"Easy." Alessio's voice was rough with exhaustion. "You're safe. We're at Domenico's cabin. You've been out for about eight hours."
Eight hours. I'd lost eight hours.
"The attackers—"
"Evaded. Domenico's team ran interference while I got you out of the city." He pressed a water bottle into my hands. "Drink. Tranquilizer causes dehydration."
I drank, studying him over the bottle. Dark circles under his eyes. Still wearing the blood-stained clothes from last night. He hadn't slept, hadn't changed. Just watched over me while I was unconscious.
"You stayed," I said softly.
"Where else would I be?"
The simple certainty in his voice made my chest tight.
"How long are we staying here?" I asked.
"A week. Maybe longer, depending on how fast Marco mobilizes." He brushed hair back from my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone. "Long enough to regroup. Domenico stocked the place with a generator, supplies, and a medical kit. Had a field medic stitch my shoulder while you were out."
I glanced at his shoulder, noticed the bulk of proper bandaging beneath a clean shirt. He'd changed at some point while I slept, the blood-soaked clothes gone. Small comfort, but comfort.
I caught his hand, held it against my cheek. "Thank you. For getting me out. For keeping me safe."
"Always," he promised.
And I believed him.
The cabin became our world.
The first night, he found me at the window at 2 a.m., wrapped in a blanket, watching snow fall through the dark glass.
"Can't sleep?" His voice was soft, careful not to startle me.
"Thinking too much." I didn't turn around. "Not about Marco. About us."
He moved beside me, close enough that I felt his warmth through the thin wall of air between us. "What about us?"
"Whether this is real." The words came out before I could stop them. "You saved my life. You're protecting me, risking everything for me. And I'm—" I pressed my forehead against the cold glass. "I need to know I'm not just clinging to the first person who made me feel safe. That what I feel isn't survival instinct wearing a prettier dress."
The silence stretched long enough that I thought I'd broken something.
"You think I haven't wondered the same thing?" His voice was quiet. Raw. "Whether I'm keeping you close because I care about you, or because you're the first person who looked past the Don and decided the man underneath was worth something."
I turned. He wasn't watching the snow. He was watching me with an expression I'd never seen on him—not the controlled mask, not the predator's focus, not even the heat that flared between us when we got too close. Just uncertainty. Stripped bare and honest.
"The night we met," he said, "you pointed a gun at my chest and told me to go to hell. You were terrified and outgunned, and you still fought. That had nothing to do with me saving you. That was just who you are."
"And who are you?" I whispered. "When you're not the don?"
"I don't know anymore." His jaw worked. "But whoever I am when I'm with you—the man who makes you coffee and sits on porches and talks about things that have nothing to do with this life—he's the closest I've come to finding out."
I reached for his hand. Found it already reaching for mine.
"Then maybe we don't need an answer yet," I said. "Maybe we just need to know that when this is over—when there's no Marco,no danger, no reason to stay—we'd still choose to be standing right here."
"I would." No hesitation.
"So would I."
