Mafioso’s arm was locked around Chance’s waist, holding him firmly against him as if the world would collapse the second he let go. His grip was possessive, but there was a strange kind of warmth in it, too. Chance shifted, trying to sit up, but Mafioso’s hold only tightened.

“Don’t even think about it, my Dove,” he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion and something heavier underneath. The brim of his hat cast his eyes in shadow, but the stubborn set of his jaw gave him away.

When Chance stilled and looked at him, he leaned in just enough that their breaths mingled, his voice dropping lower. “You’re not leavin’ me for a single damn second. Not tonight. Not ever. You hear me, Sweetheart?”