Page 3

KLEAH

I BARELY SLEEP. HOW could I? Every time I close my eyes, I see Gabriele Bronzetti's face—that perfectly carved jaw, those dark eyes that seemed to see right through me.

You're mine to protect.

The words echo in my mind as dawn breaks, and I catch a glimpse of pastel-colored skies outside our room. I'd spent most of the night researching, first the Biancardi name, then Gabriele himself.

What I learned of my half-brother, I still need to come to terms with. But Gabriele, though? He was like a ghost in the business world. A ghost with billions of dollars to his name. But no photos to go with it. I didn't think that was possible in today's age. But apparently, it is. You just need to have enough money to afford anonymity.

I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, letting hot water beat against my skin as if it might wash away the surreal events of yesterday. But when I emerge, dripping and pink, nothing has changed.

I still have a brother I never knew. A brother whose mysterious disappearance is still an open case with the police, but many also presume to be dead. And now, people also want me six feet under because we happen to share the same father.

I dress carefully, as if the right outfit might somehow armor me against whatever comes next. Dark jeans. White button-down shirt. Camel-colored cardigan. Sensible but cute ankle boots. Normal clothes for a normal day that will be anything but.

When I'm ready to go, so is he. Today, Gabriele's dressed differently: dark jeans similar to mine, a slate-gray henley that does nothing to hide the muscular breadth of his shoulders, a leather jacket that's been broken in just enough to look impossibly soft.

Less formal than yesterday, but no less intimidating.

He straightens when he sees me approach, and something flickers across his face. Something that might be relief.

"You're sure about this?"

No. I've ceased being sure of anything the moment I learn of my ties to mafia. But I nod anyway because I'm still holding on to the hope that I can go back to living a normal life...someday.

I'm hoping he'll leave as soon as we make it to the shop, but Gabriele follows me inside instead, and the place suddenly feels much smaller with him in it. I switch on the lights, trying to reclaim some normalcy in my routine.

"Are you sure you don't nee to be somewhere else?" It's not that I want to get rid of him, but it's just harder to work when he's around.

"The tone of your voice..."

What about it?

"You've researched me."

"I'd be stupid not to, wouldn't I? I hardly know you—-"

"We can remedy that."

"How?"

He studies me with those dark eyes, intense and unreadable. "You could start by making us coffee."

The request is so mundane, so unexpected, that I almost laugh. "Coffee?"

"If I'm going to explain everything, I'd prefer to do it with caffeine."

There's something disarming in the simple request—something strangely human about this dangerous man asking for coffee like we're just two people having a normal conversation.

"Fine," I say, gesturing to the small back room where I keep a decent coffee setup for long workdays. "But answers come with the coffee."

"Fair."

I busy myself with the familiar ritual—measure beans, grind, heat water, prepare the pour-over. The everyday actions settle my nerves slightly. When I return with two mugs, he's examining one of my custom seal designs—an intricate Celtic knot pattern I'd finished last week.

"You have remarkable attention to detail," he says, setting the seal down carefully.

I place his coffee on the counter. "It's necessary for the work."

"And for survival." He takes the mug with a nod of thanks. "Details matter in my world."

"Your world," I repeat. "The one I apparently belong to without knowing it."

He takes a sip of coffee, considering me. "You don't belong to any world but your own, Kleah. But Viktor Biancardi's blood means his world will come looking for you regardless."

"Because he was a criminal."

"Yes." No sugar-coating, no excuses. Just confirmation.

"And you? What were you to him?"

He takes another sip before answering. "Someone who could have died if not for his help. And in return, I owe him a blood debt."

"And if that debt means you'd have to kill people?"

"So be it."

I wish I had the confidence to tell him it wouldn't come to that. But after seeing all the crimes that have been linked to Viktor Biancardi's name...

"Isn't there a way I can just let everyone know I don't plan to take over his 'empire'? I'm me. And my brother is...my brother," I end lamely.

"You share his name. That's enough to make you a threat for most people. A loose end that they have to get rid of, no matter the cost."

"But I'm not crime lord material," I protest. "Surely that would be obvious—-" The shop bell suddenly chimes, the sound cutting me off and also causing Gabriel to tense. But just as he shifts his position to place himself between me and the door in one fluid motion—-

"Good morning, Kleah!"

An older woman comes barreling in, and it's just Mrs. Lee, one of my regulars.

"I was hoping you'd be open. I need more of those lovely dragonfly seals for my garden party invitations—" She stops, frowning slightly as she looks first at me, then at Gabriele. "Oh! I'm sorry, dear. I didn't realize you had a... visitor."

