Page 13 of One Savage Union (Crimson Bonds #1)

LUCIA

R occo’s arms clamp around me like a vise as we crash to the ground. The breath is slammed from my lungs. My back hits cold marble, his weight shielding mine. We don’t just fall—we’re pulled into a different world. One where sanity doesn’t exist and fear is the only thing that breathes.

I can’t think.

I can’t move.

My mind detaches, floats somewhere above me, watching this horror unfold as if it’s happening

to someone else. I pray—hard and fast—that I’ll black out. That unconsciousness will spare me from what’s coming.

But Rocco won’t let me escape.

His hand clamps over my mouth, silencing me. His piercing blue eyes lock onto mine, sharp enough to slice through my panic. I thrash, trying to twist away, but I’m pinned. Then, another pop—gunfire closer this time—and tears spill down my cheeks in hot, terrified streaks.

His expression softens. Only slightly. But enough to make the storm inside me stutter.

Then the bullets tear through the bedroom door.

I nearly pass out.

This is it. I’m going to die.

How poetic. I’ll die in a stranger’s bed, married to a man I barely know—because my mother once fucked a mafia don. That’s the sum of my life. Not the music, not the scholarships, not the standing ovations.

Just bloodlines.

Just bullets.

Rocco’s hand stays firm over my mouth, but his other hand strokes the side of my face like I’m a child on the edge of a nightmare. The tenderness rattles me. I don’t understand it, but I cling to it like driftwood in a hurricane.

His voice comes low, steady, and deep, cutting through the chaos like a lifeline.

“Listen, Mia Lucia. You are not going to die. I won’t allow it.”

My breath hitches.

“That gunfire?” he continues, voice gravel and steel. “It’s my men returning fire. Leo’s soldiers are dead men walking. But we have to move. I’m going to get you out of here. We’ll go somewhere safe. But you have to listen to me and do exactly what I say—like a good girl. Do you understand?”

No. I don’t. Not at all.

But I nod anyway.

Because I have no one else. No other truth to hold onto. I’m lying on the floor of my husband’s bedroom—surrounded by shattered glass, blood, and promises I never asked for. Outside this room, men are hunting me. Inside it, the devil himself is whispering comfort in my ear.

And God help me… I believe him.

I nod again, slower this time. Controlled.

Rocco watches me. Reading me and calculating the risk. Then, slowly, he lifts his hand from my mouth. I don’t scream. I don’t make a sound. I’m too focused on the one thing that’s keeping me tethered to reality: him.

He raises a single finger to his lips.

Silence.

I mimic the gesture and hold my breath. The gunfire has stopped—but Rocco’s body stays rigid, his movements cautious. He doesn’t know who won. Neither do I.

So, I lie there in the cradle of chaos, waiting for a verdict neither of us can hear yet. And I tell myself:

Be a good girl.

Be quiet.

Survive.

“Alright, Lucia,” Rocco says, voice low but commanding, “we’re going to crawl out of here and head for the stairs.

Stay flat, quiet, and on your belly if you need to, hold on to my ankle while I move.

I don’t know what the smoke’s like out there, but I’m sure it’s thick.

And I’ll be damned if you suffocate on my watch. Nod if you understand.”

I shake my head, more out of panic than defiance. The tears won’t stop, hot and unchecked.

He leans in and wipes one away with his thumb, then presses a kiss just beneath my eye.

It’s soft. Startling. Gentle, where everything else has been chaos.

“Don’t worry, fireball,” he murmurs, the nickname curling around my fear like a flame. “This is just a moment. When I have you safe again, I swear, you will never feel fear like this. And whoever dared come for you tonight… will die by a thousand slow cuts. One for every tear they made you shed.”

It’s brutal. Terrifying.

And exactly what I need to hear.

Because right now, I need to believe this man would burn the world down to keep me breathing.

He slides off me and drops into a controlled crawl. Before he moves, he glances back and raises a finger to his lips again.

Silent. Stay low. Stay with me.

I grab his ankle like he said, and we begin our slow retreat into the unknown.

The hallway greets us with a choking mix of smoke and blood, hot metal and something coppery that sticks in the back of my throat. My lungs revolt. I cough, harsh and uncontrollable. I curse myself for the sound.

“It’s okay,” he calls out roughly. “Stay low. Keep going.”

He rises to a crouch, draws a gun from the small of his back, and sweeps the hallway with trained efficiency. A white handkerchief appears in his hand, and he covers his mouth as he scans. Then he turns back.

