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“I’m sorry.” The rough, raw apology slips out of me. “For what you saw and for what I am.”
She’s quiet as her fingers trace patterns on my skin. “What are you, Marco?”
The question hangs in the darkness between us.
“I don’t know anymore.” My voice is barely a whisper. “I used to think I was a fighter who got caught up in the wrong life. Then I thought I was a soldier doing what needed to be done by trading my peace for everyone else’s. Now…” I trail off, unable to explain the hollow ache in my chest.
“Now?”
“I look at my hands and wonder when I stopped flinching at what they’ve done. The blood always washes off, but the ease with which I put it there doesn’t, and that frightens me more than any enemy I’ve ever had.”
Lucia shifts in my arms to face me in the dark. I can make out the gleam of her eyes, the outline of her cheek, and the way the shadows pool in her clavicle.
“Remember that I saw you teaching those kids at the hospital how to fight.” Her voice is soft and steady. “You made them believe they were strong when the world had told them otherwise. That’s who you are, too, Marco. You’re as real as the man in that warehouse, as the blood on your hands, as every terrible act this life demands.”
“With the kids, it’s different.”
“It’s still you.” She cups my face in her hands, her palms soft against my cheeks. “You are violence and gentleness, a killer and a protector. You’re the man who breaks others and the man who mends them. You’re not just one thing, Marco. None of us are. We’re all skin-wrapped contradictions.”
I want to believe her with everything I am.
“I saw how you looked at me.” My voice cracks along fault lines I didn’t know existed. “When I came out of that warehouse. You looked at me like I was…”
“Terrifying?” She finishes for me, quiet but honest. “You were. What you did in there…what you’re capable of…it scares me. It would scare anyone with sense.” She pauses, her thumbs tracing my cheekbones. “But losing you scares me more. I’m so afraid of you not coming back and of some warehouse becoming your grave.”
I kiss her, needing her sweet, clean aura to wash away the dark satisfaction in my soul that comes from shedding blood and torturing other men.
She responds with equal intensity. Her hands slide into my hair, her body presses closer, and for a moment, the world shrinks to her mouth on mine.
When my hands start to wander—when the kiss deepens into hunger—she retreats.
“Not tonight.” Her voice is soft but firm as she draws a clear boundary. “I need to feel like we’re more than adrenaline and survival instinct. I want it to be a choice, not a reaction.”
The rejection stings like a needle plunging into my chest. But beneath the sting, I know what she’s asking for. She needs proof that we exist outside of crisis and that what we have isn’t just fear dressed as love.
I nod and roll over to my own side of the bed. “I understand.”
I don’t. Not fully. But I owe her this.
She falls asleep eventually, her breathing relaxing into a soft rhythm. Her hand remains clasped in mine, as if she’s clinging to me even while unconscious. I stare at the ceiling, replaying the past few days and trying to find the exact point where things started to fracture. Somewhere near dawn, sleep takes me.
When my eyes blink awake, I feel like I’ve hardly had a moment’s rest. I reach out for Lucia and find her side of the bed cold, a note scrawled atop her pillow.
Went to the clinic. Needed space. We’ll talk later.
I read the words three times before they sink in. Then I fold the note precisely and tuck it into my nightstand drawer. The movement rattles the photo of Matteo, and the sight of Lucia’s brother reminds me of why I even got a chance with her.
I’m determined to give Lucia the peace she deserves. That’s more important than settling my score with Bruno.
For the first time in years, though, my work and my motivations feel hollow, and the thought of honoring Matteo’s memory for Lucia encourages me more than revenge ever could.
That afternoon, Nico pulls me aside in the corridor outside of Enzo’s office, his expression grim enough to knot my stomach. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting us in harsh shadows.
“We have a problem.” He keeps his voice low. “Dmitri is dead. Someone got to him last night and slit his throat. There are no signs of forced entry, so this was probably the work of a professional. Either we have another leak, Bruno’s people are closer than we thought, or the Volkovs decided a loose prisoner was a greater liability than a dead one.”
Having another leak in the compound, so close to everything we hold dear… That means Bruno’s reach extends further than we know.
Nico pauses, weighing whether to continue. “Lucia’s ex, Detective Dellinger, has been asking questions at the hospital about her and you. He wants to know what she’s been doing with her time off. I think he’s working an angle, Marco. A case, maybe, or he’s fishing. Either way, it’s another thread we can’t afford to ignore.”
