Page 474 of Rosetti Family New York
Military-grade surveillance shots of my building, telephoto lenses capturing Carmela at the gallery completely unaware of crosshairs. Tactical positioning notes, equipment lists that make my blood run cold because this isn't amateur hour.
"Teams of four," I read from coordination timestamps and communication equipment specs. "Six-hour rotations. Professional-grade setup."
Not some surgeon's debt collection. These are elimination protocols.
My jaw locks, trauma trigger firing as I spread the glossy photos across the counter like battle plans. High-resolution images show specialized gear, expensive equipment.
The nightmare that woke me feels prophetic now. But this time it's Carmela they want to take from me.
My pride wants to handle this alone. Been arrogant enough to think my military training would be sufficient against whatever the Torrinos could throw at me. Looking at these photos—professional coordination, military-grade surveillance, three teams rotating—I realize how fucking stupid that assumption was.
How close I came to getting her killed through sheer arrogance.
"They're not just targeting me," I say, studying crosshairs-marked images of Carmela entering her gallery. "They're hunting her specifically."
Dante nods, writing on his notepad:She needs family protection.
The words taste like unwanted medicine, but strategic thinking trumps wounded pride. Love makes survival complicated, but it also makes it necessary. Carmela's safety overrides my need for independence.
I have to swallow my ego and depend on resources that dwarf my trauma surgeon salary. The Rosetti family wealth could fund small wars—private security networks, surveillance systems, safe houses.
"I need your family's armor," I tell Dante, each word feeling like swallowed glass.
But that's what they are now, whether my pride likes it or not. The debt that brought us together has evolved into something deeper—mutual protection, genuine loyalty that doesn't depend on blood. Family chosen rather than assigned.
Dante's already texting somebody, fingers moving quickly.
"We stay here," I say, pointing to the building schematics. "Your surveillance network can monitor Torrino movements betterthan any safe house. Better to defend our ground than run to yours."
He shows me his phone screen:Marco agrees. Carmela won't hide anyway.
Smart. She'd never agree to some Rosetti compound—too much like the protection she ran from in New York. Here, she keeps her independence while gaining the security she needs to survive what's coming.
Dante writes another note:Resources in place by tonight. Full surveillance, rotating teams, communication protocols.
The machine of family protection clicking into place around us.
I flex my fingers. The elegant line of Carmela's neck draws my attention—pale skin where I kissed her last night, claimed her, made her breathless with "Yes, Sir" falling from her lips. My cock stirs at the memory of her perfect submission, the way her body responded to every command.
What kind of man teaches a runaway to kneel, then gets her caught in crosshairs?
After Dante leaves, I lock the door behind him—all three locks, methodical as always—but this time the ritual feels different. Not keeping threats out, but preparing for war. When I return to the kitchen table, the tactical photos waiting there don't look like problems anymore. They look like targets.
Professional-grade threat assessment, military precision in their planning that matches what I would do if roles were reversed.
This started as debt payment—keep the Rosetti girl safe, clear my obligation.
Now it's consuming obsession.
I study surveillance photos of Carmela walking to work, unaware of the crosshairs tracking her movement. The thought of anyone touching her, hurting her, makes something predatory and violent unfurl in my chest. Not the broken soldier who wakes screaming—something more dangerous. A man who would lock her away safely and eliminate every threat to our future.
The responsibility of wanting someone this much doesn't terrify me anymore.
Instead, I find myself calculating exactly how many people I'm willing to kill to keep her safe.
The answer, as I stare at photos of potential entry points and elimination protocols, is all of them.
Every. Fucking. One.
