Page 505 of Rosetti Family New York

I back her against the brick wall of the building, my hands braced on either side of her head, caging her in. She gasps, her bright green eyes going wide, but she doesn't pull away. Doesn't tell me to stop. The pulse at her throat speeds up, and I can smell her arousal mixing with the night air.

"It means," I growl against her ear, my voice rough with fury and need, "that I'm done playing defense. It means I'm going to find every single Torrino who thinks they can threaten what belongs to me, and I'm going to remind them what happens when you corner a man with nothing left to lose."

My hands slide down to her waist, gripping her tight enough to leave marks. She melts against me, her breath hitching in that way that means she needs this as much as I do. The violence and desire tangle together in my chest, inseparable and equally consuming.

"When I'm finished with them," I continue, pressing my body against hers so she can feel how hard my cock has gotten from the adrenaline and her closeness, how much the thought of losing her drives me to the edge of madness, "they'll understand that touching anyone connected to Carmela Rosetti means signing their own death warrant."

Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away. "Van…"

"No." I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. "You need to understand something, princess. I'm not the man I was when we met. You've turned me into something possessive and dangerous and completely fucking devoted to keeping you safe. The Torrinos think they're escalating?"

I lean down until my mouth is a breath away from hers, until she can taste my words. "They have no idea what escalation looks like when they threaten the woman I love. But they're about to learn."

The promise hangs between us, dark and absolute. When I claim her mouth in a kiss that tastes like violence and devotion, she kisses me back with matching intensity, burning away everything except the certainty that she's mine to protect.

And God help anyone who tries to take her from me.

22 - Carmela

Van's hands shake as he grips the elevator rail, knuckles bone-white against the metal. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face, and I can feel the tremors running through his entire frame like a wire about to snap.

"Look at me," I say firmly, stepping directly into his line of sight and placing my palms over his trembling hands. "Van. Eyes on me."

His gaze snaps to mine, wild and unfocused. The controlled surgeon from the hospital is gone, replaced by someone fighting invisible restraints. I can see him slipping back to that hellish compound where they tied his surgeon's hands while people died around him.

"We're safe now," I tell him, my voice steadier than I feel as I press closer. "Emma's stable. The gallery is secure. You saved everyone today."

The elevator dings, doors opening to our hallway, but he doesn't move. His breathing is too fast, too shallow, and I watch him struggling to stay present. The scent of hospital antiseptic still clings to his scrubs, but underneath it is his familiar scent: clean soap and something uniquely Van that makes my body respond even in crisis.

"Come on," I say, taking his warm, scarred hand and guiding him down the hallway lined with expensive art. "I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

He nods once, sharp and military-precise despite the chaos I can see churning behind his eyes.

Inside our apartment, he stands rigid in the living room's luxury, scanning exits like he's expecting an ambush. His breathing is still erratic, and I can see phantom pain making him flex his fingers like he's trying to shake off invisible restraints.

"I don't need…" he starts, but his voice cuts off as his body betrays him with a violent shudder.

My heart hammers as I watch the flashbacks slam into him. His whole body goes rigid, and I know he's not seeing our apartment anymore. He's back in that compound where they restrained his hands while patients died around him.

"The hospital," he says roughly, running a hand through his hair. "When Carter was in the trauma bay, when I couldn't work fast enough to stop the internal bleeding from his head injury…"

He stops, shaking his head like he can physically dislodge the memories. But I know what he's seeing. The same ghosts that wake him at 4 AM, the patients who died while he was bound and helpless.

This isn't something I can fix with optimism or patient waiting. This requires something deeper, something that grounds himin ways words can't reach. Something that proves he can hold precious things without destroying them.

"Van," I say firmly, and something in my voice makes him stop retreating. "You're not weak. You're the strongest man I know. But even you don't have to carry this alone."

I'm about to try something that would probably horrify my therapist. If I had one. Which I probably should after this month.

I move past his resistance, my heart pounding as I drop to my knees in front of him. The position isn't about sex right now. It's about anchoring his scattered mind to something real and present, something that proves he can have control without destruction.

"Give me your hands," I say, holding mine out palm-up, steady and sure.

His eyes widen slightly, but after a moment's hesitation, he places his shaking hands in mine. I guide them to my wrists, wrapping his long fingers around them like he's restraining me. The familiar position seems to steady something in him, his breathing slowing slightly as he focuses on the warm reality of my pulse under his palms.

"Feel that?" I ask, keeping my voice steady despite the way my heart is racing. "I'm here. You're here. You're in control, and I'm choosing this."

His grip tightens on my wrists. Not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor him to something real. I regulate my breathing deliberately, making it deep and slow so he can match the rhythm. In this position, with my hands captured in his, he can feel my trust.