Chapter Five: The Truth In The Safe House

The safe house was everything she’d expected from one of Elio’s properties.

Fortified. Luxurious. And utterly isolating.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Chicago River. Bulletproof glass filtering the late afternoon sun into amber streams across imported marble floors.

Guards at every entrance. Security systems that would make a government facility jealous.

A gilded cage. Just like the estate.

But this time she was locked inside it with him.

“You’ll stay here until we neutralize the threat.” He paced the main room like a caged predator.

He’d shed his jacket. Rolled up his sleeves. Revealing forearms corded with lean muscle.

His usually immaculate hair was disheveled from running his hands through it repeatedly.

“Bruno is coordinating with our people. The Santoro family will pay for this.”

Geneva sat on the leather sofa. Still trembling despite the blanket someone had draped over her shoulders. Watching him.

This Elio was different.

Agitated. Almost frantic.

His legendary control fracturing at the edges.

“How long?” she asked quietly.

“As long as it takes.” He stopped pacing. His gray eyes finally meeting hers. “Days. Weeks. However long until I’m certain you’re safe.”

“So I’m a prisoner again.”

His jaw tightened.

“You’re protected. There’s a difference.”

Something dangerous flashed across his face.

He crossed to the bar. Poured himself three fingers of scotch. Then reconsidered and poured a second glass.

He brought it to her. Pressing it into her hands.

“Drink. You’re still shaking.”

“I was.”

Her hands trembled so badly the amber liquid rippled in the glass.

The adrenaline was wearing off. Leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and the horrifying realization of how close she’d come to dying.

“They were shooting at me.” The words felt distant. Like they belonged to someone else’s story. “Those were real bullets.”

“I know.”

Elio sat beside her. Closer than he’d been since their wedding night.

Close enough that she could smell his cologne. See the muscle ticking in his jaw.

“This is my fault.”

She looked at him sharply.

“Your fault?”

“I should have anticipated this.” His hands clenched into fists. “The Santoros have been making moves for months. I knew they were getting bolder. I should have increased your security sooner.”

“Should have what? Kept me locked in the estate permanently?”

The scotch burned going down. But she welcomed it.

“I’m not a possession to be guarded, Elio. I’m a person.”

“A person who almost died today because of me.” His voice was raw. “Because you’re my wife.”

The word hung between them.

Loaded with meanings they’d both been avoiding for three months.

“Why do you care?”

The question escaped before she could stop it.

“You made it clear before we were even married that you didn’t want me. That I was just a strategic asset.”

His head snapped toward her.

Shock written plainly across his features.

“What?”

“I heard you.” The scotch loosened her tongue. Three months of hurt pouring out. “The day of the wedding. You were in the study with Bruno and Daario. You said you didn’t want me. That you needed someone you could trust. Not some sheltered girl who thought the mafia was romantic.”

Elio’s face went completely white.

“You heard that conversation. Every word.”

She met his gaze steadily. Refusing to look away despite the burning in her eyes.

“So forgive me if I’m confused about why you’re suddenly so concerned about my safety. Protecting your investment.”

He stood abruptly.

Turned his back to her.

His shoulders rigid with tension.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Just stared out at the river as the sun painted the sky in crimson and gold.

“Do you want to know why I said those things?”

His voice was quiet. Controlled. But underneath, she heard something brittle.

“The real reason.”

“Enlighten me.”

He turned.

The expression on his face stole her breath.

Pain. Raw and unhidden.

The mask he wore so carefully completely stripped away.

“Because I was terrified,” he said simply. “I took one look at you when your father first brought you to discuss the arrangement. And I was terrified.”

She blinked. Certain she’d misheard.

“Terrified of what?”

“Of you.”

He moved closer. His eyes never leaving hers.

“Of what you made me feel. I’d spent fifteen years in this life building walls. Making sure I cared about nothing and no one because caring makes you weak. Makes you vulnerable. And then there you were. With your defiant eyes and stubborn chin. Looking at me like you could see through every defense I’d built.”

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

“Elio—”

“I wanted you from the first moment I saw you.” The words spilled out like he’d been holding them back for too long. “Not just physically—though Cristo, yes, that too. But I wanted to hear you laugh. Wanted to know what made you angry, what made you happy. Wanted things I had no business wanting from a marriage that was supposed to be purely strategic.”

“So you decided to hurt me first.” The accusation came out sharper than she’d intended. “To make sure I knew my place before I could get any foolish ideas.”

“I decided to protect myself.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And in doing so, I hurt you. Hurt us both. Because these past three months have been hell, Geneva. Living in the same house with you. Seeing you every day. Knowing I did this. Knowing I destroyed any chance we might have had before we even began.”

Geneva set down her glass with shaking hands.

Trying to process what he was saying.

“You’re telling me that all this time—the distance, the coldness—it was because you wanted me too much?”

