Idon't sleep.
I stand outside her door for hours, listening to the sound of her breathing on the other side. Steady. Deep. She's asleep, finally. Exhausted from fighting me, from fighting herself.
The door is unlocked. I kept my word.
It takes everything in me not to turn the handle, not to slip inside. I've imagined watching her sleep—unguarded, within reach, mine. But she needs rest. She needs to feel safe, even if that safety is an illusion I've constructed around her.
Now she's here. In my home. In my bed—well, the bed I've given her.
Soon she'll be in mine.
In the hours before dawn, I finally force myself to walk away. I head down the hall to my bedroom—the locked room she tried earlier. I strip off my clothes and step into the shower, letting the hot water pound against my shoulders.
I don't think about her.
That's a lie. I can't stop thinking about her. The way she looked at me across the dinner table. The way she ate the food I made for her, trying so hard not to enjoy it. The way she walkedthrough my apartment like she was cataloging escape routes, always thinking, always planning.
My Francesca is a fighter. I've known that since she fought off the mugger I sent after her, refusing to let go of her bag even when she was terrified. But seeing it up close, directed at me, is something else entirely. Most women would have crumbled by now—begged, screamed, broken.
Not her.
She bends, but she doesn't break.
Not yet.
The thought sends guilt through me, sharp and unexpected. I've always been honest with myself about what I am, what I want. I want to break her just enough that she stops running. Just enough that she sees what I've known for months.
We belong to each other.
I dress in dark jeans and a black henley. No suit today. The job in Brighton Beach doesn't require elegance, just efficiency. I strap on my shoulder holster, check my Glock, slide a knife into my boot. The familiar weight grounds me.
I'm L'Ombra. The Shadow. The Outfit's most reliable enforcer.
At least I was, before her.
The kitchen is dark when I enter. Dawn hasn't broken yet, but I know my way around in the shadows. I've always preferred them. I pull eggs from the fridge, butter, bread. Mynonnataught me that a man who cares for a woman feeds her well.
I'm not just caring for Francesca. I'm claiming her. There's a difference.
The eggs sizzle in the pan. I make coffee—the expensive kind she'll pretend not to like. Brew it strong and black, the way I take it. Toast bread. Slice fruit. Set the table for two.
Domestic. Civilized. As if I didn't lock her in this penthouse last night. As if she has a choice about staying. As if I'm not wearing a shoulder holster while I plate her eggs.
I'm plating the food when I hear her door open. Soft footsteps echo in the hallway. She's trying to be quiet, probably hoping I'm still asleep. Hoping for a chance to explore, to find something she can use against me.
She won't find anything. I'm too careful for that.
I pour two cups of coffee and wait.
She appears in the kitchen doorway. For a beat, we just watch each other. Her hair is wild from sleep, dark curls tumbling over her shoulders. She's put her jeans and sweater back on from yesterday—the same clothes she wore when I brought her here.
My jaw tightens. Even rumpled and defiant, she's beautiful.
She looks exhausted, wary, beautiful.
"Buongiorno, Francesca," I say quietly. "I made breakfast."
Her eyes flick to the table—two plates, coffee steaming. She doesn't move.
