""Walk Past Me in That Dress Again,"" the Mafia Boss Warned—So She Lifted Her Chin and Kept Walking, Expecting a Bullet. Instead, His Heavy Wool Coat Hit Her Shoulders Before His Hand Hit Her Waist

The revelation hung between us in the confined leather interior of the Mercedes like an unexploded bomb. He hadn't ignored me for four years; he had stalked me. He had guarded me like a dragon hoarding gold in the dark, watching my life unfold across an ocean while playing the stoic, disinterested soldier in front of my father.

""You're insane,"" I breathed, though my heart was hammering so hard against my ribs it sounded like thunder in my ears.

""Probably,"" Ciro agreed, his eyes black pools of possessive certainty. ""Get out of the car. We're going up.""

His penthouse occupied the entire forty-second floor of the high-rise. It wasn't decorated with the antique velvet and gilded gold of my father's mansion; it was minimalist, cold, dominated by floor-to-ceiling glass, black slate floors, and custom dark leather furniture. It felt less like a home and more like a sniper's perch surveying the Chicago skyline.

Ciro led me straight into an expansive bathroom made of charcoal marble. Without asking, he reached for the chrome fixtures and turned on the oversized shower, letting steaming hot water cascade down the dark stone walls.

""Strip,"" he commanded, unbuttoning his own blood-spattered cuffs and tossing his jacket onto a bench.

I crossed my arms over my chest, glaring at him. ""Excuse me?""

""You're shivering, your clothes smell like gunpowder, and you have soot on your neck,"" he said, turning around to face me, his voice entirely practical even as his eyes darkened with restrained hunger. ""Take a hot shower while I make some calls. Or do you want me to undress you myself?""

The sheer arrogance in his tone made my blood spark. ""Don't tempt me, Ciro. You might find out I'm harder to handle than Kozlov.""

""I already know that,"" he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before he turned on his heel and walked out, pulling the heavy frosted glass door shut behind him.

I stood under the scalding water for twenty minutes, letting the heat wash away the icy slush, the stench of cordite, and the trembling in my limbs. When I finally stepped out and wrapped myself in a plush white terrycloth robe I found on the heated rack, the apartment was completely silent except for the low murmur of voices coming from the far study.

I tied the sash tightly around my waist and padded quietly across the thick wool rugs.

The heavy mahogany door to his study was ajar by an inch. Through the crack, I could see Ciro standing behind a massive glass desk, his shirt off, revealing the broad expanse of his back covered in dark ink and pale, jagged battle scars. A private syndicate doctor was standing beside him, carefully stitching a shallow knife graze along Ciro's left ribs that he hadn't even mentioned during the drive.

Standing in front of the desk was Matteo, his expression grim.

""It wasn't just Kozlov acting on impulse, Boss,"" Matteo was saying in a low, hushed voice. ""We checked the phone on the shooter Leora dropped. The encrypted communications didn't come from Cicero.""

Ciro didn't flinch as the needle pierced his flesh. ""Where did they come from?""

""Inside the North Shore estate,"" Matteo replied, his words dropping like lead weights into the room. ""The IP address traces to a burner connected to the mansion's secondary fiber line. Someone inside Marco's inner circle told Kozlov exactly when Leora was arriving, which car you were taking to the docks, and that she would be with you.""

My hand flew to my mouth. A traitor. Someone in my father's house—someone I had grown up with, someone who had smiled at me at breakfast—had put a target on my back just to draw Ciro into an ambush.

""Who has access to that router?"" Ciro asked, his voice terrifyingly calm. It was the tone a man uses when he has already decided who is going to die.

""Only three people,"" Matteo said. ""Enzo, Uncle Roberto... and your father-in-law-to-be, Marco himself.""

""Marco wouldn't sell his own daughter,"" Ciro snapped, his hands curling into fists against the glass desk.

""Maybe not to kill her,"" Matteo suggested carefully, hesitating. ""But to test you? Or to force your hand into a war with the Russians that gives him an excuse to purge the council? Marco is getting old, Ciro. He knows you're ready to take the seat. He might be getting desperate.""

""Find out which one of them made the call,"" Ciro said, each syllable laced with lethal finality. ""If it's Roberto or Enzo, skin them. If it's Marco..."" He paused, the silence stretching long and terrible. ""...you come to me first. No one touches the old man except me.""

""And the girl?"" Matteo asked. ""What do we do with Leora?""