Page 93 of Chicago Sin

Someone wants Armando dead.

That thought terrifies me. I stare at the floor, searching for answers that aren't there.

As if on cue, the bathroom door creaks open, and Armando strides out, his damp hair slicked back from his face. He's dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, looking every bit the powerful and dangerous man he is. It's as if last night never happened, like he's untouchable. As always, his presence is both reassuring and intimidating.

“Morning, Flowers,” he says coolly, eyes scanning me from head to toe. His voice is like velvet, soothing some of the anxiety that has been gnawing at me since I woke up. But his stoic demeanor also serves as a reminder that this kind of violence isn't new to him—it's part of his life.

“Morning,” I reply, trying to steady my voice. “How's Marco?”

“Alive,” he answers simply, his expression still as calm and collected as ever. “He'll be fine. It's not the first time he's been shot.” There's a hint of bitterness in his words, daring me to question him further. But I can't help myself.

“Did he say how long he’ll be in the hospital? I was thinking of sending him some flowers.”

“Don’t. I don’t want you to be seen with him. Or me. I don’t want that connection made for anyone. Okay?”

“Is this what your life will always be like? Are we constantly going to be in danger?”

His eyes flash with something dark, almost vulnerable, before he turns away. “There is no we, Hannah,” he says quietly, his back to me. “Because of the danger. I’m sorry you got dragged into this, but I’m going to try to keep you out of anything else.”

Right. No we.

Armando turns, and he must see my hurt because he moves to me, wraps his arms around me, and pulls me close. My face presses against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart beating beneath my ear. It's comforting, grounding me in this moment.

“I’m sorry I got you into this.” His voice is tense, but his fingers trace my back gently.

“I think the adrenaline of last night is wearing off. I feel… scared,” I confess, my hands gripping the fabric of his suit jacket. “Not for me, but for you.”

He lets out a shocked chuff. “Me? Don’t worry about me, baby girl. The outfit... it's a part of me. Danger is woven into every day for me. That won't change. I can't give it up, even if I wanted to.” His voice cracks slightly, betraying the pain he feels in admitting this truth.

“Is this who you are then? A man constantly surrounded by violence and fear?” I ask, trying to understand the depth of his involvement in the mafia but also hoping I don’t sound judgey.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he admits, his grip on me tightening. “I was born into this life, and I've done things I'm not proud of. But I don't want it to touch you any more than it already has, Hannah. You deserve better.”

My eyes swim with tears.

I know he’s saying he cares about me, but he’s also pushing me away. Shutting me out. Telling me we have no future.

“Just because I’m scared–” I stop. I’m not sure what to say. “Armando, I don't care about your past or what you are.”

He seems to stop breathing. “You should.” His voice is hard. Dark.

“I know what I deserve. And right now, that’s you.”

My chest tightens at the thought of a future filled with violence and fear, but I can't imagine my life without him in it. I know it's not his fault that he was born into this world, and I don't want to ask him to change who he is. However, I can't ignore the fact that by being with him, I'm accepting a life that may never be free from danger.

Facing that reality doesn’t mean I have to flee from it.

“I promise you, I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe. What happened yesterday will not go unpunished. I’ll make damn sure none of this touches you again.” Armando's jaw tightens, and I see the fierce protectiveness rising within him.

He looks at me for a long moment, the weight of his past heavy in his gaze. His breath warm against my skin. Something shifts in his expression then, a spark igniting behind his eyes.

Armando

I take the L to the construction site and check in with the foreman, Larry. He gives me the up and down. I dressed in a suit and tie, which I know is overdressed for a construction site. But it’s not overdressed for a lieutenant of the mafia, and I need to establish who the fuck I am.

“Yeah. Okay. So on the books you’re listed as a supervisor. If anyone ever shows up here to inspect, just look official. You dressed the part, so that’s good. Other than that—you do what you want. I’m sure you know that already.”

I nod. “Yeah. Definitely. So am I supposed to be your supervisor?”