He punched a code into the second door on the right. It clicked. He opened it, waited for me to step in first.
I did.
“Another safe house,” he said.
“You guys own half the city.”
“It’s more true than you think.
The place was simple, clean, made up for a guest. There was a musty smell—I wondered how long it had been since someone had stayed here.
Pietro did the circuit, checked every blind, every latch, every corner. When he was satisfied, he double-locked the door and turned to face me.
I was still in my coat, still breathing hard, the sweat cooling on my back and making me shiver. I stood in the center of the room, arms folded tight.
He crossed the room, stopped two feet away. He didn’t reach for me—not at first. He just waited, eyes on mine, like he was waiting for me to break the silence.
So I did.
I said, “I’m tired of running, Pietro.”
He blinked. Once, slow.
I said, “I have been running for two years. This morning I ran with you, and it was different, and I still hated it. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
My voice wasn’t angry. It was empty. The exhaustion went all the way down.
I said, “Not from Marseilles, not from Enzo, not from your family. Not from anyone. I want this to stop.”
He looked at me, a mix of admiration and worry and something else, something like grief.
He said, “Are you sure? We can leave. Right now. We can be on a plane by nightfall. There are places nobody can find us. I mean it. I’d burn it all down for you.”
I shook my head. “You’d lose your family.”
He hesitated. “They’ll survive.”
I said, “You would never forgive yourself. I would never forgivemyself.”
He started to protest, but I cut him off.
I said, “And I will not let you run, either. If we run, they will find us. If we run, you will lose your brothers, your home, everything you care about. I will not be the woman who costs you your family.”
I said it flat, like a number on a page.
He was closer now, close enough that I could see the lines at the corners of his eyes, the scar that split his left eyebrow. He lifted his hands, slow, and placed them on either side of my face. His palms were hot, rough. They cupped my cheeks, anchored me there.
He said, “I would give it up. For you.”
I shook my head, leaned into his hands, let him hold me up.
I said, “That’s not what I want.”
He didn’t answer, just searched my face like he was looking for an answer he didn’t know how to find.
I said, “Take me to your family. I want to talk to them. On my terms.”
He held my face, a long moment. He let go, finally, and let his arms drop to his sides.
