He walks down the hallway with quiet confidence, his shoes barely making a sound against the polished floor. When he passes me, he inclines his head in acknowledgment so subtle, no one else would notice it even if they were watching us.
There’s no judgment in his eyes, just a quiet understanding.
He reaches Elena’s door and doesn’t knock, slipping inside smoothly while pulling the door closed behind him, leaving it cracked just enough for sound to carry. I remain where I am, frozen in place.
“Mrs. Cosenza. It’s a pleasure,” he greets politely.
Elena’s voice answers, confused. “I’m sorry…?”
“My name is Nicolo Baresi,” he continues. “Don’t worry. Your husband doesn’t know I’m here.”
There is a long beat of silence that follows.
Elena has never officially met Nicolo. I made sure of that. Men like him are kept in the shadows for a reason. But she would have known the name. Everyone in our world does. He’s a whisper passed between families. He doesn’t work for any one syndicate.
I can picture exactly what’s happening inside that room. Elena would be sitting up straighter despite the pain in her side the moment his name registers to her. Her fingers would instinctively tighten around Luca, suspicion sliding into place like armor while looking Nicolo over, contemplating how safe he actually is.
She’s always been quick like that.
“I heard about what happened with Don Toselli,” Nicolo continues. “Quite tragic that you and your boy were caught in the crossfire.”
“What do you want?” Elena asks.
“I can get you out of Sicily. Out of Italy. New names, new papers, to a place no one will be able to find. You and your boy can start over,” he says simply.
I close my eyes and breathe slowly through my nose. Every instinct I possess screams at me to open that door and drag Nicolo back out into the hallway to tell him it’s off. That I’ll make sure to burn the Bellantis to ash and hunt down every man who dares to whisper my son’s name if it means Elena will stay.
But that’s the problem. Iwillfight until it’s over—whether that means the Bellantis or me. Half a million on Luca’s head is the kind of money that encourages men to die trying. It may takeyears, perhaps decades, to rid Sicily of them all. What kind of life will that be for my son to live through?
As much as I believe in my ability to accomplish wiping them off the face of the Earth, I understand Elena’s hesitation. She almost died because of me. Luca almost lost his mother because of me. If she believes the only way to keep him safe is to vanish, then… I have no right to stop her.
I’ll do anything for her.
Even if that anything means letting her go, spending the rest of my life agonizing over her, pretending I’m still whole while half of me walks around with someone else’s name on another continent.
“I…” Her voice is quieter now. Hesitant. “I don’t know.”
“I’m not asking you to decide right now. Just think about it. You’ve got options. Real ones. If you decide you need to go to keep you both safe, then allow me to help you with safe passage.”
“I’ll… think about it,” she says.
There’s a faint rustle of paper. “My number. Please call at any hour. If you decide you want out, I’ll make it happen.”
I straighten when the door opens again.
I step back quickly, turning toward the vending machine at the end of the hall while adjusting the phone held up to my ear. When Nicolo emerges, he doesn’t look at me. But he does give me a firm hand on my shoulder before walking down the opposite end of the hallway toward the elevators once more.
I wait until he steps back onto the elevator and the doors close behind him before lowering my phone. I push off the wall andshove it into my pocket. Elena is still sitting upright when I enter the room again, staring down at the small white card in her hand.
When she hears me in the doorway, she startles slightly, then slips the card under the sheets tucked over her lap. Her eyes meet mine, guarded.
I pretend I didn’t see. “Everything okay?”
She nods once. “Your call go okay?”
I nod and cross to the chair beside her bed and sit. Luca is slumped over her lap, his head in her lap. Her fingers are running through his hair while he fights to keep his eyes open, the toy car still clutched in his hand. I reach over and brush a piece of his hair off his forehead, then look back at her.
“You look tired,” I say quietly.
