Every time I close my eyes, all I see is him standing behind me at the gun range—his hands on my hips, his breath against my ear, that soft Italian command that made my entire body shiver.
After nearly an hour of tossing in the sheets, I sigh and slip out of bed. My throat feels dry. Maybe water will help. I step quietly into the hallway. The house is still. Dim. A gentle hum of air-conditioning the only sound.
Until—A low sound drifts from down the hall. Barely a whisper at first. I hesitate, thinking he must be on the phone. But then—I hear it again. Not words. Not exactly. A broken sound. Pain. Fear. I freeze. Then—His voice.
“Papa… please… stop—”
My heart stops. He isn’t on the phone. He’s dreaming. He’s pleading. Before I realize I’ve moved, I’m rushing toward his door. My hand reaches for the handle—then stops. I remember reading somewhere that waking someone out of a nightmare can be dangerous. That sometimes it’s better to call their name, keep distance, don’t touch. But then I hear him cry out—raw, agonized—like he’s reliving something unbearable. I don’t think. I just open the door. His room is dark except for the moonlight slicing across the bed. Alessandro is thrashing—sweat on his forehead, jaw clenched, chest heaving like he’s fighting a ghost.
My breath catches. I’ve never seen him look like this. Never seen him look helpless.
“Alessandro,” I whisper, stepping closer. No response. He whimpers. The sound shatters me. I kneel beside the bed. I shouldn’t touch him. I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t listen to him beg without reaching for him. My hand lifts. Shaking. Terrified. I brush my fingers against his cheek. His skin is burning hot. “Alessandro,” I whisper again, louder this time. “You’re dreaming. You’re safe.”
His breathing stutters. His head jerks. Then he whispers—“Papa… please…”
And something inside me breaks completely. I don’t hesitate this time. I touch him more firmly—fingers cupping his cheek.“Alessandro, wake up,” I say, voice trembling but fierce. “I’m here. You’re safe. Wake up.”
His eyes snap open—wild, lost, overflowing with terror—and he shoots upright in bed, grabbing my arm with a bruising grip, pulling me toward him as if he’s still trapped in the nightmare. His hand clamps around my arm—strong, unyielding—but I don’t flinch. I don’t pull away. Because even though his grip is firm, even though his chest is still heaving and his eyes are wild with fear he hasn’t fully escaped yet… I know he won’t hurt me.
“Alessandro,” I whisper, leaning closer, letting my voice soften. “It was just a dream. You’re safe. You’re here. With me.”
His eyes search mine, frantic and unfocused, as if he’s not sure what’s real. Then—A broken sound leaves his throat. Barely a whisper.
“Dove…?” He says it like a question. Like he isn’t sure I’m real. Like he’s praying it’s me sitting in front of him. My heart cracks open.
I lift one hand and brush my thumb across his cheekbone. “Yes,” I breathe. “I’m here.”
Something inside him collapses. He reaches for me—not with the control he always shows, not with the strength that commands rooms—but with desperation. He pulls me into him, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his body shaking against mine.
I freeze for only a second. Then I wrap my arms around him. One hand slides into his hair. The other rubs slow circles across his back. He’s trembling. My strong, unbreakable husband—trembling. His breath is hot against my skin, uneven, ragged, the remnants of his nightmare still clinging to him like shadows he can’t shake.
“You’re safe,” I whisper into his hair, tightening my hold on him. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
He fists the fabric of my nightgown at my hip, holding on like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.
I keep rubbing his back, gentle, steady, the way I wish someone had done for me when I was small and afraid of the world outside my control. His breathing begins to slow. Softens. Steadies. But he doesn’t let go of me. Not for a long time. And I stay there, sitting on his bed, holding the man I once feared… the man I’m now falling in love with…and I whisper to him again and again— “You’re safe, Alessandro. I promise.”
I don’t know how long I sit there with him in my arms. Minutes. Hours. Time feels strange when he’s holding on to me like I’m the only solid thing in the world. Eventually his breathing changes. Slows. Steadies.
He pulls back—not far, just enough to look at me—and his unfocused gaze finally sharpens. Traces me. His attention drifts lower. To my nightgown. His expression shifts instantly—from haunted to stunned then to something dark and hungry that shoots warmth straight through my stomach.
“What,” he rasps, voice gravel and smoke, “are you wearing?”
Heat floods my cheeks. “A nightgown.”
He groans—an honest, guttural sound that curls my toes. “Dio santo…” His jaw clenches. “Go back to your room.”
“No.”
His brows snap together. “Elena—”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
The muscle in his jaw ticks. “You can’t sleep in here with me. Not dressed like—” He swears under his breath. "Just go.”
Instead, I stand. For a second, he looks relieved. Like he thinks I’m listening. Like he thinks I’m walking toward the door. But I round the end of the bed—slowly, deliberately—and before he can process what I’m doing, I slip beneath the covers on the opposite side. The sheets are cool. Heated only by his body onthe other half. I settle beside him and lay my head on his chest. His entire body goes rigid.
“Elena,” he breathes, holding his arms out as if I’m made of fire. “What the hell are you doing?”
