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"I can handle myself." I spot my underwear near the foot of the bed and snag them, trying not to think about how they got there. "I've been handling things on my own just fine for years."
He sits up fully, and I have to force myself not to stare at the way his muscles move under his tanned skin. "You're not going alone."
"Stefano—"
"Give me two minutes to dress." It's not a request. The softness from last night is gone, replaced by the man who runs Chicago's underworld. "We'll take my car."
I should argue. Should insist on handling this myself. Should definitely not let him anywhere near my drunk, loose-lipped brother when I'm supposed to be spying on him.
But something in his voice—that mix of command and concern—makes my protests die in my throat.
Or maybe I'm just tired of handling everything alone.
"Fine," I say, but add some bite to my tone to maintain at least the illusion of control. "Two minutes."
He moves with efficient grace, and I find myself observing the way he checks his phone first thing, the gun he straps to his ankle with practiced ease, how he seems to fill the room with his presence even before he's fully dressed.
The most dangerous mark is the one who makes you forget they're a mark at all.
I just wish my heart would remember that.
The elevator ride down to Stefano's private garage feels endless. I keep my arms crossed, maintaining careful distance despite how every cell in my body gravitates toward him. His cologne fills the small space, mixing with memories of last night that I really don't need right now.
"You're angry," he observes, breaking the silence. It’s not a question.
"Not at you." I stare at our reflections in the polished elevator doors. He’s in another impeccable suit despite the hour, while I’m in last night's dress, coat wrapped around me, my hair a dead giveaway for exactly what we've been doing.
We look like a cliché, but this feels like destiny. Both thoughts terrify me.
"Your brother's young," he says carefully. "Making mistakes is part of growing up."
I bite back a harsh laugh. "Getting drunk at a dive bar isn't just a mistake. He took our only car, Stefano. And now he's in one of the worst neighborhoods in Chicago, probably with people who—" I cut myself off, remembering who I'm talking to.
But Stefano catches it. Of course he does. "People who what, Ava?"
The elevator doors open to his garage, saving me from answering. A sleek black Audi chirps as he hits the key fob. Any other time, I'd appreciate the machine's quiet power and its elegance. Now I just want to get to Tony before he can do any more damage.
Stefano opens my door, ever the gentleman, even in the wee hours of the morning, but catches my arm before I can slide in. "People who what?" he repeats softly.
I meet his eyes, seeing the barely leashed power. "People who might recognize the D'Amato name," I admit. "Who might think a drunk teenager with connections to old Chicago families could be useful."
Or dangerous. Or a good way to send a message.
These are all the things I don't say, but Stefano hears them anyway. I see it in the way his jaw tightens, how his hand flexes on my arm.
"Get in," he says, voice clipped. "We'll be there in ten minutes."
It should take twenty, even with no traffic. I don't argue.
The car purrs to life, and Stefano navigates through empty streets like he owns them. Which, I suppose, he does, in a way. My mind registers every turn, every shortcut, building a mental map of his territory.
"Tell me about Tony," he says after a few minutes. "Beyond what I remember of him as a kid."
I stare out the window, watching Chicago's glittering façade give way to grittier neighborhoods.
"He's smart. Too smart sometimes. Gets bored easily. Angry about..." Everything. Our parents. Our life. The weight of expectations he never asked for. "He needs structure. Stability. Things I can't seem to give him."
"You're doing the best you can."