Chapter 2 - The Fortress on the CliffThe Conti estate sat perched high above the crashing, dark Atlantic waves on a sheer granite cliff in Marblehead, fifteen miles north of the city.
It wasn't a stereotypical mafia mansion with gaudy gold trim or fountains. It was a massive, modern fortress built from dark grey stone, reinforced glass, and black steel, surrounded by a twelve-foot perimeter wall fitted with thermal motion sensors and high-definition cameras.
The SUV ground to a halt inside the heated subterranean garage beneath the main house.
The moment the engine died, Leo Mercer—Matteo’s chief of security, the broad-shouldered man I had jabbing my finger near three hours ago—pulled the rear door open.
"We have secured the perimeter, Boss," Leo reported, his voice tight, disciplined, his eyes glancing briefly at me with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. "The secondary team locked down the Velvet Room. The shooter who took the shot at the pillar was taken into federal custody by our contacts before the local precinct arrived."
"Good," Matteo said, stepping out of the vehicle smoothly, turning back to extend a broad, calloused hand toward me.
I looked at his outstretched hand, then looked up at his sharp face.
"I can walk," I snapped, ignoring his hand, sliding out of the leather seat on my own two feet.
My heels hit the polished concrete floor, and my left knee immediately buckled under the sudden release of twelve hours of sheer adrenaline.
Before my face could hit the floorboards, Matteo’s arm flashed out, catching me effortlessly around my waist, pulling my body flush against his broad, solid chest.
The heat radiating off his charcoal suit was overwhelming. I could smell the rich, dark notes of his cologne—sandalwood, leather, and faint ozone—mixed with the faint metallic scent of his blood from his jawline.
"I said I could walk," I whispered rasps, my hands instinctively pressing against his lapels to push him back, but my fingers ended up clutching the fabric of his suit for support instead.
Matteo didn't move an inch. He held me suspended against his frame, his gray eyes looking straight down into mine, his face inches from my cheek.
"You've been on your feet for fourteen hours, Maya," Matteo murmured, his deep voice vibrating against my palms. "You have glass splinters in your left shoe, a torn dress, and a shock-induced pulse of one hundred and forty. Stop fighting me for five minutes."
Before I could hurl another insult, he scooped his arm beneath my knees and lifted me effortlessly into his arms, carrying me toward the private glass elevator bank.
"Put me down, you arrogant bastard," I muttered into his collar, though my forehead sank helplessly against his shoulder as bone-deep exhaustion finally crushed my resistance.
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A faint, almost invisible curve touched the corner of Matteo Conti's lips in the reflection of the elevator glass.
"Tomorrow, Maya," he whispered softly into my hair as the elevator rose silently into the dark fortress. "Tomorrow you can try to kill me. Tonight, you sleep."
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