"Is it?" Turi asks. “You’ve been chasing Vane so long you forgot the living can still ask something of you. But the living is right upstairs, likely waking up and realizing his heart is walking out the front door."
He stands up, picking up his empty mug. He looks older in the morning light—frail. The thought that someone could make himself look this harmless and still betray them makes my stomach turn.
"Stay for the coffee, Amara," Turi says, heading toward the sink. "Stay for the case. Stay because a man like Alessio only asks once, and he didn't even use words to ask you."
He leaves the room without another word.
I’m left alone in the sunlight. My bag is still on the floor. The exit is twenty feet away. The gate is guarded, but I’ve spent ten years finding gaps in systems people swear are airtight. I could be a ghost again by noon.
But I think about the way Alessio touched the bandage on my arm. The way he tried to fix the wound and saw the fear underneath it. I think about the eleven years he’s spent in that dark vault, carrying the weight of a traitor alone.
If I leave, I don’t just lose the trail. I leave him alone with the fear that everything he touches disappears.
Running used to feel like survival. This morning, it just feels tired. My feet are sore. My heart is exhausted. The nomadic life I’ve built isn't a fortress; it’s a cage made of "maybe next time" and "not today."
I reach down and pick up the duffel bag.
I don't head for the door.
I walk back up the stairs, my steps heavy but certain. I pass framed family photographs, closed doors, and the hush of a house pretending it is not at war.
I enter Alessio’s room. He must have come back while I was downstairs, because the shower is running. Steam curls around the doorframe.
I walk to the large, dark-wood dresser against the far wall. It’s masculine and minimalist, holding only a few leather-bound books and a silver tray for his watch and keys.
I open the bottom drawer. It’s empty.
I set my bag on the bed and unzip it. I pull out my favorite t-shirt—the one with the faded band logo. I fold it, movements slow and deliberate. I place it in the drawer.
Then I pull out a pair of jeans. A stack of socks. The small, battered laptop.
One by one, I transfer my life from the nylon bag to the wooden drawer. It feels like a surrender. It feels like planting a flag in the middle of a battlefield.
I am Amara Osei. I am a hunter, a survivor, and a woman who has forgotten how to belong.
But I am staying.
I’m staying for the brother I lost, for the ghost I need to kill, and for the man with the scarred hands who thinks he’s a graveyard.
I close the drawer with a soft thud.
The shower stops.
A moment later, the bathroom door opens and Alessio steps out, shirt half-buttoned over damp skin, hair still pushed back from the shower. He looks raw. When his eyes land on me, they flare with something so intense it nearly knocks me backward.
He looks at me, then his gaze drops to the bed. He sees the empty duffel bag. Then he looks at the dresser, where the edge of my t-shirt is peeking out from the drawer.
The air in the room changes. The tension is a physical pressure. He doesn't move. He doesn't say anything. He just breathes, his chest heaving.
"You’re still here," he says. His voice is a low, jagged rumble.
"The coffee was good," I say, trying for my usual bite, but it comes out soft. "And Turi says I shouldn't leave until I’ve tried the apricot jam."
Alessio crosses the room in three long strides. He doesn't cage me. He just stands so close I can feel the heat radiating off his damp skin.
"I thought..." He stops, his jaw tightening.
"I know what you thought," I say, reaching up to rest my hand on his chest. His heart is racing, a wild, frantic thud against his ribs. "But I’m not done with you yet, Alessio. And I’m definitely not done with Vane."