The way she says "visitor" makes it clear she's jumping to all sorts of conclusions about the gorgeous man in my shop, and I feel heat rise to my cheeks. "It's fine, Mrs. Lee," I say quickly. "He's a... consultant. For a new business opportunity."

Gabriele only smiles, and Mrs. Lee nods understandingly. "Then I shan't be on your way."

"Oh, that's not—-"

"It's fine, Kleah. It's not like I haven't been saying for years that more people need to know of your work." The older woman hands me her credit card, tells me not to bother wrapping up her purchase, and gives me a wink as I hand her the seals. He's hot, Mrs. Lee mouths before leaving.

I quickly turn around, hoping that he hasn't caught that—-

"It's true," he acknowledges with a shrug. "I am hot."

But no such luck.

"DON'T...DON'T LET THAT get into your head," I say lamely. "Mrs. Lee is very easy to please."

But Gabriele acts as if he doesn't hear this. "Do you expect more customers to come by?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Are you good with them being collateral damage if the people who want you dead trace you here?"

Ten minutes later, and we're in a cafe a good distance away, and one that I've never been to. This , he tells me while driving, is how to survive when someone is hunting you.

Keep moving and never revisit old haunts.

The cafe we choose is small. And although all of its tables are still occupied, we still choose one near the back exit, and Gabriele positioning himself with clear sightlines to both the door and the kitchen. I order a vanilla latte with cinnamon; he gets a black coffee.

"So what happens now?" I ask once our drinks arrive. "Do I just... wait for someone to try to kill me?"

"No." His voice is firm, absolute. "I'll be with you. Watching. Protecting."

"For how long?"

"As long as necessary."

I wrap my hands around my mug, absorbing its warmth. "I can't just put my life on hold indefinitely. I have a business, clients, responsibilities—"

"You can't fulfill any responsibilities if you're dead." His bluntness is jarring but not unkind. "Biancardi kept you hidden your entire life for a reason, Kleah. Now that protection is gone."

I stare into my latte, watching the cinnamon swirl across the foam. The reality of my situation settles over me like a heavy cloak. My life—my small, ordinary, carefully built life—suddenly feels like sand slipping between my fingers.

"Can we just take things one day at a time?" she asks awkwardly. "I know I'm not making things easy for you, but I'm just...this is all new to me. And I don't know how to think like someone who's in danger. Or someone with a target on her back."

Something shifts in his expression—a softening almost too subtle to catch. "You don't have to know. That's why I'm here."

A man brushes past our table, his shoulder accidentally bumping mine. I flinch instinctively, recoiling from the contact as if burned. The stranger mutters an apology and continues to the counter.

Gabriele notices my reaction, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," I say quickly, but my heart is racing from the unexpected touch.

We sit in silence for a few moments, the weight of my new reality settling between us. Gabriele's presence is solid, reassuring despite the dangers he represents. When his hand brushes against mine as he reaches for his coffee, I don't flinch.

The realization hits me with startling clarity: I recoil from strangers' touch, but not his. This dangerous man with his dark eyes and lethal grace doesn't trigger my instinct to flee. I don't know why that is. And honestly? I don't think I'm ready to know the reason.

"You have a fear of men."

He noticed how I reacted, I realize uneasily.

"Fear is not always bad. It can be even useful, keep you from making foolish mistakes in the right circumstances. But between the two of us..." His jaw clenches. "This may be asking for much—but I need you to trust me."

What he's asking for is exactly what he says. It is a lot. For someone like me. But because it is him...

"I do," I whisper. "I trust you, Gabriele."

GAbrIELE

She says the words so softly I almost miss them.

I trust you, Gabriele.

And it's not just the words that makes my chest tighten. But it's the fact that it's the first time I've heard her say my name.

I've been called many things in my life. Dangerous, certainly. Ruthless. Efficient. Cold. But never this. Someone who, just by saying my name, already feels like she's cleansed my soul.

Her eyes shine with trust that I don't deserve even though I have no choice but to demand it. I'm danger personified—have been since I was fourteen and held my first gun. But in this moment, with sunlight catching in her hair and her hazel eyes holding mine without flinching, I find myself wanting to be what she sees.

But since such things are impossible for someone like me...

I rise to my feet, the abrupt motion startling her. "We should get back to your shop. The sooner you finish whatever you have to do, the better."

My hand hovers near the small of her back without quite touching. I hear her breath catch because of this, but I tell myself to ignore this.

Outside, the morning has warmed slightly, the coastal fog burning off to reveal blue sky.

"What about...my father?" she asks jerkily all of a sudden. "The real one. What do you know of him?"

"He was not a good man." I glance at her, saying grimly, "Neither am I."

