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GAbrIELE

"SECURITY brEACH AT the eastern perimeter."

Toole's voice through the secure line is calm, professional, but I hear the tension beneath it. Three weeks since our last incident—longer than expected. Valentina has been patient, calculated. Which means whatever's happening now is serious.

"Details," I respond, already moving toward my office, mind shifting into the cold focus of combat readiness.

"Two vehicles. Professional team. They've disabled the outer sensors but triggered the secondary system."

"Numbers?"

"At least six. Armed. Moving with purpose toward the main house."

Not surveillance then. Not testing. An actual incursion.

"Let's go on full lockdown. I want Kleah in the safe room immediately."

"Already initiated." Toole's efficiency is why I hired him. "Extraction team is twenty minutes out."

Too long. If they've breached the perimeter with this level of coordination, we need to move now.

"Negative on extraction. We secure in place." I've reached my office, entering the code that opens the hidden armory. "I'll take point on Kleah's protection. Focus on containment."

"Understood."

I end the call, selecting weapons with practiced efficiency. Handgun with silencer, backup in ankle holster, ceramic blade at my belt. Non-lethal options as well—I prefer to interrogate rather than kill when possible.

My mind catalogs facts, assesses options, maps contingencies with mechanical precision. This is the world I inhabited for years, the mindset that kept me alive through situations where most would have perished. Cold. Calculated. Ruthless when necessary.

But beneath it all, a new concern burns—Kleah. Her safety, her fear, what this intrusion might do to the peace we've carefully built together these past weeks.

I move through the house with silent efficiency, security alerts flashing on my watch—intruders closing in, security team engaging, house systems locking down. I need to reach Kleah, get her to the main safe room where we can wait out the attack if necessary.

I find her in the kitchen, already moving toward the hidden entrance to the safe room, fear evident in her expression but controlled, focused. She's learned well these past months.

"This is it, isn't it? What we've been preparing for?"

"Yes." No point softening the reality. "We need to get to the safe room. Now."

My wife falls into step beside me without hesitation or panic. The training we've done showing in her composed demeanor, her focused movements.

"Your security team?" she asks as we move swiftly through the house.

"Engaging. Extraction team en route." I keep my voice calm, factual, though my hand at the small of her back is perhaps more protective than necessary. "We'll secure in the safe room until the situation is contained."

We reach the hidden entrance to the main safe room—a space designed to withstand virtually any attack, with independent power, air filtration, communication systems, and supplies for days if needed. The biometric lock responds to my palm, the reinforced door sliding open with a soft hiss.

Once inside, the door sealing behind us, I turn to Kleah. "Are you alright?"

She nods. "I'll do everything you say. I just want this over with."

Kleah stands by my side as we watch movement through the wall of monitors we have installed. Security footage shows the intruders—black-clad, professional in their movements—being engaged by my security team. The firefight is silent on our screens but clearly intense, tactical positions shifting, advantage flowing back and forth.

On the monitors, I see the tide turning—my security team gaining the advantage, intruders retreating toward their vehicles. Toole's voice comes through the communication system, confirming what the visuals suggest.

"Threat contained. Two hostiles neutralized, four retreating. Pursuing but maintaining perimeter integrity as priority."

"Casualties on our side?" I ask, fingers flying over the keyboard to access additional camera views.

"Paxton took a round to the shoulder. Nothing critical. Otherwise, all clear."

Relief eases some of the tension in my shoulders. Paxton is experienced, tough—he'll recover. And the rest of my team is intact, the perimeter nearly secured again.

"Maintain full alert," I instruct. "I want confirmation of complete withdrawal before we change status."

"Understood."

I turn to Kleah, finding her still watching the monitors, her expression composed despite the violence displayed there. "The immediate threat is passing," I tell her. "But we'll stay here until I'm certain it's safe."

She takes my hand and surprises me by bringing it to her lips. "Thank you for doing everything to keep me safe."

We've been together for two months now, but my wife's appreciative side still turns me on, even at times like this.

Her eyes widen when she sees my nostrils flare.

She takes a step back, and I take a step forward.

"S-Seriously?"

"Seriously," I confirm.

"But—"

We end up spending more hours than we should have in the safe room. And when we come out of it, my security team looks at us knowingly, which has my wife mumbling some incoherent excuse before quickly walking away, face flaming, and unable to meet anyone's gazes.

I want to think that the danger's finally over, but I know it's not. We'll have to keep looking over our shoulders for as long as Valentina's alive. And that is not the kind of life a woman like Kleah deserves.

KLEAH

The kettle whistles, a startlingly normal sound in a day that has been anything but normal. I prepare tea with methodical movements, finding comfort in the familiar ritual—water at the right temperature, leaves measured precisely, steeping time observed carefully.

Outside the kitchen windows, I can see increased security presence—men in tactical gear patrolling the grounds, others reinforcing entry points, checking surveillance equipment. Evidence of the danger that found us today, that may find us again.

My hands tremble slightly as I pour the tea, the reality of what happened finally catching up now that the immediate crisis has passed. They came for me. Armed men breached the property, prepared to kill or capture me because of blood I didn't choose, connections I never made.

It's one thing to know the danger exists. Quite another to see it materialize, to watch it unfold on security monitors, to understand viscerally what Gabriele has been preparing for all along.

I take my tea to the window, watching as medical personnel attend to an injured security team member—Paxton, Gabriele had called him. A man hurt defending me, defending us, from those who would do us harm.

The weight of that responsibility settles heavily on my shoulders. Not guilt exactly—I didn't choose this situation, didn't bring this danger upon myself or others. But awareness, profound and sobering, of what my existence costs, what protection requires of those who provide it.

Of what it requires of Gabriele.

I'd seen him change today—shift from the man I've come to know, to care for deeply, into something colder, more focused, more lethal. The transition had been swift, complete, and clearly well-practiced. A necessary adaptation to immediate threat.

Yet beneath it all, I'd still seen him—still recognized the man who holds me at night, who treats me with unfailing gentleness despite the violence in his past, in his capabilities. The man who has become essential to me in ways I never anticipated when I agreed to this arrangement.

My husband. Not just on paper now, not just for protection or strategic advantage. But in truth, in substance, in ways that continue to deepen with each passing day.

The tea warms my hands, grounds me in the present moment despite the chaos unfolding beyond the windows. I'm safe, I remind myself, and so is Gabriele. The immediate danger has passed, and tomorrow's worries will take care of itself.

I'm still standing at the window when Gabriele joins me, and one look at my husband's face tells me he's thought of something. "What is it?"

"There's something I need you to do, and it will require your full trust."