His smile turns wicked. “For everything.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the gym with a racing pulse, trembling legs and the absolute certainty that tonight is going to change everything.
The rest of the day drags. Lunch with Alessandro’s chef trying to make conversation while questions spin through my head. What constitutes “everything”? How dark is dark? What exactly does submission look like with a man like Alessandro?
More importantly, why do all those questions make heat pool low in my belly instead of fear?
Mira calls around three, her voice concerned. “Lena, where are you? The shop’s been closed for days and you’re not answering texts.”
“I’m sorry. Something came up. Family emergency.” The lie tastes bitter, but what’s the alternative? “Hey Mira, I’m actually hiding from the mafia in my mob boss boyfriend’s penthouse because someone threw a brick through my window”?
“Oh no! Is everything okay? Do you need anything?”
“Everything’s fine. I’ll be back soon.” Another lie. Because nothing about this situation is fine, and “soon” depends entirely on when Alessandro neutralizes whatever threat Greco poses.
“Okay, but seriously, call if you need anything. And when you’re back, we’re getting drinks and you’re telling me everything.”
“Deal.”
The call ends, and guilt sits heavy in my chest. Lying to my best friend. Hiding in a fortress. Waiting for a man to come back from doing God-knows-what so we can finally cross the line we’ve been dancing around for days.
This isn’t the life imagined when opening a flower shop. This isn’t the future Nonna would have wanted, full of danger and secrets and loving a man who kills people.
But thinking about Alessandro, about the way he looks at me like I’m precious, the way he touches me like I might break, the way he’s trying so hard to protect me even from himself, walking away isn’t possible.
Maybe that makes me crazy. Maybe it makes me stupid. Or maybe, just maybe, it makes me exactly the kind of woman who can love a man like Alessandro De Luca.
Seven o’clock comes and goes. No Alessandro.
Eight o’clock. Still nothing.
By nine, pacing has worn a path in the living room floor. The security team refuses to answer questions about his location. The phone goes to voicemail.
What if something happened? What if Greco made a move and Alessandro is hurt or worse and nobody’s telling me because they think protecting me means keeping me in the dark?
At 9:47, the elevator finally dings.
Alessandro steps out, and relief floods through me so powerfully it’s almost painful. He’s alive. He’s here. He’s—
He’s covered in blood.
Not his blood, at least, it doesn’t look like his blood. But there’s spatter on his shirt, his hands, even a few drops on his face. He looks like he walked out of a horror movie, and the cold emptiness in his eyes is more terrifying than the blood.
“Alessandro.” His name comes out as a whisper. “What happened?”
He looks at me as though he’s seeing me from a great distance. “You should go to your room.”
“What? No. What happened? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. But you should go to your room.” His voice is flat, emotionless. The voice of The Shadow, not Alessandro. “Please, Elena. Don’t see me like this.”
But how can looking away be possible when he’s standing there covered in evidence of whatever violence he committed tonight? When the man who promised to show me everything is trying to hide again?
“No.” The word comes out firm. “You said tonight. You said no more holding back. So don’t hide from me now.”
His jaw clenches. “This is what I was trying to protect you from. This is what holding back looks like when it stops.”
“Then show me. Tell me what happened.”
