“Go to bed, Alessio,” I say softly. “You need to sleep.”
“Not without you,” he says, his gaze unwavering.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I promise. “I just… I want to sit here for a moment. In the quiet.”
He hesitates, his protective instinct warring with his exhaustion. Finally, he nods, leaning down to press a long, lingering kiss to my forehead.
“Don’t be long,” he says. “I need you there when I wake up.”
“I’ll be there,” I say.
I watch him walk out of the room, his shadow stretching across the floor. When he’s gone, the library feels even larger, the silence even deeper.
I sit back down in the leather chair. I don’t look at the door. I look at the empty fireplace.
I think about Curtis. I think about the forty thousand dollars. I think about the way his eyes looked when he laughed. I try to hold onto the memory, but it feels different now. It feels lighter. Like a photo that’s started to fade in the sun.
He’s at peace. I know he is.
But am I?
I stay in the chair for a long time, watching the shadows dance on the walls as the city lights flicker outside. The rain has stopped now, leaving the world in a damp, expectant hush.
The house is quiet. The family is sleeping. The war is over.
I stand up and walk toward the window. I look out at the Chicago skyline, a glittering map of a thousand lives I’ll never know. I think about all the times I’ve looked out windows like this, wondering where I’d be next week, next month, next year.
I don’t have to wonder anymore.
I know where I might be. In this house. With this man. Part of this family of survivors.
The thought should be comforting. It should be the ‘happily ever after’ I’ve spent my whole life avoiding.
But as I turn away from the window and walk toward the stairs, my heart is still a frantic bird in a cage. My feet are still light, ready to pivot at the first sign of trouble. My mind is still mapping the exits, even as I walk toward the bed I’m supposed to share.
I reach the bedroom door and pause. The light is off, but I can hear Alessio’s steady, deep breathing. He’s waiting for me. He has offered me love. The staying has to be mine.
I push the door open and step into the room.
I’m staying. For now.
But as I climb into bed and feel Alessio’s arm immediately wrap around my waist, pulling me into his heat, I know that the road is still out there. The door is still there. And the girl who runs is still tucked deep inside me, waiting for the silence to get too loud.
The war ended at its source today. The names were spoken. The debts were named, if not fully paid.
But as I close my eyes and try to sink into the mattress, I realize that some things don’t end with a bullet or a ledger. Some things just change shape.
I lie there in the dark, listening to the heartbeat of the man I love, and I pray that it’s enough to keep me from the door. I pray the home we are trying to build is strong enough for a woman who has never known how to stay.
But most of all, I pray for the dead. I pray they find their way out of this warehouse, out of this city, and into the light. Because if they don’t, I don’t know if I ever will.
The night stretches on, cold and still. The adrenaline has long since faded, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that makesmy limbs feel like lead. I should be sleeping. I should be resting after the most consequential day of my life.
Instead, I’m listening. Listening for the sound of a footstep in the hall. Listening for the sound of a key in a lock. Listening for the sound of my own heart telling me it’s time to go.
It doesn’t happen. The house remains silent. Alessio remains steady. The world remains at peace.
And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m waiting for the moment the Costas realize I don’t belong here. I’m waiting for the moment Alessio realizes that a runner can’t be healed by a ring or a promise.
