Chapter 6
The double doors clicked open and shut.
Santino walked in, shedding his cashmere overcoat and draping it over a leather armchair. He had loosened his silk tie and unbuttoned his collar, revealing the sharp line of his throat. He looked worn, his dark eyes fixed entirely upon her.
He walked to the marble counter, poured two fingers of amber liquid, and set the glass down.
"Drink something, Ines," he said quietly.
"I don't need a drink, Santino."
"You look exhausted."
"I am living the life I chose," Ines said, turning from the window to confront him. "And you have no authority over it."
Santino’s jaw tightened. He moved across the hardwood floor until he stood several paces away, giving her room, though the intensity of his focus made the cavernous office feel tight.
"You disappeared without a word," he said, his voice dropping into a low, strained register. "You left an empty apartment and a bloodstained boat in the bay. Do you have any idea what happened after you vanished?"
The grief he had carried for years rose to the surface, breaking through his practiced Don’s detachment.
"The Commission thought I was unstable. They tried to carve up the harbor routes while I was searching the coastline for your name. I spent three years waging war just to secure the city—just to make sure this territory was safe enough that no one could ever threaten what was mine." He looked at her, his eyes dark with unhealed wounds. "And you were across the river the entire time. Living in silence. Why didn't you come to me?"
Ines met his gaze without blinking.
"Because your world is built on blood, Santino," she answered, her voice steady and clear. "I spent my youth cleaning up the violence of men like you. I didn't want that for my future. I wanted an ordinary life where I didn't have to check the wheel wells of my car for explosives every morning. A life where people don't bleed on my kitchen floor."
"And you think you found it?" Santino asked, gesturing toward her bruised knuckles. "Corvo’s men kicked down your door anyway. The underworld doesn't forget your bloodline, Ines. You cannot hide who you are."
"They didn't know who I was," Ines said sharply. "They were shaking down an ordinary citizen because your enforcement is sloppy on the perimeter."
Santino paused. His eyes narrowed, taking in the tension in her posture, the rigid set of her shoulders, and the rapid pulse visible at the hollow of her throat.
"An ordinary citizen," he echoed softly.
He took half a step forward, reading the subtle shifts in her stance. "You didn't go to that basement out of wounded pride. You went there because someone crossed a line that mattered to you. You went there ready to dismantle a crew over five thousand dollars."
"I went there to resolve a problem," she deflected.
"No," Santino said, his voice dropping into an intimate, steady pitch. "You went there to protect someone. Someone who lives in that district."
Ines felt a cold prickle of adrenaline, but she did not flinch. "I protect my home."
Santino stepped closer, stopping just before the boundary where their clothes would brush. The heat radiating from his frame was palpable, carrying that intoxicating familiarity that threatened to stir up every buried memory between them.
He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently closing around her wrist—not to restrain her, but seeking contact, his thumb resting over her jumping pulse point.
"Tell me the truth, Ines," he asked, his dark eyes searching hers with raw intensity. "Who are you hiding?"
Ines looked down at his fingers, then up into his face.
"Let go of me, Santino," she said, her voice dropping into a quiet, absolute warning.
Santino’s breath hitched. For a fraction of a second, the desperate longing in his gaze was almost overwhelming.
Then he heard her.
He didn't tighten his grip. He didn't pull her toward him. He released her wrist instantly, taking a full step back, giving her space. His hands dropped to his sides, his chest heaving as he reined in the storm inside him.
The restraint cost him dearly, but he gave it to her completely.
"I won't trap you," Santino said, his voice raspy and thick with emotion. "I never wanted you as a prisoner, Ines."
He looked at her across the narrow distance between them, laying down every weapon he possessed.
"Stay," he pleaded softly. "Not as a captive. Not as someone hidden in the shadows. Stay here with me. I will eliminate Corvo before dawn. I will cede the entire northern borough to you, permanently free of syndicate tax, free of Commission interference. No one will ever dare walk down your street again. Just... don't disappear into the dark again."
The offer hung in the quiet room—wealth, sovereignty, absolute protection from the most powerful man in the city. A sanctuary built of iron and devotion.
Yet Ines knew the price.
Behind that sanctuary lay the syndicate’s unending wars. If she stayed, Lia would inevitably become a high-value prize in the Commission's power struggles, an heir marked by rival families before she even learned long division.
She could not trade Lia’s peace for a Don’s devotion.
"Keep your territory, Santino," Ines said softly, her voice cool and unshakable. "And keep your promises for your captains. I am not your soldier. I am not your prize. And I will never let you decide how I live."
Santino’s jaw set, the pain in his expression turning into a grim, helpless resolve. "If you walk out into that storm, Ines, Corvo is still out there. I cannot protect you if you refuse my shield."
Ines reached into the inner pocket of her coat.
Her fingers closed around the heavy silver object she had carried for seven years.
She pulled out the silver signet ring—the eagle’s talon gripping the broken wheel—and tossed it across the polished hardwood floor.
The heavy silver bounced once, rolling with a clear, sharp chime until it came to rest against the toe of Santino’s leather shoe.
Santino looked down at the ring, his breath catching in his throat.
"I don't need your shield, Santino," Ines said, turning toward the double mahogany doors. "I never did. If Capo Corvo crosses the river again, tell him to bring an army."
She unlatched the heavy brass handle, pulled the door wide, and stepped out into the corridor.
Santino did not call his guards. He did not give chase. He stood alone in the center of the vast, silent office, watching the empty doorway as the rain lashed against the dark glass behind him.
The rain turned to sleet by the time Ines crossed the Queensboro Bridge on a sputtering midnight bus.
She sat near the vibrating rear door, her collar turned high, her face angled away from the amber glow of the streetlamps. Her ribs still burned where Santino’s chest had pressed against hers, but the phantom warmth of his mouth was already fading, overtaken by the cold, metallic dread tightening in her throat.
Six-fifteen.
She had lost forty minutes in the elevator, the fire stairs, and the subterranean subway tunnels shaking off any tail Santino might have sent. He wouldn't have shot at her; he would have followed her. And a Giordano tracker had eyes like a hawk and the patience of a vulture. She had doubled through the drainage conduits beneath the rail yard, wading through ankle-deep runoff until she was certain the damp night behind her was empty.
