Chapter 6
"He didn't know," I lied smoothly, letting my voice carry a fragile, defensive note. "He thought the manifests were just late. He was desperate. He owes eighty thousand dollars to loan sharks on the South Side. If he lost his job at the dock, they were going to break his legs."
Renzo paused, the wet cloth resting still against my pulse point.
"Eighty thousand?" he asked, his dark brows drawing together. "That’s it? That’s what your life was worth to those animals?"
"It’s a lot of money to people like us," I murmured, lowering my lashes.
"It’s pocket change," Renzo said, his voice dropping into a harsh, bitter growl. "It’s what Sal spent on a weekend in Atlantic City. To terrorize an innocent girl over eighty thousand dollars..."
He shook his head, dipping the cloth back into the water, wringing it out with a twist of his powerful forearms.
"Don't worry about the South Side sharks. Tomorrow morning, before your flight leaves, I'll send two boys with a duffel bag. Your father’s debt will be settled in cash. The loan will be closed. Permanently."
A dark thrill coiled through my chest.
*Clara Vance’s father* was an identity file tucked into an encrypted server in Zurich—a ghost created with forged tax returns, digitized signatures, and a fictional paper trail designed specifically to lure Renzo into taking the bait. And now, the great capo of Chicago was offering to pay eighty thousand dollars of his own blood money to wipe away a phantom’s debts, simply because he couldn't bear the thought of Clara being frightened.
"You’re too good to me, Renzo," I whispered, letting my fingers curl slightly around the edge of his sleeve. "I don't understand why. You don't know me. You could have left me in that warehouse."
Renzo stopped.
He set the cloth aside, unscrewing the lid of the salve with his thumb. He scooped a small measure of the cool, herbal balm onto his index finger, his gaze lifting from my wrist to meet my eyes.
The silence between us lengthened, heavy and suffocating. The crackle of the gas fireplace seemed to fade into a distant hum.
"I’m not good," Renzo said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. "Don't ever call me that, Clara. I’m a killer. I’ve been a killer since I was seventeen years old. The things I did tonight... that’s what I am. That’s all I’ve ever been."
"You saved my life," I insisted, leaning slightly toward him, letting the oversized lapels of his coat part just enough to expose the pale curve of my throat. "That makes you something else to me."
Renzo’s breath hitched.
His eyes dropped from my face to the hollow of my throat, tracking the steady pulse beating beneath the fair skin, before rising back to meet my gaze. There was an ache in his expression—a raw, starving hunger that he was fighting with every ounce of his legendary discipline to suppress.
"In my world," he said, his thumb beginning to smooth the cool balm over my bruised skin with agonizing slowness, "everything is ugly. Everything is bought with blood, lies, and betrayal. Men like Sal, men like Dante... even Don Silvio. We live in the mud. We die in the mud."
He leaned in closer. The heat radiating from his chest was overwhelming.
"When I dropped through that skylight tonight, I was ready to paint the walls red. I expected more filth. And then... I saw you."
His thumb stroked along the delicate bone of my wrist, sending a shiver through my spine that had nothing to do with fear.
"You were sitting in the middle of that hell, pure as falling snow. You looked at me like I was a man, not a monster." Renzo swallowed, the hard line of his throat shifting. "I have spent ten years watching people die, Clara. Tonight was the first time I felt like keeping someone alive actually mattered."
The confession was so raw, so stripped of underworld pride, that for a split second, my internal calculation faltered.
A genuine heat flared low in my stomach. The predator in him called directly to the predator in me. He thought he was looking at an angel in the mud; he had no idea he was kneeling in front of the architect who had built the slaughterhouse. The irony was intoxicating, sharp as high-grade whiskey.
"Renzo..." I breathed, parting my lips.
His eyes flared with amber fire.
Slowly, as if moving against a tremendous physical current, his hand left my wrist. His fingers rose, trembling with an extraordinary restraint, until his calloused knuckles brushed against the soft curve of my cheek.
His touch was blistering hot. The contrast between his scarred, lethal hands and the gentleness of the caress was breathtaking.
He leaned closer. I didn't pull away.
I tilted my chin upward, letting my breath mingle with his. His gaze dropped to my lips. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped—not into fear, but into an open, inviting challenge. The tension stretched between us like a wire drawn to the snapping point. All he had to do was close the remaining two inches, and the killer would take what he wanted.
"Clara," he whispered, his voice thick with a desire so intense it bordered on pain. "I shouldn't..."
"Don't go," I murmured.
His hand cupped my jaw, his thumb tracing the fullness of my bottom lip. His eyes darkened to pure obsidian. He was losing the fight. The hardened capo who took orders from no one was unraveling in front of an illusion.
Then, from the granite kitchen island, the encrypted burner phone erupted into a shrill, rhythmic chime.
Renzo froze.
The spell shattered instantly.
Renzo pulled his hand back as if he had touched an open flame. He straightened his posture, rising from the footstool in a sharp, defensive snap. A dark flush of color stained his cheekbones, and for a second, he looked thoroughly shaken—not by an enemy with a gun, but by how close he had come to crossing the line.
"Excuse me," he choked out, turning his back to me and striding toward the island.
I leaned back against the cushions of the sofa, letting out a slow, silent exhale, watching his broad back through narrowed eyes. My heart was thumping against my ribs—hard, fast, and distinctly electric.
*Dangerous,* I thought, touching my own lower lip where the warmth of his thumb still lingered. *Too dangerous.*
Renzo snatched the burner phone and pressed it to his ear. "What?"
"We have a problem," Dante’s voice cut through the receiver, loud enough for me to hear every word in the quiet loft. "A courier just dropped a sealed package at the warehouse office. Addressed to you, boss. Private courier from Zurich."
Renzo’s brow furrowed. "Zurich? What are you talking about?"
"It’s a dossier," Dante said, his breathing heavy over the line. "Photographs of Sal Valenti’s meeting spots. Security codes for the dock warehouse. The exact master-breaker schematics you used tonight. Someone sent you that drop on purpose, Renzo. Someone set Sal up for an execution, and they used you as the hitman."
Renzo’s spine went rigid. "Who signed it?"
