The request is dangerous. Truth is currency in my world, something to be guarded and rationed. But with Elena warm against me, her touch sending electricity through my skin, my defenses crumble.
“Sometimes I dream about a different life. One where I’m just Alessandro, not The Shadow. Where I can walk into a flower shop and buy roses without calculating threat assessments. Where the woman I care about doesn’t need armed guards and bulletproof glass.” The confession comes out rough. “But then I wake up, and this is still my reality. This is all I know how to be.”
“What if you could learn to be something else?”
“Men like me don’t get redemption arcs, tesoro. We get prison or death, and if we’re lucky, we get to choose which.”
She’s quiet for a moment, processing. “I don’t believe that. I think people can change if they want to badly enough.”
“And what would I change into? A florist?” The attempt at humor falls flat.
“Why not? You obviously have good taste in flowers. And you know all about thorns and danger and things that are beautiful but can hurt you.” Her fingers trace the line of my jaw. “Sounds perfect.”
Despite everything, the danger, the exhaustion, the impossible situation, a laugh escapes. “A mob boss turned florist. That’s a new one.”
“See? You’re already thinking about possibilities.”
“I’m thinking you’re dangerously optimistic.”
“Someone has to be. You’re pessimistic enough for both of us.” She yawns, the sound muffled against my chest. “Stay with me? Until I fall asleep?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Her breathing gradually evens out, body growing heavy with sleep. But true to form, vigilance remains. Every sound is catalogued, every shadow assessed. The gun on the nightstand is within easy reach. The security system monitors every entry point.
But somewhere between checking the cameras and listening for threats, exhaustion finally wins. The last conscious thought is of Elena’s warmth, her trust, the way she chose to seek safety in the arms of the most dangerous man she knows.
And then, for the first time in months, sleep comes, deep, dreamless and surprisingly peaceful.
Sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows and provides the wake-up call. For a disoriented moment, the situation doesn’t register, why is there weight on my chest? Why does everything smell like vanilla and flowers?
Then memory returns. Elena. In my bed. Still tucked against my side like she belongs there.
Sometime during the night, positions shifted. She’s half on top of me now, one leg thrown over mine, her face pressed into the curve of my neck. My arms are wrapped around her possessively, one hand tangled in her hair, the other resting on the small of her back where the t-shirt has ridden up to reveal warm, soft skin.
This is dangerous. This is playing with fire. This is—
She stirs, making a small sound of contentment, and any thought of extricating myself evaporates. When her eyes flutter open and meet mine, still hazy with sleep, something in my chest cracks wide open.
“Morning,” she mumbles, not moving. “You actually slept.”
“Apparently.”
“Good. You needed it.” She stretches, catlike, and the movement presses her body more fully against mine. Heat floods through me, and she must feel the evidence of exactly what her proximity is doing because her eyes widen slightly. “Oh.”
“Sorry. Morning biology. Can’t exactly control it.”
“Don’t apologize.” Her voice drops lower, intimate. “It’s... flattering.”
“Elena.” Her name comes out as a warning.
“Alessandro.” She mirrors the tone, teasing.
“We agreed—”
“You agreed. I distinctly remember expressing a different opinion.” Her hand slides up my chest, over my shoulder, fingers threading through my hair. “But you’re right. We should get up. You promised me breakfast and explanations.”
The reminder of what today holds, the conversation that can’t be avoided any longer, they help dampen some of the heat. “Right. Breakfast.”
