"Maybe." She squeezed my fingers once, then pulled away and picked up her fork. "These omelets are good, by the way. You should add cooking to your list of marketable skills for when you leave the criminal underworld."
"I'll update my resume."
It did dangerous things to my pulse.
I found her on the terrace at sunset, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the Boston skyline.
"You're thinking too loud," I said, settling into the chair beside her.
She didn't look at me. "Do you ever regret it? This life?"
"Every day."
That got her attention. She turned and studied my face.
"I had a sister once," I said quietly. "Eva. She died because of this life. My father's choices."
Valentina's hand found mine, squeezed gently. She didn't push for details, didn't ask questions. Just held my hand and let me sit with the grief.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"It's why I understand," I continued. "What it feels like when the people who should protect you fail you instead."
" I know what it feels like when family fails you," I said quietly."
"Alessio—"
"Family should be everything." I met her eyes.
She was quiet for a long moment. Then: "My mother died when I was eight. Car accident, my father said. Brake failure on a rainy night. But now I wonder if that was a lie. If she saw what he really was and tried to run."
"Maybe she's still out there," I said. "Waiting for the right time."
"Maybe." Her voice was small. "Or maybe she just didn't want me."
I reached over, found her hand. "That's not true. I've seen you. Anyone who didn't want you would be a fool."
She looked down at our joined hands, then back at my face. Something shifted between us—not attraction, though that was there. Understanding. Recognition. Two people, damaged by the families that should have protected them.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For telling me about Eva."
"Thank you for listening."
We sat like that as the sun set, hands linked, sharing the comfortable silence of two people who'd finally let their walls crack.
Day five brought unexpected domesticity.
We made breakfast together—she chopping vegetables for an omelet while I handled the stove, moving around each other in the small kitchen with surprising synchronization.
"Your mother taught you well," I said.
"Cooking was one of the few things we did together. Before she left." A strand of hair fell across her face. Before I could stop myself, my hand was there—tucking it behind her ear.
My fingers lingered against her cheek for just a moment. Her breath caught.
Then I pulled back, returned to the eggs like nothing had happened.
But something had.