“I’m telling you that I’m a coward.” His voice was flat. “I’m telling you that I chose fear over honesty. And it nearly cost you your life today.”

He knelt in front of her.

The sight of this powerful man on his knees was so shocking she couldn’t find words.

“When I got the alert that you were being followed. When I heard those gunshots over the phone—I realized something. I would burn this entire city to ash before I let anything happen to you. I would kill every Santoro, destroy every rival, burn every bridge I’ve built if it meant keeping you safe.”

“Elio—”

“Let me finish.”

His hands covered hers. Warm and solid.

“I don’t want a strategic asset, Geneva. I don’t want a broodmare or a trophy wife. I want you. The woman who glares at me across the dinner table when she’s forced to attend my business meetings. The woman who turned the east wing into an art gallery out of pure spite. The woman who has more courage in her little finger than most of my men have in their entire bodies.”

Tears streamed down her face.

She didn’t bother wiping them away.

“You have a strange way of showing it.”

“I know.” His thumb traced circles on her wrist. “And I know I have no right to ask this after everything I’ve done. But Geneva—give me a chance. Let me prove that I can be more than the cold bastard you married. Let me show you that this marriage could be real.”

She thought about the past three months.

The loneliness. The rejection. The hollow ache of living with a man who treated her like furniture.

But she also thought about Bruno’s words.

He’s not the man you think he is.

About the tripled security. The obsessive tracking of her movements. The fear in Elio’s voice when she’d been attacked.

Actions. Not words.

What had Lena said?

Pay attention to what he does. Not what he says.

“I need guarantees,” she said finally.

Hope flared in his eyes.

“I won’t be kept in the dark about your business. If I’m a target because I’m your wife, then I deserve to know what I’m up against.”

“Agreed.”

“I want to be your partner. Not your possession. That means I get a voice in decisions that affect us both.”

“Agreed.”

“And I want the truth, Elio. Always. No more protection through deception. No more lies. Even kind ones.”

He nodded slowly.

“I can do that. On one condition.”

“What?”

“You give me the same honesty.” His hands tightened on hers. “Tell me what you need from me. Tell me when I’m failing you. Tell me—” He swallowed hard. “If you can ever forgive me for how this started.”

She studied his face.

Looking for signs of manipulation or strategy.

But all she saw was raw vulnerability.

A man who had just handed her the power to destroy him.

“I heard something else that day,” she said quietly. “Something you might not remember saying.”

His brow furrowed.

“What?”

“Daario asked if you’d pretend to want me on our wedding night. And you said you’d do your duty. Nothing more.”

Elio closed his eyes. Pain etching lines around his mouth.

“Cristo, Geneva—”

“But here’s what I’ve realized.”

She freed one hand to cup his jaw. Feeling the roughness of late-day stubble.

“You were lying then too. You were lying to them and to yourself. Because that night—when you touched me—it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t clinical. You were holding back. Trying so hard not to feel anything that it was almost painful to watch.”

His eyes opened.

She saw her own realization reflected there.

“I was terrified I’d lose control,” he admitted hoarsely. “That I’d show you how much I wanted you and you’d use it against me. Use it as leverage. As a weapon.”

“I’m not interested in weapons, Elio.”

She leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

“I’m interested in truth. And the truth is, I’ve spent three months trying to hate you. Trying to convince myself that the hollow ache in my chest was relief, not loneliness. Trying to pretend I didn’t notice every time you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t watching.”

“You noticed.”

“I noticed everything.”

She pulled back enough to meet his eyes.

“I noticed how you always made sure my favorite wine was stocked. How the temperature in my wing was always perfect. How you convinced the opera house to give me that private box—even though you claimed to hate opera.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips.

“I do hate opera.”

“And yet you arranged season tickets. Because I mentioned once that I missed it.”

“Because seeing you happy made the suffering worthwhile.”

They were so close now.

She could feel his breath on her lips. Could see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes.

“If we do this—if we try to make this marriage real—there’s no going back. No more separate wings. No more distance.”

“No more distance.” He agreed. “Starting now.”

He kissed her.

And it was nothing like their wedding night.

This kiss was desperate. Hungry. Three months of denied want pouring into it.

His hands framed her face with a reverence that made her heart ache. His lips moving against hers like she was oxygen and he’d been drowning.

She kissed him back with equal fervor. Her fingers tangling in his hair. Pulling him closer.

The blanket fell away. Forgotten as he lifted her from the sofa. His arms banding around her like he was afraid she might disappear.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rested against hers.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured. “But I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to—”

“Good,” she said. And meant it. “Because I’m not an easy woman to love, Elio Vieira.”

“No.” A real smile transformed his face. “But then I’m not an easy man to love either.”

“We’ll figure it out together.”

“Together?”

The word felt like a promise and a revelation.

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