"Yet you're here to protect me—-"

"Because blood debts are always paid in our world. And protecting you simply means this is not a rule that I care to break."

She slowly shakes her head. "You're not as evil as you think. And more redeemable than you let yourself believe."

The naivety of her assessment should irritate me. Instead, I find it oddly warming, like sunlight on skin long kept in shadow. Dangerous, that warmth. Comfort leads to complacency, and complacency leads to death in my world.

When we reach her shop, a customer is waiting outside. Kleah unlocks the door with an apologetic smile, slipping seamlessly into her role as shopkeeper. I stay back, observing her interaction with the customer—an older gentleman seeking a custom seal for his daughter's wedding.

She's good with people—attentive, genuine, her enthusiasm for her craft evident in every gesture as she shows him sample designs. The interaction is so normal, so far removed from the shadow world I inhabit, that for a moment I can almost forget why I'm here.

Almost.

My phone vibrates with an encrypted message. Security update from my team—they've identified surveillance on Kleah's shop. Not immediate threat level, but concerning. Valentina's people, most likely, assessing the situation before making a move.

Time is shorter than I'd hoped.

When the customer leaves with a promise to return tomorrow, I move to the counter where Kleah is sketching design options.

"We need to talk," I say without preamble.

She looks up, the shift in my tone registering immediately. "What's wrong?"

"Not here." I glance toward the windows, the street beyond. "Is there somewhere private?"

She hesitates only briefly before nodding toward the back room. "Through here."

The workspace is small but organized—a desk with specialized tools, shelves of wax in various colors, a small electric burner for melting. The scent of beeswax and cedar hangs in the air, warm and comforting.

"There's surveillance on your shop," I tell her, keeping my voice low. "Nothing immediate, but we need to move more quickly than I anticipated."

Fear flashes across her face, quickly controlled. "What does that mean?"

"It means we leave today. I'll stay close, keep watch, and tomorrow we'll establish a more permanent security arrangement."

"What kind of arrangement?" Her knuckles whiten as she grips the edge of her desk.

I hesitate, weighing how much to reveal now. "We'll discuss options tonight. For now, focus on getting through the day as normally as possible. Don't let on that anything has changed."

To her credit, she nods, swallowing visibly but accepting the instruction without argument. "Okay."

"I'll be nearby, even when you don't see me," I assure her. "Just continue as you would on any normal day."

She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "I can do that."

I believe her. In the short time I've known Kleah Martell, I've seen a quiet resilience in her that many hardened criminals lack. A different sort of strength, but no less real.

For the rest of the day, I maintain my vigilance, sometimes visible in her shop as a "consultant," sometimes watching from carefully chosen positions outside. I identify three separate surveillance operatives—all Valentina's people, none immediate threat level, but all concerning.

Kleah performs admirably, maintaining her normal routine with customers, working on orders, even stopping for lunch at her usual time. The only signs of her awareness are the occasional glances toward where she knows I'm watching and the slight tension in her shoulders.

As closing time approaches, I send her a text—a number I had her program into her phone this morning.

Lock up normally. Walk to the bookstore as you usually would. I'll meet you inside .

She gives no indication of having received the message, but when she closes her shop, she follows the instructions precisely, strolling casually toward the bookstore three blocks down. I follow at a distance, watching for any tail.

The bookstore owner—an old friend who owes me several favors—nods as Kleah enters, then again as I follow a minute later. He leads us through the back room to a private exit that opens onto a side street where my car waits.

"You okay?" I ask as we drive away from her town, taking a circuitous route to ensure we're not followed.

"No," she answers honestly. "But I'm here."

The simple statement carries more weight than elaborate reassurances would have. She's chosen to follow me, to trust me, despite having every reason not to.

"Where are we going?" she asks as familiar roads give way to highway.

"A property I maintain for security purposes. We'll be safe there tonight."

"And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow we discuss more permanent arrangements."

She falls silent, staring out at the passing landscape. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across her face, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheek, the stubborn set of her jaw.

"Do you want to know what I got to research about you online?"

What was it with these out-of-the-blue questions of hers? Where the heck were they coming from?

"The articles never confirm it's true. But they say there are whispers of you being made to join the family business when you were just fourteen."

"And?"

"And you need to stop blaming yourself for all the things you've done since then. Because what happened to you wasn't right. You were powerless to stop it when you were young. But you chose to get out of that world when you were old enough."

"No." If we're going to talk about the past, we might as well keep it real. "It's not when I was old enough."

She looks at me uncertainly. "Then—-"

"I got out when I was strong and powerful enough for my own father to fear me."

Her face pales, and a humorless smile twists over my lips. Now you know, cara. Still think I'm good?

