The heavy steel door clicks shut behind us, cutting off the sound of Leo’s ragged breathing. The short, concrete hallway between the apartment and the upper warehouse is dim, lit only by a single flickering bulb that casts long, jagged shadows against the damp brick.
Dante shoves his silver pistol into his waistband, his focus entirely centered on me. His grip on my wrist is tight, a band of pure heat that forces me flat against the cold concrete wall.
"Where did you learn to do that?" he demands. His baritone is low, a gravelly vibration that stirs the hairs at my temples. He doesn't look angry; he looks dangerously intense, his amber eyes scanning every line of my face as if searching for a hidden map.
"I told you," I breathe, my chest heaving against the cream sweater. My hands are still sticky with his brother's blood, the dark crimson drying into a tight mask over my skin. "In a bakery, you handle knives. You handle six-hundred-degree steel. When a kitchen assistant slices their arm open on an industrial mixer, you don't call an ambulance. You fix it, or the health inspector closes you down."
Dante doesn't look away. His gaze drops to my blood-stained fingers, then rises slowly back to my eyes. The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow twitches.
"You didn't flinch," he murmurs, his jaw tightening until the muscle beneath his tanned skin is rigid as stone. "Most women from your family faint at the sight of a broken fingernail. Camilla cried for three hours because a stray dog barked at her car."
"I am not Camilla," I repeat, the words a fierce, hard rhythm in my throat. "I’ve spent my whole life cleaning up the messes she left behind. This is just a bigger kitchen, Dante."
A sudden, sharp look of dark amusement cuts through his grim features. The amber flecks in his eyes dance in the dim light of the corridor. He steps closer, his massive chest pinning me against the rough brick until I can smell the distinct, sharp mix of tobacco, black pepper, and the fresh copper of Leo's blood clinging to his clothes.
He raises his free hand, his long, calloused fingers catching a stray curl of my hair that has fallen into my eyes. He wraps the dark strand around his thumb, pulling it tightly until my chin tilts up toward him.
"You're right," he whispers, his breath hot and heavy against my parted lips. "You aren't like the women in your family."
"Is that a good thing?"
"It's the only thing keeping you alive," he says, his voice dropping into a deadly, razor-sharp purr that sends a violent shiver straight down my spine. He lets go of my hair, his thumb sliding down the side of my face, his rough skin wiping away a stray drop of blood from my cheek with a slow, deliberate pressure. "You're staying by my side from now on."
"Dante—"
"No arguments, Gianna," he interrupts, his grip on my wrist tightening for a fraction of a second before he releases me completely. He turns toward the heavy steel door that leads up to the main warehouse floor, his shoulders squaring under his black suit jacket. "Leo is patched up, but the perimeter is still soft. The Lucchesi family didn't send a full squad just to test our locks. They sent them to see if I’d run."
"Are we running?" I ask, my knuckles turning white as I rub the spot where his hand just was.
"Marchettis don't run," he snaps, reaching down to pull his silver pistol back from his waistband with a clean, metallic slide. He clicks the safety off, the sound a sharp, chilling clack in the narrow hallway. "We clean the house."
He grabs the heavy iron handle of the warehouse door. Before he pulls it open, he looks back at me over his broad shoulder, his eyes two lethal slits in the shadows.
"Stay three paces behind me," he commands, his voice a flat, dead line of pure authority. "If I tell you to drop, you hit the floor. If I tell you to run, you don't look back for me. Understood?"
I nod once, my throat too dry to speak.
Dante throws the door open. The immediate scent of cold river mud, damp tobacco, and burning oil hits us.