“Clear. For now.” His voice drops again, all steel and ice. “Looks like my cousin just wanted to rattle the cage. If he wanted us dead, he’d be here watching me carve his name into the floor with his spine.”

He kneels beside me, presses the handkerchief to my mouth.

“Breathe through this. Shallow, slow. I’m going to carry you out to the car once we get downstairs. Keep your eyes on my back. Don’t look around. I don’t know how many bodies are outside this corridor—and I’d rather not have you vomiting all over my suit.”

My stomach lurches anyway.

Bodies.

People are dead.

Because of me.

I nod, dazed—and then it hits me. I’m in nothing but a robe. No bra. No panties. My cheeks flame, panic blooming again.

Before I can speak, Rocco’s eyes flick down, then back up—reading me like a book I didn’t mean to open.

“ Don’t worry, wife.”

His voice is cold. Sharp. Final.

“No one will look. They know if they do, I’ll rip their eyes out and shove them down their throats.”

Well then.

So much for modesty.

“Stay to the walls,” he barks over his shoulder as he slinks through the hallway like a panther, fast and silent. I follow his movements with wide, fearful eyes—until we hit the staircase.

And that’s when I see it.

A body sprawled across the landing. Half a face.

Gone .

I gag. My knees buckle.

“ Easy, piccola ragazza,” he murmurs, suddenly beside me. “This is what I was trying to spare you. Come to me.”

Before I can blink, I’m scooped back into his arms. This time, he pulls me in tighter, pressing my face to his chest like I’m something precious, breakable. His grip is brutal, protective like he’ll personally murder the next shadow that even breathes too close.

He takes the stairs fast and silently, and I let him. I want no part of the hell we’re leaving behind. A few days ago, my life was music, laughter, and love. Now it’s death in doorways and strangers dying because of the blood in my veins.

And I’m not angry at Rocco.

I’m not even angry at Leo.

I’m furious at my mother.

She should’ve told me who my father was. She should’ve prepared me for this life. Instead, she left like a thief in the night, and now I’m the one paying the price. I might never forgive her for that.

“Boss, they got all three of ours. But we dropped ten of theirs,” Mario’s voice cuts through the smoke like a blade. “No tats, no Romano ink. No oaths. Just paid muscle. Mercs.”

Ten bodies. God. They're out here somewhere—limbs twisted, eyes wide, blood soaking the concrete.

I feel Rocco tense beneath me. Then his palm presses harder to the back of my head, shielding me from it all.

His voice drops, low and lethal.

“Fuck.”

“We shouldn’t have lost anyone. Leo shouldn’t have found this place so fast. What the fuck, Mario? I pay Enzo a goddamn fortune to make sure this doesn’t happen.”

His fury rolls off him in waves, vibrating through his chest, seething into my skin. It’s not just anger—it’s betrayal. And beneath it… blame. Rocco feels responsible. Like his life, the lives of his men were his to protect, and he failed.

We move again—fast. I hear Mario speak, muffled words I don’t catch, followed by the sharp click of a car door.

Rocco doesn’t stop.

He carries me straight into the dark interior of whatever getaway vehicle he’s prepped for nights like this. His arms never loosen. Not once.

And as the door slams shut behind us, I know we’ve left something behind on that stairwell?—

Our illusions.

Our safety.

My old life.

Forever.

“I know, boss. But it’s not what you think,” Mario says the second the car door shuts. “Enzo’s convinced this wasn’t Leo. I just spoke to him. He swears we’ve got eyes on him twenty-four-seven.”

Rocco slides into the backseat with me still cradled in his lap like I’m something breakable. I try to sit up, but he doesn’t let me—not yet. The back door shuts, and the driver’s side opens with a creak as Mario slips behind the wheel.

He starts explaining himself.

And I already know it won’t matter.

Rocco isn’t the type to care about excuses. He’s the kind to bleed you for wasting his time.

“Mario,” Rocco growls, voice like ice cracking over fire, “you’ve got sixty seconds to tell me who just blew up my safe house… or I’ll paint this overpriced cream Bentley in your fucking brain matter. You love this car so much? It would be a shame to die in it.”

The engine roars to life as Mario speeds off into the night like nothing's wrong.

Meanwhile, Rocco presses a kiss to the top of my head like the world isn't on fire.

His hold on me loosens just enough for me to sit upright if I want to.

I do, shifting slightly—just enough to breathe—but I stay on his lap.

He notices. Of course he does.

And that smug, shit-eating grin he gives me?

Infuriating.

He knows I’m choosing to stay close.

Not because I want him. Because I’m scared.

God, I hope he understands the difference.

Hell, I hope I do.