But when he answers, his voice is soft, the accent raw at the edges.
"He's my brother."
We lie in silence, listening to the house breathe.
Somewhere, a radiator ticks. In the street, a car alarm yelps and dies.
He strokes my hip, slow and lazy, as if he's mapping a border he knows he'll have to defend tomorrow.
I say, "Why did you never tell me about the roof?"
He's half-asleep, but he answers anyway.
"Didn't want you to think I was weak."
"I already know you're weak. Your eyes shine every time the news shows a puppy in distress."
He groans.
"Shut up."
"I'm serious."
He pulls me tighter, mouth against the hollow of my throat.
"You want the truth? All my life, I've been waiting for someone to stop me. Father never did. Fiachra never did. Even the nuns just let me be wild." He laughs bitterly. "Maybe that's why I love you. You scare the shit out of me."
I close my eyes and let the admission settle.
It's the closest he's come to saying it, the only way he can—by making it sound like a threat.
The world outside is already changing, the black turning blue at the edges, the air in the room cold enough that I have to burrow under his arm.
I think about the plan, the way we'll rip each other to shreds in front of an audience, the fact that tomorrow, I'll have to look at him like he's nothing.
"Promise me something," I say.
He grunts.
"If this goes sideways—if I get taken, or the Italians try something before the play is done—promise me you won't do anything stupid."
He kisses my neck, slow, like he's marking territory.
"I can't promise that."
"Try anyway."
He breathes deeply, and the silence is an answer.
I count the seconds until dawn.
I memorize the shape of his hands, the way they fit around my ribs, the way he holds me like I'm something precious and fragile.
I let myself want it, just for tonight.
The alarm goes at six, an ancient rattle that shakes the glass on the nightstand.
He kills it with a palm, then rolls over and pulls me with him, sheets tangled, skin raw from friction.
