My heart hammered against my ribs. Through the security monitors, I could see the figure in black moving closer to our building entrance. Professional. Calculated. Exactly the kind of threat Luca had warned me about.
"I'm not hiding in a bathroom while you—"
"Sienna." He turned, his eyes fierce. "You're carrying our child. If something happens to me, you run. Promise me."
The raw fear in his voice made my throat tighten. "Luca—"
A sharp buzz from his phone. Marco's voicecame through: "Boss, we've got him. Northeast corner. It's... you need to see this."
Luca's expression shifted from battle-ready to confused. "See what?"
"He's one of ours. New recruit—Tommaso's nephew. The kid thought he was doing a perimeter check, didn't realize the schedule had changed. He's scared shitless, boss. Swears he was just trying to prove himself."
The tension in Luca's shoulders didn't ease. "Bring him to me. Now."
Twenty minutes later, a terrified young man—couldn't have been more than nineteen—stood in our apartment flanked by Angelo and Marco. His hands were zip-tied, his face pale.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Romano," he stammered. "I didn't know—Uncle Tommaso said I should show initiative, learn the security routes. I didn't mean to—"
"You disabled a camera," Luca said, voice like ice. "You moved through blind spots like you'd been trained. Explain."
"My cousin—he works for Angelo. He showed me the system once, said it was important to understand how we protect the family." The kid was shaking. "I swear, I was just trying to help. I thought if I could do a full perimeter check without being spotted, it would show I was serious about the job."
Luca studied him for a long moment. I held my breath, watching the calculation in his eyes. Finally, he turned to Angelo.
"Verify his story. Every detail. If he's telling the truth, he's an idiot, not a threat." His voice hardened. "But if you find one inconsistency—one lie—I want him dealtwith."
"Yes, boss."
After they removed the terrified recruit, Luca stood at the monitors, still rigid with tension.
"False alarm," I said quietly.
"Maybe." His jaw worked. "Or maybe someone got lucky with their cover story."
He didn't sleep that night. Or the next. I'd wake at 3 a.m. to find him reviewing footage, checking camera angles, questioning whether we'd missed something.
The breach had shaken him more than he'd admit.
Two weeks underground had taught me the rhythm of our strange new life—careful routine, growing intimacy, and the constant awareness that we were living in a fortress that felt increasingly like a home.
The security breach from that first night had passed without incident—though I'd seen the tension in Luca’s shoulders for days after. Now, our life had settled into an uneasy normalcy.
The artificial sunlight from the apartment's screens mimicked morning as I padded to the kitchen, finding small gifts on the counter—cannoli from Bellini's and a mafia romance novel titledMafia Don's Secret Captiveby Vira Black I'd mentioned wanting to read. These little offerings had been appearing for days, always when I wasn't looking, as if Luca couldn't bear to present them directly.
I traced my fingers over the book's cover, feeling the embossed lettering. He'd remembered. A throwaway comment I'd made three days ago while we ate dinner in uncomfortable silence, and he'd remembered. The cannoli were still warm, which meant he'd sent someone out this morning specifically for them.
How did he find time for such thoughtfulness when his world was burning above us? I'd heard enough of his phone calls through closed doors to know things were bad. Properties damaged. Contracts lost. Allies wavering. All while he stayed underground, protecting me.
The contradiction twisted something inside me. The man who'd forced me into marriage was leaving me small tokens of care while sacrificing everything he'd built.
"Thank you," I said when Luca appeared, exhaustion etched on his face despite the early hour. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and I knew he'd been up most of the night again. He shifted uncomfortably, as if gratitude was a foreign language.
"Bellini's maintains quality standards," he said gruffly, pouring himself coffee. His third cup already, judging by the half-empty pot.
Despite the tension, despite the circumstances, these small gestures meant something. They suggested the cold, calculating man was capable of thoughtfulness, of noticing what I needed before I asked.
The kettle whistled as he moved past me, his shoulder brushing mine in the narrow kitchen space. Even that brief contact sent electricity through me—a reminder of the current that had always existed between us, humming beneath every interaction.
