The warehouse burned behind them.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Smoke climbed into the sky like a warning signal.
Inside the armored SUV speeding away from the docks, silence stretched tight between Luca DeRossi and Amara Volkov.
Her shoulder was bleeding again.
Not deep.
But enough.
Luca noticed.
He always noticed.
"Take off the jacket," he ordered.
She didn't move.
"That wasn't a suggestion."
She slowly peeled it off, revealing the torn fabric beneath. Blood had soaked through the edge of her shoulder guard.
"You're distracted," she said calmly.
"You're injured."
"I've been worse."
His jaw tightened.
The SUV turned sharply. His men pretended not to hear.
Luca reached over and gripped her chin, turning her face toward him.
"You don't get to bleed for me."
Her breath hitched—barely.
"And you don't get to decide what I risk."
The air thickened.
"You think this is a game?" he asked, voice dangerously low.
"No," she replied softly. "I think this is survival."
Their faces were inches apart now.
He could feel the heat of her breath.
She could feel the restraint vibrating in him.
"You almost died," he growled.
"So did you."
Something shifted.
Not weakness.
Recognition.
They were mirrors.
Predators who didn't know how to exist without war.
The SUV pulled into a private underground garage.
Luca stepped out first, then extended a hand to help her.
She stared at it.
Then ignored it and stepped out on her own.
He almost smiled.
The Safe Penthouse
This wasn't his mansion.
This was his emergency residence—top floor, private elevator, bulletproof glass.
Untouchable.
Inside, he locked the door himself.
"Sit," he said.
"I don't take—"
"Sit."
This time, she did.
Not because she had to.
Because she wanted to see what he'd do next.
He knelt in front of her with a medical kit.
The most feared man in Chicago on one knee.
For her.
He cleaned the wound carefully.
Gentler than expected.
"You hesitate when it's personal," she observed.
"I don't."
"You did tonight."
He paused.
Just slightly.
She noticed.
"You went for me instead of the shot."
His eyes lifted to hers.
"You're leverage," he said.
"Lie."
His hand tightened on the bandage.
"You think you're the only one who calculates?" she whispered.
Their breathing changed.
Slower.
Heavier.
She reached up suddenly, gripping his collar and pulling him closer.
"If we're going to win," she murmured, "we stop pretending."
His restraint snapped.
He kissed her.
Not soft.
Not romantic.
Claiming.
A clash of dominance and fire.
She responded instantly—no hesitation, no innocence.
It wasn't sweet.
It was violent tension finally breaking.
He pulled back first.
Barely.
"This changes nothing," he said roughly.
"Everything already changed," she replied.
A soft beep interrupted them.
Both turned instantly toward the sound.
Luca's secure monitor lit up.
A live video feed.
Selena.
Standing inside what looked like—
The DeRossi mansion.
Burned.
But not empty.
She smiled at the camera.
"You two look comfortable," she said smoothly. "I thought you'd want to see what I found."
The camera shifted.
A man tied to a chair.
Bruised.
Alive.
Sergei Volkov.
Amara's father.
Amara froze.
Only for a second.
Luca saw it.
Selena leaned closer to the camera.
"War is boring without family involved," she purred. "So here's the deal. Midnight tomorrow. Come alone. Or I redecorate."
The feed cut.
Silence swallowed the room.
Amara stood slowly.
Her expression was ice.
"You're not going alone," Luca said immediately.
"Yes, I am."
"She wants you isolated."
"She wants you distracted."
They stared at each other.
This wasn't flirting now.
This was power.
"You walk into a trap," he said.
"So do you."
A long pause.
Then she stepped closer.
"This isn't about alliance anymore."
"No," he agreed quietly.
"It's about survival."
"And revenge."
Their eyes locked.
United now.
Not because they trusted.
But because they burned the same way.
Midnight was coming.
And someone was going to die.