The warehouse air smelled of gun oil and cold steel. Maps were spread across the table, red circles marking routes where shipments had gone missing. Your finger traced the newest mark.

“It’s them,” You said, voice steady. “The D’Angelo family. They’re cutting into our routes, Alessandro. We hit their dock tonight before they hit again.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms folded, those dark eyes narrowing on you like you’d just suggested walking into a firing squad blindfolded. “You’re not going anywhere near that dock.”

You gave a dry laugh. “I’m not asking for your permission.”

He was up in a flash, stepping into your space until you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. “You don’t have to protect me,” you said, your chin high. “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I can’t protect myself.”

His jaw clenched. Then, quieter—deadlier—he murmured, “I’m not protecting you because you’re a woman. I’m protecting you because you’re my woman.”