Chapter 16 The bathroom window is barely wide enough for Sofia's shoulders, let alone mine. I boost her through first, my ribs screaming in protest as I lift her weight. Fresh blood seeps through my bandage, warm and sticky against my shirt. "Go," I hiss as she lands in the narrow alley behind the motel. "Don't wait for me." But she does wait, of course she does, her hands reaching back to help pull me through the cramped opening. The window frame catches on my jacket, and for one heart-stopping moment I'm stuck-half in, half out-as boots thunder through the motel room behind us. "There! Bathroom window!" someone shouts. Sofia yanks me through with surprising strength just as the bathroom door splinters inward. We hit the ground hard, my wound tearing open completely. The pain is white-hot, radiating from my ribs through my entire torso. I taste copper-either from biting my tongue or internal bleeding. Neither option is good. Flashlight beams sweep the alley, deadly bright in the darkness. I press Sofia against the brick wall, covering her body with mine as armed figures pour through the window we just vacated. My vision grays at the edges-blood loss or shock, doesn't matter which. "Six men minimum," I breathe against her ear, forcing my mind to stay moving even as my body threatens to shut down. "Automatic weapons. Excellent formation." They're spreading out, cutting off escape routes. These aren't hired thugs-they're operators. The kind who don't miss and don't leave witnesses. We slip deeper into the maze of dumpsters and service equipment, my left side on fire with each movement. Blood runs down my ribs, soaking through my shirt and leaving a trail any competent tracker could follow. I need to stop the bleeding or we're both dead. "This way," Sofia whispers, pointing toward a gap between buildings. I follow, but my legs nearly give out halfway across the open space. The pain hits in waves now, each one threatening to drop me. Sofia catches my arm, steadying me, and I hate how much I need her support. More shouts behind us. They've found our blood trail. Fuck. The gap leads to another alley, this one lined with motorcycles-overflow parking from the bar next door. Sofia's already moving toward a beat-up Harley, keys dangling from the ignition like a gift from God. "Can you ride?" she asks, noting how I'm swaying on my feet. "Can you?" I counter, eyeing the massive Harley skeptically. "This isn't exactly a beginner bike." She throws me a look that's pure Renaldi arrogance. "Please. I've stolen Vespas in Rome, dirt bikes in Morocco, and a Ducati in Monaco. This rust bucket should be child's play." My eyebrows climb toward my hairline despite everything. "When the hell did you⁠-" "Do we have a choice?" she throws my own words back at me with a smirk. The engine turns over on the second try, loud enough to wake the dead. Or alert every hostile within half a mile. I climb behind her, my wound protesting every movement. The world tilts dangerously as fresh blood loss hits my system. "Hold on," she says and guns it. We tear out of the alley just as muzzle flashes light up the darkness behind us. Bullets spark off the pavement where we'd been standing seconds before. Sofia takes the first corner at a lean that would terrify me if I wasn't too busy bleeding to care. The vibration of the bike sends agony through my entire torso. Each bump in the road feels like a knife twisting in my ribs. I wrap my arms around Sofia's waist, partly for balance, mostly to keep from falling off as my consciousness threatens to fade. Behind us, headlights sweep around the corner. Three vehicles, maybe four, in coordinated pursuit. They're faster than us, better equipped, and I'm leaving a blood trail that makes tracking us pathetically easy. "Where?" Sofia shouts over the engine noise, taking us onto a service road that runs parallel to the highway. "Mountains," I manage against her ear, fighting to stay conscious. "Back roads. Make them work for it." She nods and opens the throttle, the Harley responding with a roar that drowns out everything else. We tear through narrow streets I barely can see, Sofia navigating by instinct and sheer audacity. She takes curves that would be suicide for their heavier vehicles, leaning into turns with the confidence of someone who's clearly done this before. "There!" I point toward a barely visible mountain road, little more than a deer trail winding into the darkness. "That way!" For three hours, we weave through serpentine mountain roads that would challenge a rally driver. Sofia pushes the bike harder than I would dare, threading between guardrails and cliff faces with inches to spare. Every turn sends fresh waves of agony through my torn ribs, but gradually the headlights behind us fade and disappear. By the time I'm sure we've lost them, my vision is blurring from blood loss and Sofia's shivering against the cold mountain air. The cabin appears through the trees like salvation-a place even Marco doesn't know about. My grandfather's old hunting lodge, bought under a name that died with him. Off every grid that matters. "How bad?" Sofia asks as I nearly collapse getting off the bike. "I'll live." But we both know it's close. She helps me inside, her small hands surprisingly steady as she peels away the blood-soaked bandage. The wound has reopened completely. Fresh blood seeps between her fingers as she applies pressure. "There's a first aid kit in the bathroom," I manage. "Real supplies this time." She works in silence, cleaning and stitching clumsily. "Fucking thread," she mutters to herself. "Hold still." Her hands shake only slightly-fear or exhaustion, hard to tell. "Where did you learn⁠-" "Marco's paranoid training included field medicine." Her voice is tight with concentration. "Though I never thought I'd be using it on you." The cabin is sparse but functional. One room, one bed, defensible sight lines. I do a perimeter check while Sofia explores, noting escape routes and potential threats. Old habits. "Your secret hideout actually has running water," she observes. "I was expecting more...survivalist chic." "My grandfather believed in being comfortable while hiding from the law." The joke falls flat. Nothing feels funny right now. I settle into the chair by the window-best vantage point, clear view of the access road. Sofia curls up on the small couch, but sleep doesn't come easily for either of us. Every sound puts me on edge. Every shadow could hide danger. Around 3 a.m., she jolts awake with a gasp that cuts through the silence. "Hey." I'm beside her before I think, hands