Page 92 of Cage the Storm
Westchester’s trees close in, narrowing the road as the gates swing open. The mansion waits in the distance. A fortress of stone and glass with the sunlight bouncing off the windows. The last time I walked through those doors, I was his son. This time, I’m someone he never saw coming.
“Christ,” Mateo mutters. “It’s big enough to house a militia.”
“Planning to.” Luna’s quiet laugh soothes the hollow ache inside my chest.
The SUV rolls to a stop. Sophie helps Bria out. The kid stares up, wide-eyed, her neck craning at the massive house. “It’s like a castle,” she whispers, half in awe.
“Dungeons are underground,” I say, deadpan. “Want the tour?”
Bria pales. Luna elbows me. Hard.
“Tesoro,behave.” I bite back a laugh, even if her elbow fucking hurts.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
LUNA
Inside,the air smells of lemon polish and old money. Marble floors, crystal shit dangling from ceilings, Caterina’s taste, but I’ll eventually replace it with something that doesn’t reek of her.
Amara and Mateo claim a parlor, already barking orders about medical supplies. Enzo herds the others upstairs, boots echoing like gunshots in the too-quiet halls. I pause in the foyer, with the key biting into my palm.
I press my lips to Nico’s shoulder and take a breath. “You’re swaying.”
“Dancing,” he lies. “You leading or what?”
Shaking my head, I drag him up the staircase, past oil portraits of dead men with Nico’s eyes staring back at us. Our room is at the end of the hall, waiting for us to step inside. Nico kicks the door shut, and we both collapse onto the bed.
His chuckle is effortless. “You’re insufferable.”
Footsteps rattle outside—Sophie’s laughter tangling with Bria’s protest over room choices—a door slams. Massimo’s growl ricochets up the stairs. “Bourbon. Now.” The ruckus is almost comforting proof we’re alive enough to bicker.
Nico’s heartbeat thrums under my ear, strong and stubborn. I trace the scar on his collarbone, my thumb brushing over theraised line. The chandelier catches the fading light across his face, his cuts, his bruises, all of him.
“I love you,” I whisper. “So much it scares me.”
“I love you,” he rasps, running his nose along my neck. “You, the baby—both of you. I’ll tear apart anyone, or anything, that comes near you. I promise you’re safe. I’ll make damn sure of it. Always.” I press closer.
“You already did,marito.”His chest vibrates with a silent laugh.
With a tired smile, I say, “Now to shower.”
He nods, no words needed. It takes all our effort to stumble to the bathroom and remove our clothing. Tossing it in the corner for Barrett to take care of later.
I tug him under the shower’s spray, my hands lightly brushing over his broken ribs. Steam rises around us, hiding the things we don’t say. He stands there, head down, quiet as I wash away the dirt and dried blood. And let the water rinse away two days of hell on earth. Now, he smells like my husband again, instead of death.
“You’re quiet,” he rasps out.
I press my fingers into his shoulders.
“Thanks.”
Nico huffs a laugh, the sound brittle. “Plotting again?”
“Always.”
My hands tremble as Nico pulls me under the waterfall. Even with his broken fingers, his hands glide the soap over my shoulders and over my stomach. Every touch leaves me breathless as the water washes away the stress and fear of the last few days. And when his palm curls around the back of my neck, pressing my forehead to his, the heat between us chases the chill, when the water turns cold.
Nico fumbles with the buttons on his shirt, his left hand stiff and curled awkwardly. He swaps hands, jaw flexing, and yanksthe fabric over his head with a rough jerk. He closes his eyes briefly, a quiet battle against his pain.
