Not dramatic sobs. Just quiet tears from exhaustion and fear and the weight of understanding that there's no way out of this. No way out of me.
It guts me. I'm destroying her, breaking her down piece by piece, and I did this. I put her in this cage and now I'm watching her come apart.
I'm breaking her.
Not the way I planned. Not by overwhelming her with pleasure, with the certainty of us. I'm breaking her by caging her. By taking away every choice until the only one left is me.
I tell myself it's necessary. That she'll understand eventually. That she'll thank me for saving her from the dangers I know are out there.
But watching her cry destroys something in me.
I should turn around. Walk away. Change out of these bloody clothes and deal with the shitstorm I've created. Let her have this moment without my eyes devouring every second of her pain.
I just stand in the doorway with blood on my jeans, watching my Francesca break, and it's worse than taking a bullet.
Worse than anything I've felt in over a decade of violence. This morning I killed three men and barely registered it—just targets, just work, just another day.
But watching her cry feels like dying.
She's changing me. Making me weak. Making me sloppy. Making me human.
I left my footprint in Orlov's pooling blood because I was thinking about her instead of the job.
I killed two extra men because I rushed, because I couldn't wait another fucking second to get back to her.
I'm standing here covered in evidence instead of cleaning up, instead of making calls, instead of doing damage control on the disaster I created.
I'm choosing her over the Outfit. Over my reputation. Over everything I've built.
And the worst part?
I'd do it again. I'd do it all again. I'd kill a hundred men in broad daylight if it meant getting back to her faster.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, insistent. I pull it out. Don Marco again. I step back and answer.
"Where are you?" His voice is cold.
"Home."
"Orlov?"
"Dead."
The silence stretches. "I just received a call from our contact in the NYPD. Multiple bodies. Brighton Beach. Broad daylight. Multiple witnesses reported hearing a gunshot."
My stomach drops. I knew it was bad. I didn't realize it was already making the rounds.
"There were complications."
"Complications." His voice stays quiet, controlled. Infinitely more dangerous than shouting. "You were supposed to send a message, Luca. Not start a war."
"I know."
"Do you?" Another pause. "I need you sharp. I need you focused. I need L'Ombra, not whoever the fuck showed up in Brighton Beach today."
He's right. I know he's right.
"It won't happen again."