gentle on her shoulders. "Just a dream." "Maisie," she whispers, and the broken sound nearly undoes me. "I keep seeing her fall." I pull her against my chest without thinking, her body warm and solid and alive. She melts into me like she belongs there, and for a moment all that existed was this-her breathing evening out, her trust absolute. The memory of a few hours ago crashes over me like a wave. Her mouth under mine, desperate and perfect. The way she'd said my name like a prayer, like salvation. The feel of her body pressed against me, all heat and want. Christ. What have I done? Marco's voice echoes in my head: Keep her safe, even from yourself. The promise I made. The line I swore I'd never cross. And last night I'd shattered it completely, taken what I had no right to take. She shifts in my arms, unconsciously seeking warmth, and my body responds instantly. Even now, with guilt eating me alive, I want her. Want to finish what we started in that godforsaken motel room. Want to taste her again, touch her, claim her in ways that would make Marco put a bullet in my head. And he'd be right to. She's twenty-two. Twenty-two. I've been killing for longer than she's been making her own decisions. I've seen things, done things that would give her nightmares. I'm blood and violence wrapped in expensive suits, and she's...she's everything good about the world her family's built. But the way she'd looked at me, the way she'd whispered, "Don't you think we should live tonight?" like she was offering me salvation instead of damnation... My phone buzzes against the nightstand, saving me from thoughts that lead nowhere good. Reality crashes back. I check the caller ID on the ultra-secure burner I've kept hidden for years-my deepest contact, the one no one close to me knows about. This phone runs on a completely different network, purchased with cash under a dead man's identity. If Marco knew I kept communication channels he wasn't aware of, he'd probably kill me himself. But paranoia has kept me alive this long. "Report," I say in a low tone. "Got something big." His voice is tense, urgent. "This goes higher than we thought. Way higher." My blood turns to ice. "How high?" "Council level. Maybe beyond. Someone's been accessing classified files for months. Family security protocols, safe house locations, even old case files about the Calabrese operations." What? The Council oversees all the allied families-Irish, Italian, Russian, everyone. Access at that level means this isn't just about revenge. "They're not just after Sofia," I realize, the pieces clicking into place. "They're using her to start a war." "Gets worse. They're painting the Renaldis as rogue operators. Claiming your rescue operation was unauthorized aggression against legitimate business partners." My vision edges red. "Business partners?" "The auction house had diplomatic protection. Shell companies with ties to three different embassies. Officially, you just attacked international businessmen conducting a private art sale." Art sale. Christ. "How long before⁠-" "Council's calling an emergency session. Two weeks, maybe three. Someone wants the Renaldis declared enemies of the peace, but they're building a case first. Gathering evidence, lining up allies." A pause, then his voice drops lower. "And Dante? They're doing systematic sweeps. Every property within 200 miles of the city. Grid by grid. Even off-the-books places won't stay hidden long." I end the call, mind racing through implications. They'll mobilize everything-every family, every resource. The Renaldis will be hunted by their own allies. "How bad?" Sofia asks, reading my expression. "Worse than bad." I move back to the window, scanning for threats that could already be moving through the trees. "Someone's trying to frame your family for starting a war. Using our rescue as evidence that the Renaldis have gone rogue." She's quiet for a long moment, processing. "We need to move again," I say finally. "They're doing systematic sweeps of every property in the region. Grid by grid. Even this place won't stay hidden much longer." "Where?" That's the question. Every safe house is compromised. Every ally potentially turned enemy. We're running out of places to hide. "I'll figure something out." I check my weapons, count ammunition. Not enough. Never enough. "Get some rest while you can." "You need sleep too," she argues, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at me. Christ, she's so beautiful. "Someone has to keep watch," I counter, trying to ignore how soft and plump her lips are. "Then we take turns." Her voice carries that stubborn edge that means arguing is pointless. "Two hours each." Before I can protest, she's already moving to the window, taking position with the natural competence that always surprises me. Born for this life, even if she never asked for it. I lie down fully clothed, gun within reach. But sleep doesn't come. Every shadow could hide Viktor's men. Every sound could be death approaching. And beneath it all, the memory of Sofia's kiss burns like a brand. I close my eyes and I'm back in that motel room, her hands tangled in my hair, her body straddling mine like she was made to fit there. The way she'd tasted-like hope and danger and everything I've ever wanted but never deserved. The soft sound she'd made when I'd kissed that spot on her throat, how she'd arched into me like she was offering herself completely. Fuck. Marco trusted me. Has trusted me for years with everything that matters to him-his life, his family's safety, his sister's protection. And I repaid that trust by putting my hands on her, by kissing her like I had any right to touch something so perfect. But she'd kissed me back. Had looked at me with those dark eyes full of want and certainty, had rolled her hips against me deliberately until I'd groaned like a man dying. She'd wanted it as much as I did, maybe more. That almost makes it worse. Because now I know. Know how she tastes, how she feels pressed against me, how her breath hitches when I touch the sensitive skin below her ear. Know that when she says my name in that breathless way, my entire world shifts on its axis. And I can never unknow it. I shift on the narrow bed, hyper aware of her presence twenty feet away. Even now, exhausted and wracked with guilt, my body wants her. Wants to cross this small space and finish what we started. Wants to map every inch of her skin, learn what makes her gasp, what makes her moan my name like she did in that hotel room. I'm so fucked. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...