"Isabella—"
"Go get your things. They'll be here soon."
He looks at me for a long moment, something desperate in his eyes. Then he turns and walks out.
I carry Elena to her room and lay her in her bed, covering her with her favorite blanket. She looks so small, innocent. She has no idea that her whole world just changed.
I stand there watching her sleep, my hand on her back, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing.
How am I going to do this? How am I going to explain when she wakes up and he's gone? How am I going to survive the questions, the tears, the waiting?
How am I going to survive any of this?
I hear the sound of a car in the distance. Getting closer.
They're here.
I walk back to the living room. Lupo is already there, standing by the door, the gun tucked into his waistband under his shirt. He looks different somehow. Harder. Like he's already starting to become the boss again.
The car pulls into the yard, the black sedan, expensive and out of place. Two men get out. One of them is Ciro, the older man with gray hair. The other is younger, built like a soldier.
Lupo picks up the bag I made for him. Then he turns to me.
"I don't know what to say," he admits quietly.
"Then don't say anything."
"Isabella—"
"Just go." My voice breaks. "Before I beg you to stay. Before I make this harder than it already is. Just go."
He crosses the space between us in two steps and pulls me into his arms. I let myself have this—one last moment of feeling safe, feeling held, feeling like I matter to someone.
"I'll come back," he whispers into my hair. "I swear to you, I'll find a way back."
"Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I'm not." He pulls back to look at me, his hands framing my face. "This isn't goodbye, Isabella. It's just—"
"It's goodbye," I interrupt. "We both know it. Stop pretending."
For a moment, I think he's going to argue. Going to insist again that he'll come back, that we'll see each other again, that this is all going to work out somehow.
But he doesn't. Because he knows I'm right.
Instead, he kisses me. One last time. It's not desperate like last night. It's gentle. Tender. Like he's trying to say everything he can't put into words.
I love you. I'm sorry. Thank you. Goodbye.
When he pulls away, his eyes are bright with unshed tears.
"Take care of her," he says. "Take care of both of you."
"We'll be fine." The lie tastes bitter. "Go."
He nods. Picks up the bag. Walks to the door.
Then he pauses, his hand on the doorknob, and looks back at me one last time.
