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“It’s power,” she breathes. “And power is all that survives.”

Her face is inches from mine. Rain beads on her lashes, making her look almost soft. Almost.

“Forget her,” she whispers. “She made you weak.”

That sour word lingers. Maybe Sophia did. But weakness, I’ve learned, is proof of life. “You’re wrong.”

Emotions flash across Izzy’s expression. She’s not used to being challenged.

“Love didn’t break me. It showed me what I was missing.”

Her eyes narrow. “And what’s that?”

“Mercy.”

I take her hand, not gently, not cruelly, just decisively, and move it away from my chest. “I’d rather die loving her than live loving you.”

The words feel heavy.

Quick, sharp fury flashes across her face. Then it burns out, replaced by respect I don’t expect.

“She must be extraordinary.”

“She is.”

That’s all. No more, no less.

Izzy straightens her coat, reminiscent of a queen putting her crown back on. “I’m not just going to let you die, Enzo Ricci.”

She pivots and struts away, her heels slicing through puddles until the mist swallows her whole.

The front door swings open. Marco strides out, coffee in one hand, gun in the other, his hair still damp from a rushed shower. “Everything good?”

“Peachy.”

He eyes me, reading the silence. “Izzy?”

“Gone.”

He doesn’t ask how or why. Just nods, the way soldiers do when they already know too much.

We move wordlessly, checking gear and clicking off safeties. It’s the kind of calm that comes before a storm. No one’s pretending anymore.

Rocco straps on his vest, grinning like a lunatic. “Sun’s up. Let’s ruin someone’s morning.”

Marco rolls his eyes. “You talk too much.”

The banter cuts the tension for a moment, long enough for me to breathe.

The rain thickens, sliding down my neck and seeping into my collar. I reach beneath my vest to touch the ring resting right over my heart.

It feels like the only thing worth carrying. The metal has warmed to my skin like a brand.

Memories flit through my mind uninvited. Sophia’s laughter spilling into the night. Her fingers tangled in my hair. The way she whispered my name like it was both sin and prayer.

That kind of memory is dangerous before battle. The hands hesitate when the heart remembers it has weight.

“If this is how I go, better that it’s for her.”