Her silence is deafening as we continue north along winding roads that parallel the sea. The landscape changes from coastal town to rugged cliffs to forested hills. The safe house is tucked away on a private peninsula, accessible only by a single winding road that's easily monitored and defended.

As we approach, I watch her reaction from the corner of my eye. The property comes into view suddenly—a modern structure of glass and stone perched at the edge of a cliff, ocean spreading endlessly beyond it.

Her breath catches audibly. "This is yours?"

"One of several properties." I park and come around to open her door—a courtesy that seems to surprise her. "It's as secure as anywhere can be."

I lead her inside, watching her reaction as she takes in the soaring ceilings, the minimalist but expensive furnishings, the wall of windows overlooking the ocean below. The view is the property's crown jewel—180 degrees of untamed coastline, wild and beautiful and deadly.

She moves to the windows, silhouetted against the sunset-painted water. For a moment, I simply watch her—this woman thrust into my world through no choice of her own, standing with remarkable composure despite everything.

"It's beautiful," she whispers, her palm resting against the glass.

"It serves its purpose." I move beside her, careful to maintain appropriate distance. "The entire property is secured—perimeter alarms, motion sensors, bulletproof glass. You're safe here."

She turns toward me, the dying light catching in her hair, turning the brown strands to copper and gold. "Thank you."

The simple gratitude catches me off guard. "Don't thank me. I'm only fulfilling my obligation."

She accepts this with a small nod, turning back to the view. "What happens now?"

"Now you rest. Tomorrow we'll discuss our next steps."

"Our next steps," she repeats, a question in her voice.

"Your life has changed, Kleah. Permanently. How we navigate that change is something we need to decide together."

She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly looking very young and very alone against the vastness of the ocean behind her. "I'm scared," she admits, the words barely audible.

The confession—simple, honest, without expectation of comfort—moves something in me.

"Fear is only a weakness if you deny its existence. It can only be eliminated when you confront them head on."

I only realize I'm touching her cheek when she looks up at me, startled, and I bite back an expletive as I swiftly yank my hand away.

"Gabriele—-"

I cut her off, saying in a harsh tone, "Get some rest. The east wing is yours. There are clothes in the closet that should fit. The kitchen is fully stocked if you're hungry."

I can feel her staring at me, but I ignore this as I lead her to her suite—a spacious bedroom with attached sitting room and bath, all overlooking the ocean. She pauses at the threshold, turning back to me.

"I'll be in the west wing. If you need anything, there's an intercom system in each room."

"Thank you." She says it again, despite my earlier deflection. "Not just for the protection. For the honesty. And for making it clear w-what this is...and isn't."

She slips inside before I can respond, closing the door softly between us.

I remain in the hallway longer than necessary, staring at the closed door, and turning her words over in my mind...because I'm no longer sure if everything she says is still true.

I've made it clear to her that all of this is because of my blood debt. But that doesn't explain the way my chest tightens every time I look at her.

I force myself to turn away, to focus on security checks and preparation for tomorrow's difficult conversation. There are plans to make, contingencies to organize, a future to arrange for a woman who never asked to be part of my world.

As I work into the night, her words echo in my mind, a truth I'm not ready to face.

You're not as evil as you think. And more redeemable than you let yourself believe.

She's wrong, of course. I am danger incarnate. Even my own father thinks so. So why then? Why does she insist on seeing a man underneath the blood and shadow? Why I am undone by words that are supposed to be a lie?

Her words haunt me. Memories of her face torment me. They keep me from sleeping, and all I can think of is just one thing. And before I realize what's happening, I'm already at her door. Knocking.

She opens it immediately, as if she'd been waiting.

"G-Gabriele?"

"Marry me." The words escape before I can shape them into something more logical, more calculated.

"W-what?" She takes a step back, eyes widening.

Damn it. I've frightened her. "I don't mean—" I rake my fingers through my hair. "It would be an arrangement. Protection. My name would shield you in ways nothing else can."

"Marriage?" Her voice trembles, and something in my chest twists painfully.

"You don't have to answer now." But she does. We both know it. "It's just the only way I can guarantee your safety."

"It's not that I'm afraid of you," she whispers, and the admission hits me like a physical blow. "It's just... everything's happening too fast."

Too fast, she says.

How long will it take her to realize that time won't make a difference? She can wait as long as she likes, but someone like me will never change. Someone like me will never deserve her. But because she was born with Biancardi blood running in her veins, she has no choice.

Time is not on her side. And for better or for worse, her brother chose me to protect her, by all means possible.

"Think about it," I say instead, stepping back into the hallway. "Until morning."