Page 57 of Until You Break
“Let’s go,” he said over his shoulder.
Adrian waited in the foyer with two men in dark coats, leather-glove scent faint in the air. “One ahead, one behind, SUV across,” he reported.
Damiano’s palm settled at the small of my back as we stepped forward.
He handed me one of the travel cups he’d already filled, the heat seeping through glazed ceramic too dark to sweeten. He picked up the small bag with cornetti and napkins, ready for the day.
“Drink it on the way.”
“Where—” I began.
“Your father’s streets,” he said over his shoulder, already moving.
“My father’s streets?” I echoed, but he didn’t answer.
“Yes. Your father’s streets,” Damiano confirmed, voice low enough for only me.
“Why?” I asked, the word slipping out before I could stop it.
The SUV slid from the gates, Adrian in the passenger seat, another man at the wheel. His left hand rested easy on his thigh, the other a steady weight on my knee. My pulse ticked sharp under it. Through the tinted glass I caught quick flashes of the city, the gates sliding closed behind us. It was the first time I’d left with him, and the streets outside felt heavier, louder, like they already knew I didn’t belong anymore.
“Because I want them to see you like this,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “With me. Guarded by my men. Not at your father’s table, not under his roof, but here, where he should have the power to take you back and doesn’t.”
“That’s—”
“Disgrace,” he cut in. “They’ll look at you and see what he’s lost. They’ll look at me and know they can’t take it back.” His hand shifted on my knee, pressure precise. “And one of them will be waiting. I told him where to stand.”
The words lodged sharper than I wanted. One of who? The question stayed in my throat, heavy with names I had missed.
We turned off the boulevard, streets narrowed. Balconies leaned into each other like old men whispering. Clotheslines stitched the sky. Damiano’s thumb pressed once into my knee, thoughtful.
“I’ll give Riccardo this. He chose streets with bones. The kind that don’t crack when the weather turns.”
“You appreciating Valenti architecture now?” I asked, dry.
“I appreciate leverage,” he said. “These blocks could sing under Bellandi control.” He smiled without warmth, eyes still on the windows as we slid past. “Would you like that,marito mio?”
Only if you ask them, I wanted to say. Only if you don’t paint your name over mine like fresh gold leaf.
“You think everything looks better with your name stamped on it.”
He laughed under his breath and hauled me in by the nape, mouth hard and hot against mine. The kiss shut me up on purpose, teeth and heat and a flash of tongue that stole what I meant to say and made it irrelevant. When he let me go, I bristled on reflex. He grinned like I’d given him a prize.
“Good,” he murmured, thumb still at my neck. “Keep that fire. Just keep it pointed the right way.”
The forward guard’s voice crackled softly in Adrian’s earpiece. The SUV idled at the curb.
Adrian’s man led when we stepped out. The second fell back, measured pace. Across the street, the SUV coasted slow, tinted glass reflecting fractured sky.
Their boots kept time with ours, half a step behind, never loud but heavy enough that every choice felt shadowed. When Damiano’s hand closed on my neck, I felt the guards watching too, like another lock sliding shut.
Extra cars idled along the curb, dark sedans with men inside who didn’t look away fast enough. A pair of guards leaned against a wall, smoking, their eyes following us with flat interest.The silence wasn’t peace. It was staged. Forced. Like everyone had been told to keep their mouths shut and watch instead.
The first shopkeeper we passed paused mid-sweep. His eyes went from me to Damiano to the men shadowing us. He dipped his head and swept slower.
A boy on a balcony pinned a sheet to the line, forgetting the clothespin in his hand. His mother appeared, saw Damiano, and pulled him inside without a word.
By the next corner the street noise had shifted, voices lower, footsteps quicker, air leaning to listen.
