Page 6 of Betrayal of the Mafia Rebel
The thought is blasphemy. It is a betrayal of the Costa blood.
I accept the damnation.
If Matteo finds out I'm harboring a Bellanti, he'll demand her head. If Dante finds out, he'll bring his tactical knives to the speakeasy. And Santi already knows enough to become a problem. He wouldn’t even need to be in the same zip code.
They will have to go through me.
The image of the Costa men trying to take her flashes through my mind. My muscles bunch. A lethal, terrifying calm washes over me. I will fight my own blood—break Matteo's jaw, disarm Dante, hunt Santi through the streets of Chicago. I will go to war with my own family to keep this woman breathing.
The lock Dominic put on me is broken. I'm out. The roaring lion on my bicep feels like it's burning into my skin. The beast is loose. It has found its mate.
I pick up the space heater. I grab the thermos. My thumb hits the latch of the deadbolt. I slide the rusted iron back. The sound is deafening in the narrow corridor. A harsh, metallic shriek that announces my return.
I grip the handle. The metal is freezing. I push the iron door open.
The hinges groan. The darkness of the tunnel gives way to the dim, flickering light of the single emergency bulb I left burning.
She is there.
Catalina.
My eyes sweep over the room. I expect to find her cowering, crying. I expect the fragile breaking of a woman who just realized she handed her life to a monster.
Instead, she is standing dead center of the room. Shoulders back. Spine straight. Her chin tilted up in a gesture of puredefiance. She's mapping the room. Her eyes track the exit, the limestone seams, the rusted vents. She's methodical. Brilliant. Lethal in her own right.
The scent of her crashes over me in a tidal wave.
My blood roars.
"I verified your intel," I say. My voice is a low, guttural growl that bounces off the damp walls. I step into the room. The walls feel closer the second I cross the threshold.
She doesn't flinch. She holds her ground.
I set the space heater on the floor and plug the cord into the generator strip. The machine hums to life, the coils glowing orange against the freezing air. I place the thermos of coffee on the rusted table.
"Terminal four is hot," I continue, stepping closer to her. "You told the truth."
Catalina stares up at me. Her dark eyes are wide, but the defiance doesn't waver. "I told you I was an asset. I don't lie to men who hold the keys to the door."
"You're no longer an asset, Catalina." The words drag out of my throat, the possessive claim ringing with finality.
Her eyes narrow. Confusion cuts through the dark of them. "Then what am I?"
I stare into the face of the enemy—at the woman who just gave me her family's throat. I stare at my ruin.
She has nowhere to go. Not because I've locked her in, but because I'm between her and every direction she could move. I don't touch the wall. I don't touch her. I take up all the space.
"Mine."
3
Catalina
The paper cupI filled from the thermos burns against my palms. It's a cheap, flimsy thing, radiating heat I desperately need. Black coffee sloshes inside, still steaming from the thermos he set on the floor. The bitter, acidic steam rises into my face. It smells like cheap diner roast and salvation. I take a slow, scalding sip.
The caffeine hits my empty stomach with a vicious punch. It grounds me. It reminds me I'm alive. I'm standing in a decommissioned speakeasy tunnel beneath the freezing Chicago River. My family wants me dead. The lethal man blocking the only usable exit just declared I belong to him. The rusted iron grate at the dead end does not count as an exit.
He stands by the heavy steel door. He set the black metal space heater on the stone floor a moment ago, plugged it in, and stepped back. The coils are already glowing, ticking as they warm up. He just watches me. The silence in this subterranean tunnel sits on my chest like a wet stone. Water drips somewhere deep in the tunnel system.
