Page 312 of Rosetti Family New York

But yesterday was different. Yesterday I told him I was staying and wanted a partnership instead of just protection. Yesterday I thought we'd have time to figure out what that means.

But he still slept in a different bed. I don't know how to think about that, but now I don't have time.

The penthouse alarms are shrieking, and that can't mean anything good.

"Mara." Emilio stands in the doorway in jeans and an overpriced hoodie. "We have sixty seconds."

I'm already on the move, instincts from years of survival kicking in despite the shock. The go-bag is ready in the closet—an old habit from before I trusted someone else for protection.My hands tremble as I grab clothes, leaving behind the silk pajamas, the luxury I thought I could finally enjoy.

"How many?" I ask, pulling on black jeans and a fitted sweater, feeling odd in domestic clothes after a week of being treated like precious art.

"Eight confirmed. Possibly more in reserve." He opens the wall safe behind a priceless Monet, revealing cash, documents, and enough weapons for a small war. "Military grade. Coordinated assault."

Eight trained killers. The safe house that seemed secure now feels as fragile as glass. This is the life I chose when I decided to stay. Not just luxury and protection, but the constant threat from loving a man with deadly enemies. Although, to be fair, I have my fair share of those too.

A distant crash echoes through the penthouse, floorboards meeting tactical boots. They're inside the building, breaking through defenses that should have stopped them.

"The private elevator?" I grab the jewelry box from the nightstand—tracking devices disguised as diamonds, gifts from a man who thought we'd have time to build something beautiful together.

"Compromised." His voice is laced with anger. "Someone with access to building plans and security details."

Inside information. Someone knew exactly how to break into what seemed impossible to breach. The realization chills me. This isn't random violence, but a planned attack. Another crash, closer. They're taking their time because they know we're trapped forty stories up with no escape.

"Service stairs," Emilio says, handing me a Glock. Cold metal, heavy with the promise of violence. "Stay close. Stay quiet. Do exactly what I say when I say it."

The Ghost is in full action mode, every move efficient and deadly. This is who he really is beneath the polite exterior.

We slip through a hidden door into concrete halls that smell musty and unused. The warmth and light of our safe place vanish behind walls that feel like a tomb. My breath fogs as we go down narrow stairs, leaving behind everything I thought was safe.

Above, muffled voices come through the walls, calm hunters who know they've got us cornered.

Emilio moves like a shadow, every step planned for silence. Even while escaping, he keeps that inhuman control that makes him legendary. But I can see the anger burning beneath his calm exterior. Rage at being invaded, at having our safe place violated, and at watching me realize that being with him means constant danger.

The parking garage stinks of exhaust and motor oil, the concrete space echoing our footsteps. His Lamborghini waits, sleek, powerful, but it’s not the right choice for an escape where we need to blend in.

"Not the Lambo," I whisper.

"No." He leads me to a plain sedan, choosing survival over style. The engine starts smoothly as we join the early morning Manhattan traffic, just another car among many.

Black SUVs surround the building's entrance, government vehicles with dark windows and the look of military contractors. Men in expensive suits who kill for money, not passion.

"Jesus," I breathe, sinking lower in my seat. "Who are they?"

His knuckles turn white on the steering wheel, the only sign of emotion. "That's what I intend to find out." The edge in his voice makes me shiver. "Someone sent armed killers into the place where you sleep. Into our home."

The possessive rage shouldn't excite me the way it does.

“Callahan,” I whisper, shame choking at my throat. “They’re here because of me. Because I finally stopped running and made you a target.”

“No.” His voice sounds firm. “They’re here because they made the mistake of threatening what belongs to me. That makes this my responsibility, not yours.”

I like his dominance. I like how he takes charge. I chose this. I chose him. I chose the danger that comes with being precious to a man like him.

An hour later, we pull into a motel parking lot that feels frozen in the 1970s. Neon signs buzz and flicker, advertising hourly rates to people reduced to desperate necessities. The shift from our penthouse is stark, going from wealth to obscurity in a single morning.

“Here?” I stare at the faded paint and cracked asphalt, seeing what protection looks like when luxury is gone. “This is your plan?”

“No one will look for us here.” He parks away from the office, choosing shadows over convenience. “Sometimes the safest place to be is nowhere. A fucking dump.”