off the cot. The freezing air hits her bare skin. She ignores the cold. She wraps the blanket tightly around her body like a crude toga. She walks barefoot across the gritty floor. She does not hesitate to approach me. She steps directly into my space. The heat radiating from my skin washes over her.
She picks up the phone. She reads the screen.
Her face goes blank. The Bellanti mask slips firmly into place. It is a survival mechanism. She shuts down every emotional tell. She becomes a statue of pale skin and black hair.
She reads the message twice. She stares at the glowing text.
"A Trojan horse," she whispers to the empty room.
"They're branding you a loyal soldier," I state the obvious. The rage is thick in my throat. "They are telling my family that your defection is a sanctioned operation. A trap."
She lowers the phone. She looks up at my face. The height difference is absurd. The top of her head reaches the middle of my chest.
"It's a death sentence," she says flatly.
"Yes."
"Your brothers will see this broadcast."
"They already have."
"They won't trust me. They'll think the intel I gave you about the 43rd street docks is a lure to draw your enforcers into an ambush."
"Yes."
She nods slowly. The logic is impenetrable. The Bellanti strategy is flawless. If she runs, they kill her. If she defects, they poison her sanctuary. They make it impossible for the Costas to grant her asylum. They turn her into a radioactive asset.
She takes a step back. The movement is small, but it cracks something open behind my sternum.
She is calculating the odds. She is planning her exit strategy. She is preparing to walk out of this tunnel and disappear into the freezing Chicago morning because she thinks my family will hunt her down.
A sound builds in the back of my throat that doesn't belong in a human chest.
I close the space between us in a single stride.
I don't touch her. I won't let my hands make contact while I'm still this close to losing it. I crowd her. My body becomes the wall between her and the iron door. My shadow falls across her face. I let her feel the simple fact of me standing between her and the world.
She looks up at me. The Bellanti mask cracks. The fear finally bleeds through. Not fear of me. Fear of the world outside this room.
"Fabio," she breathes my name. It is a plea.
"You're not leaving." The words allow zero room for negotiation.
"They're coming for me," she argues. Her voice gains speed. The panic starts to rise. "Your family will send a strike team. Dominic will order my execution. He has to. It's the only tactically sound decision. I'm compromised. If they find me here with you,"
