POV: Emilia Conti
I didn't ask questions right away.
Not because I didn't want answers—but because I recognized the look in Alessio's eyes. The calm had sharpened into something colder, more deliberate. Whatever had just happened wasn't theoretical. It was immediate.
"How close?" I asked instead.
"Close enough," he replied.
He turned and walked down the hallway without checking whether I followed. That told me everything I needed to know about how this conversation was going to go.
I followed.
We entered a smaller room tucked behind the main living space. No windows. No art. Just screens lining one wall, each showing a different angle of the building—garage entrances, elevators, the street outside.
I stopped short.
"That's excessive," I said.
"That's survival," he corrected.
One of the screens replayed footage on a loop. Two figures near the service entrance. Faces partially obscured. One hand lifting—then freezing as armed guards moved in.
My stomach tightened. "They were armed."
"Yes."
"They weren't police."
"No."
I folded my arms, grounding myself. "You said people were coming for me. You didn't say how soon."
"You wouldn't have believed me," he replied.
I glanced at him. "Try me."
He leaned back against the table, studying the screens. "The man you saw die in the garage last night wasn't acting alone."
"I assumed as much."
"He was sent to test security," Alessio continued. "Your presence changed the outcome."
"Because I saw you."
"Because you mattered."
I looked back at the screen. The frozen image of a hand reaching inside a jacket burned itself into my memory.
"So now what?" I asked.
"Now you stay close," he said. "Very close."
"I already am," I snapped.
"Not like this."
He stepped toward me, close enough that I could smell soap and something darker beneath it. His presence filled the room—not physically imposing, but impossible to ignore.
"You don't leave my side," he continued. "Not in this building. Not outside it."
"That's not protection," I said. "That's containment."
"It's a strategy."
"For you," I countered. "Not for me."
He studied my face, eyes sharp. "You want honesty?"
"Yes."
"You are safer with me visible than hidden," he said. "Right now, they're guessing. Guessing makes people reckless."
"And me?"
"You're the message."
I felt a chill crawl up my spine. "What kind of message?"
"That you're not disposable."
I scoffed. "You just called me leverage."
"And leverage is protected," he replied. "If it's valuable."
Anger flared hot and immediate. "I'm not a thing."
"No," he agreed. "You're a risk."
"Then let me go."
"That's not an option."
I stepped back, forcing distance between us. "You keep saying that like it absolves you."
"It doesn't," he said. "But it keeps you alive."
Silence pressed in around us, broken only by the low hum of the screens.
"You're bleeding," I said again.
His jaw tightened. "It's nothing."
"You were shot less than twenty-four hours ago."
"I've been shot before."
"Congratulations," I snapped. "Sit down."
He didn't move.
I met his gaze. "This isn't a negotiation."
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe. Or amusement.
He sat.
I grabbed the medical kit from the counter, hands steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through me. I knelt in front of him, pulling on gloves.
"Lift your shirt," I said.
He did.
The wound was small, already stitched, but the skin around it was angry and red. He'd reopened it by moving too much.
"You don't follow instructions," I muttered.
"You don't give gentle ones."
I cleaned the area carefully. "You're lucky."
"I don't believe in luck."
"I do," I replied. "I see what happens when it runs out."
His gaze stayed on my face, unwavering. "You didn't hesitate."
"When?"
"Just now," he said. "You didn't ask permission."
I shrugged. "I don't need permission to stop someone from bleeding."
"Even when that someone can have you escorted out—or worse?"
I met his eyes. "Especially then."
For a moment, something shifted between us. Not warmth. Not trust.
Recognition.
I finished rebandaging the wound and stepped back. "You'll need to rest."
"I will," he said. "Eventually."
I stripped off the gloves and tossed them aside. "What happens when they try again?"
"They won't."
I raised an eyebrow. "That confident?"
"No," he replied. "Prepared."
He stood, testing the wound briefly, then nodded once. "You'll stay in the adjacent suite."
"That wasn't my question."
"You'll have access to me," he continued. "And limited movement."
I stared at him. "You're moving me closer."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because if someone breaches security again," he said evenly, "I want them to know exactly whose protection you're under."
I crossed my arms. "That paints a target."
"It also paints consequences."
I shook my head. "You're using me."
"I'm shielding you."
"With your body."
"With my name."
That landed harder than anything else he'd said.
"People don't touch what's mine," he added quietly.
My chest tightened. "I'm not yours."
A pause.
"No," he said. "Not yet."
The words sent a spike of anger—and something else—through me.
"That's not happening," I said firmly.
He studied me for a long moment. "We'll see."
I turned toward the door. "I'm not moving into your bedroom."
He stepped aside. "You're not."
The adjacent suite was smaller but just as secure. The door between our rooms remained open.
That felt intentional.
As I crossed the threshold, I stopped and looked back at him. "If you think proximity makes this easier for me—"
"I know it doesn't," he interrupted. "It makes it harder."
"Then why do it?"
"Because difficulty exposes truth," he said. "And I need to know yours."
I swallowed. "You don't get to interrogate me."
"No," he agreed. "I get to observe."
I turned away before he could see my reaction.
Inside the suite, I leaned back against the door, heart racing.
Staying close meant staying visible.
Staying visible meant being claimed in ways I wasn't ready to understand.
And somewhere deep down, beneath the fear and anger, a terrifying realization took root—
The danger wasn't just outside these walls anymore.
It was standing on the other side of the door.