Chapter 3 - The Safehouse Rules
The Toscano underground tunnel spat us out into a nondescript industrial warehouse five miles south of the river. Rain hammered against the corrugated metal roof like a volley of loose change. My wedding dress was completely ruined—the train torn away, soaked in mud, exhaust grease, and dried blood. Nico led me into a sparse concrete bunker buried beneath the warehouse floor. It smelled of motor oil, damp brick, and gunpowder. He threw a duffel bag onto a rusted cot. ""Change,"" he ordered, stripping off his ruined tuxedo jacket and throwing it onto the floor. ""T-shirt and cargo pants are inside. You can't run through alleyways looking like a bloody bride."" I caught the bag, refusing to let him see the tremor in my fingers. As I turned my back to change, I caught his reflection in the cracked mirror mounted on the concrete pillar. Nico was standing shirtless under the bare bulb, cleaning a deep slash across his ribs where a bullet fragment had grazed him. Dark tattoos curled over his corded muscles—symbols of an oath, ancient Sicilian marks of loyalty and death. His body was a road map of violent survival. ""Let me help with that,"" I said, zipping the borrowed tactical pants and stepping over with an antiseptic bottle from the first-aid kit. Nico tensed instantly, his hand hovering over his knife. ""Don't touch me."" ""Hold still, Toscano,"" I replied coldly, pouring iodine directly onto a sterile gauze pad. ""If you die of sepsis, I'm stuck fighting your cousin Marco and my sociopathic father by myself. Sit down."" For a fraction of a second, I thought he might snap my wrist. Then, slowly, he dropped onto the wooden crate and allowed me to clean the wound. His skin was burning hot against my chilled fingers. As I stitched the tear with steady hands, our proximity felt heavier than any weapon in the room. His breath hit my collarbone, warm and steady. ""Why didn't you turn me in seven years ago in Milan?"" he asked suddenly, his voice scraping against the quiet room. ""I saw you drop your gun in the storm drain. I knew you were the one who killed my uncle's associate."" I pulled the suture knot tight. ""Because that associate was trafficking sixteen-year-old girls from Eastern Europe, and my father was taking a thirty percent cut. You did the world a favor. I wasn't going to hang you for doing what I wished I was strong enough to do myself."" Nico’s jaw clenched, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that made the oxygen flee my lungs. ""You're a dangerous woman, Chiara Ferrante."" ""Then stop treating me like an obligation,"" I whispered back. The radio on the steel counter suddenly crackled to life, static giving way to a frantic voice. ""Don Nico! Don Nico, do you read me? Marco has gone public. He just announced to the syndicate council that you were executed during the reception. He’s taking the seat at midnight!""
