"I'll sleep when we're secure."
"We are secure. You've upgraded everything. Added new cameras. Changed access codes. Implemented new procedures. There's nothing left to fix."
"There's always something." His eyes stayed glued to the screens. "FBI’s is still out there. Still building a case. Winston's still feeding him information—"
"Winston's in federal custody and powerless. The three moles—"
"Matteo and I handled them three days ago. Roughed them up, told them to leave the city and never come back. They're gone but that doesn't mean there aren't others." Elio's voice was harsh. Strained. "I can't afford to miss anything. One mistake. One vulnerability. That's all it takes for everything to fall apart."
I put my hand on his shoulder. He was trembling. From exhaustion or adrenaline or both.
"Please. Come to bed. Just for a few hours."
"I said I can't." He shrugged off my hand. "Go back to sleep, Julian. I'll be fine."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to physically drag him away from the desk. But I'd tried that yesterday. And the day before. It only made him defensive.
So I went back to bed alone. Lay there staring at the ceiling. Listening to the sound of Elio typing in the other room.
Wondering how to help someone who wouldn't let themselves be helped.
***
By day five after the raid, Elio was running on maybe four hours of sleep total. He'd lost weight. Snapped at people. Checked and rechecked security measures obsessively.
I brought him breakfast. He ignored it.
I suggested we go out for dinner. He said he was too busy.
I tried to get him to talk about what he was feeling. He shut down completely.
"I'm fine," he said. Every time. Like a mantra. "I'm handling it."
He wasn't handling it. He was spiraling. And I was helpless to stop it.
That afternoon, I was at Inferno working with Stefan on financial reports when I finally broke.
"I don't know what to do," I admitted. "He won't rest. Won't eat properly. Won't talk about what's bothering him beyond general security concerns. He's destroying himself and I can't get through to him."
Stefan looked up from the spreadsheet we'd been reviewing. "Elio deals with stress by trying to control everything around him. After the raid, his control was challenged. Now he's overcompensating."
"I get that. But he's going to make himself sick. And he won't let me help."
"Because accepting help means admitting he can't handle everything alone. That's hard for him."
"So what am I supposed to do? Just watch him work himself to death?"
Stefan was quiet for a moment. Then: "Maybe help in a way he doesn't have to acknowledge. Find a problem you can solve without him knowing. Give him one less thing to worry about."
I thought about that. What could I do that would actually help? I wasn't security trained. Wasn't muscle. Couldn't protect Inferno the way Elio and Matteo did.
But I did have other skills.
"The FBI investigation," I said slowly. "The public pressure. The narrative around the raid. That's something I could influence."
"How?"
"Journalism. I still have contacts from my pseudonymous writing. If I planted stories with the right outlets, framed the narrative correctly—I could turn public opinion against the FBI. Make their investigation politically untenable."
