"Giovanni."
"Sure. Or something else." She sighs. “Hopefully Claudio will be able to figure it out.”
“He will. Or she’s going to be fish food.”
“LEO!” Alexandra squeals. “That’s terrible!”
A chuckle escapes me, “Not as terrible as the things I’m about to do to you.”
Chapter Twenty: Alexandra
Iwaketosunlight.
Not the harsh glare of fluorescent lights or the grey wash of predawn through grimy windows. Real sunlight, warm and golden, streaming through the gap in the curtains and painting stripes across the bed. Across Leone's chest. Across our tangled legs and the sheets we've kicked to the foot of the mattress sometime during the night.
I lie still, just breathing. Feeling his arm across my waist. The steady rise and fall of his chest against my back. The warmth of him surrounding me, solid and real and alive.
We made it.
The thought surfaces unbidden, carrying with it a wave of relief.
We really fucking made it.
I don't know what comes next. Giovanni Russo or The Silent, or whatever boogeyman is still out there, hiding behind layers of shell corporations and shadow networks. The Silent, if they're real, are still pulling strings we can't see.
But right now, in this moment, in weak morning light with Leone's heartbeat against my spine, none of it matters.
I shift carefully, trying not to wake him, and turn to face him. He's still asleep. Actually asleep, not the light doze of a soldier always ready to spring into action. His face is relaxed, the hard lines softened, and he looks younger. Vulnerable in a way he never allows himself to be when he's awake.
His lips are slightly parted, and his breath comes slow and even, and I think: this is the man who killed for me. Who defied his don for me. Who carried my hair tie into battle like a talisman.
This is the man Ilove.
I reach out and trace the line of his jaw with my fingertip. Light. Barely touching. His skin is warm, rough with morning stubble. He stirs but doesn't wake.
I trace lower. Down his neck. Across his collarbone. Over the ridge of his shoulder and down his arm, following the contours of muscle and bone. He's beautiful. I've thought it before, in stolen moments, but I've never let myself linger on it. Never let myself simply look.
I look now.
He's built for violence. Broad shoulders, thick arms, hands that have done terrible things. But there's grace in him too. The way he moves, the way he holds himself, the way his body seems to know exactly where it is in space at all times. A monsters awareness, honed by decades of practice.
And he'smine.
The thought sends a shiver through me. Possessive. Primal. The same feeling I saw in his eyes when he said "mine" and expected me to say it back.
I lean in and press my lips to his shoulder. He stirs again. A low sound escapes him, not quite a word.
I kiss lower. His chest. The edge of the faded bruise, careful not to press. The ridges of his abdomen, the muscles tensing involuntarily under my mouth.
His hand finds my hair. Tangles in it. Not guiding, touching. Feeling.
"Alexandra." His voice is rough with sleep. "What are you doing?"
"Waking you up."
"I'm awake."
"Not awake enough."
