His little shoulders loosen a fraction, like the promise becomes a weight he can hand to me so he doesn’t have to carry it alone. He leans forward suddenly, arms wrapping around my neck with surprising strength for someone so small. His face presses into the side of my throat.
My body freezes for a heartbeat. Not because I don’t want his embrace. Because I do. Too much.
My hand hovers, then settles on his back. Lucia watches me. I feel it. I don’t look away. I don’t soften. I just let her see.
Nico holds on longer than usual. He can feel the tension. Children always can.
“Come back,” he whispers, voice muffled against my skin.
My throat tightens. “I will,” I say into his hair. “I always come back.”
It’s not true. Not in this world.
But it’s what he needs to hear.
And I will bleed to make it true.
Lucia steps closer, and when Nico finally loosens his grip, she takes him gently, anchoring him with her body the way she always has. Her gaze lifts to mine.
“What if it’s a trap?” she asks quietly.
There’s no hysteria in her voice. No pleading. Just the hard question. I could reassure her with lies. I’ve done it for other women. Other lives.
But Lucia doesn’t accept soft lies. She accepts truth, even when it hurts.
“It probably is,” I say, watching her mouth tighten. “That’s why I’m bringing twenty men and body armor.”
Her eyes flash. “That’s not funny.”
I hold her gaze. “It wasn’t supposed to be.”
She exhales sharply, and she looks like she’s trying not to shake. Then she steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off her.
“You’re sure we’re safe here?” she asks quietly, like she doesn’t want Nico to hear the fear.
I glance toward the hall. Toward the guards. Toward the layered protocols we built after the breach. After the text. After the realization that the enemy isn’t always outside the gates.
“As safe as I can make you,” I answer.
It’s not enough. I see it in her eyes.
So I add, quieter, only for her. “No one gets to him,” I say. “No one gets to you. Not while I’m breathing.”
Lucia’s throat works. Then she nods once, slow. Not because she believes in guarantees. Because she believes in me.
That’s the most dangerous thing anyone has ever given me.
I lean in, press my mouth briefly to her forehead. Her eyes close for a fraction of a second, and I feel her exhale against my chest like she’s borrowing my steadiness. Then she pulls back, because she’s Lucia, and she won’t let herself cling.
“Go,” she says.
I stand. Nico watches me like he’s memorizing my shape in case he needs it later. The thought makes my chest ache.
I turn, forcing myself to leave. The hardest part of this life has never been killing men. It’s walking away from the people you love and trusting the world not to punish you for it.
The car is armored. The convoy is tight. My men are silent.
The city blurs past tinted glass, gray and indifferent, as if it doesn’t know it’s sitting on top of a hundred crimes. I sit in the back seat, hands relaxed, face blank. Inside, I’m counting. Not the minutes. Variables. Rossi wants to see me. Rossi wants to test me. Rossi wants to confirm the rumor that Enzo’s death weakened me instead of strengthening my grip.
