Page 467 of Rosetti Family New York

My hands curl into fists. Professional. This is professional. But rational thought gets drowned by something primal watching other males touch what I'm supposed to protect.

What I'm starting to think of as mine.

The evening passes in controlled fury. I see every touch, every smile, every second she spends entertaining men who don't deserve to breathe her air. By the time Vinny Torrino approaches, I'm already primed for violence.

I move through the crowd with predatory grace, muscle memory from combat operations taking over. Conversations part before me like water, guests instinctively stepping aside as they register something dangerous. Military bearing has advantages—people recognize a killer even in a tuxedo.

"Gentlemen," I say, appearing at Carmela's shoulder with authority that made enemy combatants surrender before shooting started. "I believe dinner's being served."

Effect is immediate. The residents step back, champagne forgotten as they register cold steel in my voice. Williams's hand drops from Carmela's wrist like he's been burned.

"Dr.Reyes," Williams recovers first, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "We were just discussing—"

"Were you." Not a question. My hand finds the small of Carmela's back, fingers spread in possessive grip that claims territory. She fits against my side perfectly, warm silk and soft curves my body recognizes as mine to protect.

The residents exchange glances, suddenly looking young and aware they're outmatched. Whatever they see in my expression makes the tall one clear his throat nervously.

"Actually, I should check on my colleagues," he mumbles, backing away with his friend close behind.

Williams holds his ground longer, experienced enough to recognize dangerous competition. But something about how I stand—balanced, weight forward, ready for violence—speaks to primitive instincts older than civilization.

"Perhaps we'll continue our conversation later, Miss Rosetti," he says finally, retreat disguised as gracious withdrawal.

"Perhaps," she replies, but her body melts back against mine in unconscious surrender.

I watch them drift away, dark territorial satisfaction spreading through my chest. My fingers tighten possessively on her waist,pulling her closer until there's no space between us. She tilts her head back, eyes bright with something that might be amusement or arousal or both.

"That was subtle," she murmurs.

"Wasn't trying to be." Voice comes out rougher than intended, military training giving way to something more primal. "They were touching what isn't theirs."

Her breath catches at the claiming in my tone. Color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn't pull away. Presses closer, soft curves aligning against hard muscle in a way that makes every protective instinct flare to life.

"Yours?" The word carries challenge and invitation.

I lean down until my mouth brushes her ear, voice dropping to a growl only she can hear. "Mine."

The single word contains multitudes—protection, possession, promise. Around us, the elegant crowd continues civilized conversations, oblivious to primitive claiming happening in plain sight. But Carmela hears it, feels it in the way my body curves protectively around hers.

The other men are gone, scattered to safer prey. The territory is mine.

The orchestra strikes up a waltz, and Carmela's hand finds mine with grace. She moves like liquid music, every step precise as we join other couples on marble floor. For a moment,hypervigilance fades. Her body fits perfectly, following my lead with trust that makes something tight in my chest loosen.

"You dance better than I expected," she says, eyes bright with surprise.

"Military balls. Required skill." I spin her smoothly, muscle memory from formal events where showing weakness meant career death. "Surprised?"

"Pleasantly." Her smile is real this time, not the polished performance she gives crowds. "What other hidden talents—"

"Miss Rosetti." The voice cuts through music like a blade. A man in expensive suit approaches, moving with predatory smoothness of someone used to violence. Mid-forties, scarred knuckles, intense gaze. Not medical personnel.

Every instinct honed over years of combat and surgery screams danger. I shift position, placing my body between him and Carmela, hand moving instinctively toward the knife at my ribs. The phantom pain flares—zip ties cutting into scarred wrists, helpless while people needed saving. But this time, I'm not helpless. This time, I'm the weapon.

"I'm sorry, do we know each other?" Carmela's voice stays level, but I feel her tension in how her fingers tighten on my shoulder.

"Vincent Torrino." He extends a hand she doesn't take, smile never reaching his eyes. "I have a message from my family about yours."

The name slams into me like ice water. Torrino—the family sniffing around Chicago Rosetti territory for months. Making threats about expanding operations, testing boundaries.