But I'm not letting her go. Can't. Won't.
She shifts against me, making a small sound in her sleep. Her hand spreads across my chest with her fingers curling slightly, like she's holding on even while unconscious. The gesture tightens something in my chest. Not pain. Not exactly. Just pressure where there shouldn't be any.
This is what weakness looks like. This soft ache. This need to keep her safe even when keeping her puts her in more danger.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it carefully, trying not to wake her. A text from Sal came in at six.
Don Marco wants to see you. Social club. This morning.
Early morning. Don Marco doesn't summon me this early unless it's serious.
I set the phone back on the nightstand and take one more look at Francesca. Her dark hair is spread across my pillow and her lips are slightly parted. There's a bruise on her neck from my mouth, marks on her hips from my hands. Evidence of ownership that anyone looking at her would recognize.
I need to move. I need to shower, dress, deal with whatever Don Marco wants. But I give myself another minute of this dangerous illusion of peace before reality crashes back in.
Then I slide out from under her carefully. She makes a small protesting sound but doesn't wake, just burrows deeper into the pillows where my warmth was. The sheet gets pulled up over her naked body before I force myself to walk away.
The shower is quick and cold. I need to be sharp for this meeting, not distracted by the memory of her skin against mine. I dress in a dark suit, strap on the shoulder holster, check the Glock before sliding it into place. The routine is familiar and grounding. This is who I am. This is what I do.
In the kitchen, I start the coffee maker—the dark roast she likes. When it's ready, I leave a note on the counter.
Meeting. Back soon. Stay.
That last word is enough. She'll know what it means.
The drive to Little Italy cuts through early morning traffic. The city is waking up with delivery trucks blocking the streets and coffee shops opening their doors. Normal life continuing while men like me handle the violence underneath.
I park the car two blocks away from the club and walk. Sal is waiting at the door with his face grim.
"He's been waiting," Sal says.
Not good.
I nod and push through. The front room is empty this early, just the smell of espresso and old wood. I head straight to the back room where Don Marco conducts business.
He's already seated at his usual table, perfectly groomed in every way. He's reading the Post. He doesn't look up when I approach. I stand and wait.
After what feels like too long, he folds the newspaper precisely and sets it aside. Then he looks at me. His eyes are cold.
"A Bratva soldier. In your penthouse. Last night." He picks up his espresso cup and takes a sip. "In your living room, according to the cleanup crew. Want to tell me how that happened?"
"Security breach. He bypassed the elevator codes. Came in armed."
"And you killed him."
"He came to kill me. I killed him first."
"In your living room."
"Yes."
Don Marco sets down his cup slowly. "You've been distracted, Luca. The Orlov hit was sloppy. Now your own home is compromised. This isn't like you."
I don't respond. There's nothing to say that won't make this worse.
"The woman in your penthouse." He leans back in his chair. "The one you've been keeping."
Not a question. A statement.
