Page 2 of Unholy Night
My heart, already struggling, seems to stop entirely. He knows who I am. Which means…
"You're one of them." The words barely escape my numb lips. "Rosetti."
He crouches down, gun still pointed at my head but almost casually now, like it's an afterthought. I catch his scent: gun oil and snow and something expensively masculine that has no business making my pulse quicken while I'm dying on his porch. Up close, I can see the calculation in his expression, and something else. Old exhaustion, like he's tired of making thesechoices. Let me freeze to death here, problem solved, no body to explain. Or…
"You're the lawyer obsessed with destroying my family," he says conversationally, like we're discussing the weather. "That accountant you flipped? We know. The property records you pulled last week? We know that too. Domenico found it amusing. Leonardo wanted you dead immediately."
Domenico. Leonardo. He's giving me names like they don't matter, like I won't survive to use them. My body shakes violently, from cold or fear, I can't tell anymore. "Then you know I'm close."
His laugh is soft, dangerous. "You're half-dead on my porch. How close can you be?"
He stands, and for a moment I think he's going to close the door, leave me here. Then he tucks the gun into his waistband, bends down, and lifts me like I weigh nothing. The sudden warmth of his body against mine makes me cry out, salvation and damnation wrapped in strong arms.
"Can't have the enemy counselor dying on my doorstep," he mutters, carrying me inside. "Too many questions. Besides, in my world, debts are everything. Now you'll owe me your life."
The warmth inside makes my head spin. He sets me on a thick rug in front of a massive stone fireplace, the heat from the flames painful against my frozen skin. I notice a crossword puzzle book on the side table, half-completed in precise handwriting. Somehow that small human detail makes him more terrifying. Killers shouldn't do crossword puzzles. I try to sit up, but he pushes me back down with one hand, his touch assessing. His fingers linger at my pulse points, checking I'm alive, noting what he's saved.
"You're hypothermic," he states, already yanking off my heeled boots, my soaked socks. His hands are efficient but not entirely impersonal. "These clothes need to come off."
"Don't…" I start, but his hands are already on my coat, stripping it away.
"I know my rights," I manage through chattering teeth, clinging to my professional identity like armor. "You can't…"
"Your rights?" He laughs, hands pausing on the buttons of my blouse. "You broke into private property in a blizzard. You're trespassing." His fingers resume their work, and I hate that his warmth feels like salvation. Hate more that some traitorous part of me notices the way his hands feel: careful but commanding, gentle but strong. "Besides, would you rather preserve your constitutional modesty or your life?"
"I'm not sure," I say.
His voice goes flat. "Of course. Even half-frozen, you people can't help yourselves."
"What's that supposed to mean?" The words come out sharper than intended, but I am too frozen to care about diplomacy.
"The righteous tone. The accusations." He undoes another button, black eyes assessing. "You've been here five minutes and you're already building a case."
"I'm not—I haven't accused you of anything."
"Yet." The word hangs between us as his fingers complete their work, knuckles probably scraping against my numb skin. "But you're thinking about it. I can see those lawyer wheels turning, even through the hypothermia."
My pants come next, peeled down my legs. I'm too cold, too weak to fight him. My professional mind notes the exits: two doors, three windows, even as my body betrays me by leaning into his warmth. My bra and underwear follow, leaving me completely naked on his floor. The thick rug is soft against my bare skin, and I file that detail away: money, comfort, a safe house that's more than just functional. I should feel vulnerable,terrified. Instead, all I feel is the blessed warmth starting to seep into my bones.
This is the enemy, I remind myself. The enemy who saved your life.
He disappears, returns with thick blankets that smell like the woods in springtime. His scent. His hands check my fingers, toes, looking for frostbite with surprising delicacy. The touch is professional but it seems like he lingers longer than necessary.
"The storm won't break for days," he says, wrapping me in the blankets that hold his warmth. "Roads are already impassable. No phone service. No rescue coming." He pauses, and I catch something that might be regret in his voice. "Not that anyone's looking for me anyway. Family likes their black sheep properly isolated when they fuck up."
The reality of my situation crashes over me. I'm trapped here with a Rosetti. The enemy I've been hunting is now my only chance of survival. And he's in exile, another piece of information I shouldn't have.
"What are you going to do with me?" My voice sounds stronger now, defiance creeping back as my body temperature rises.
He sits back on his heels, studying me with those shadowy eyes. For just a second, something vulnerable flickers across his face. Loneliness, maybe. Then it's gone. "That depends. You going to try to arrest me from under those blankets?"
"I'm a prosecutor, not a cop." I pull the blankets tighter, hyperaware of my nakedness beneath them. "And even if I were, we both know I'm in no position to arrest anyone."
"No," he agrees. "You're not."
The firelight plays across his features, highlighting the treacherous beauty of him. I notice a shelf of philosophy books behind him: Aurelius, Seneca. That detail doesn't fit with the gun, the way he assessed my death. This is not how I picturedmeeting a Rosetti. In my imagination, it would be across a courtroom, me in control, them finally facing justice.
"You saved my life," I say, because it needs acknowledging. "Why?"
