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And that, Raffe thought grimly, was how street wars started.

He grabbed his phone, his jaw tightening as he punched in the secure line.“We have a problem,” he said, his tone clipped and unyielding.

Two beats of silence.Then the voice on the other end snapped, “Initiate Blue Sky protocols.”

Raffe closed his eyes briefly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.He hated Blue Sky.It was messy, disruptive, and usually meant innocents were going to get caught in the blast radius.But orders were orders.And he was a man who got the job done.

“Copy that,” he replied, his voice steady, and ended the call.

Methodical as always, he gathered his gear.He checked the mirror once, twice, making sure every detail of his disguise was in place.Raffe wasn’t a man who relied on luck; he relied on preparation.Pulling his hat lower over his brow, he slumped his shoulders, transformed his confident stride into a shuffle, and smeared a little more dirt across his jaw.He looked like any other vagrant wandering the streets of Minneapolis—except his eyes, sharp and alert beneath the brim, missed nothing.

When he stepped out into the sunlight, he didn’t hurry.He ambled.He muttered nonsense under his breath, a string of gibberish meant to make the passersby give him space.To them, he was nobody.Harmless.Invisible.

And that was exactly how Special Agent Raffaele Moretti preferred to work.

Chapter 12

“You’renotpayingattention,”Sal said, his voice a low, grumbly rumble that curled down Catarina’s spine.“You’re dropping your shoulder instead of keeping it up and ready.”

He stepped in close, close enough that she caught the faint mix of leather and soap clinging to his skin.His hand gripped her shoulder, firm but careful, shifting it into position exactly the way he wanted.

Catarina held her breath.A month into this marriage of convenience, and her body still reacted to every brush of his hand like he’d set her nerves on fire.Stronger now, more confident, she carried herself differently.She’d even put on a few pounds—and the way his gaze flicked over her body when he thought she wasn’t looking?It made her wonder if he noticed.If he liked it.

“Okay,” his voice dropped lower, brushing against her skin like a caress, “now, come at the grappling dummy again.This time, lead with your shoulder.”

Her stomach tightened.Was he talking about the fight move—or something else entirely?

“Like this?”she asked, spinning and kicking the way he’d shown her, then followed up with a fist-jab to the dummies abdomen.

He gave a grunt, shaking his head.“Better, but have your fist ready.Don’t wait until you’re halfway through the turn.”

When he demonstrated again, she barely saw the mechanics of the move.Instead, her gaze caught on the play of muscle in Sal’s arms, the flex of his back, the controlled power in his body as he demonstrated the move on the rubberized body form in front of them.And heaven help her, she even admired the perfect tightness of his ass when he pivoted.

This was her husband.And yet…he hadn’t kissed her.Not properly.That wedding-day brush of his lips didn’t count.Not when she wanted the real thing—the kind of kiss that would leave her dizzy and aching for more.

“Now you try again,” he said, stepping back, giving her space.

Catarina swallowed her exhaustion.An hour and a half of training had her muscles burning, her stomach growling, her head swimming.But nothing—absolutely nothing—would stop her from attending these sessions.They were the only times she could feel him, his touch branding her skin.Sometimes, she deliberately botched a movement just to have him correct her stance, just to feel his calloused fingers slide over her arm, her waist, her hip.

And maybe—just maybe—he lingered a second too long too.

She squared her shoulders, fists ready this time.With a sharp exhale, she spun and kicked, her heel slamming into the dummy with a satisfying thud, then kept on spinning, using that momentum to slam her fist into the same place.

“Perfect,” Sal said, moving closer, his eyes locked on hers.

That word, spoken in his low, gravelly voice, made her glow.Made her want more.

Her pulse hammered.She’d spent her whole life shrinking, hiding from her father’s fists and cruel words.But with Sal—every self-defense move he taught her stripped away that fear, layer by layer, until she felt like she could breathe.Until she wanted more than just his lessons.

Until she wanted him.

“Again,” he ordered, his voice rougher this time, his eyes unreadable.

Catarina nodded, but the way he was watching her—like he wanted something too—made her forget for one dangerous second whether they were still talking about fighting.

Catarina could feel her muscles trembling.She had no idea how long they’d been running through the self-defense drills, but she didn’t care.As long as he was willing to teach her, she would keep going.Partly because every new take-down made her feel stronger, more dangerous, less like her father’s pawn.But also because these lessons were the only times he touched her.Every adjustment of her stance, every brush of his hands across her arms or waist, let her pretend—for just a moment—that it meant more than instruction.

He stood in front of her now, his eyes narrowing as if he saw straight through her determination, to the weakness in her trembling arms.She curled her fists tighter, willing herself to hide it, but he noticed anyway.He always noticed.