Page 31 of One Savage Union

His fury rolls off him in waves, vibrating through his chest, seething into my skin. It’s not just anger—it’s betrayal. And beneath it… blame. Rocco feels responsible. Like his life, the lives of his men were his to protect, and he failed.

We move again—fast. I hear Mario speak, muffled words I don’t catch, followed by the sharp click of a car door.

Rocco doesn’t stop.

He carries me straight into the dark interior of whatever getaway vehicle he’s prepped for nights like this. His arms never loosen. Not once.

And as the door slams shut behind us, I know we’ve left something behind on that stairwell?—

Our illusions.

Our safety.

My old life.

Forever.

“I know, boss. But it’s not what you think,” Mario says the second the car door shuts. “Enzo’s convinced this wasn’t Leo. I just spoke to him. He swears we’ve got eyes on him twenty-four-seven.”

Rocco slides into the backseat with me still cradled in his lap like I’m something breakable. I try to sit up, but he doesn’t let me—not yet. The back door shuts, and the driver’s side opens with a creak as Mario slips behind the wheel.

He starts explaining himself.

And I already know it won’t matter.

Rocco isn’t the type to care about excuses. He’s the kind to bleed you for wasting his time.

“Mario,” Rocco growls, voice like ice cracking over fire, “you’ve got sixty seconds to tell me who just blew up my safe house… or I’ll paint this overpriced cream Bentley in your fucking brain matter. You love this car so much? It would be a shame to die in it.”

The engine roars to life as Mario speeds off into the night like nothing's wrong. Meanwhile, Rocco presses a kiss to the top of my head like the world isn't on fire. His hold on me loosens just enough for me to sit upright if I want to. I do, shifting slightly—just enough to breathe—but I stay on his lap.

He notices. Of course he does.

And that smug, shit-eating grin he gives me?

Infuriating.

He knows I’m choosing to stay close.

Not because I want him. Because I’m scared.

God, I hope he understands the difference.

Hell, I hope I do.

“There’s no need to splatter my skull all over your fancy upholstery,” Mario mutters, eyes on the road. “All I’m saying is Enzo’s team has Leo locked. He’s in New York sniffing around Ricci, not making moves here. Whoever hit us had inside intel—real-time. That safe house was as secure as Fort Knox. Cleaner than a Vatican ledger. The damn President doesn’t sleep that securely.”

Rocco lets out a low, humorless laugh and leans back, still holding me.

“Yet the White House still has a front door, Mario. My safe house doesn’t.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Mario mutters.

I glance up, catching Mario’s reflection in the rearview mirror. He’s eerily calm. Like the threat of having his head blown off is just another item on tonight’s agenda.

And Rocco? He’s no longer tense either.

As ifthis—death threats, explosions, blood on the carpet—is just business as usual.

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