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The words cut through me like they always do. We’re twins, separated by minutes. We’ve only ever had each other. But this time, it isn’t enough.

“I almost died last night,” I say quietly. “While you were out sleeping with some random guy, I was here, terrified, certain I would die because of your mistakes.”

A tear slips down Chiara’s cheek. “I’ll fix this. I promise. I’ll get another job. I’ll pay back whatever needs to be paid.”

“It’s too late.” I run a hand through my still-damp hair. “This isn’t some small-time loan shark, Chiara. This is serious.”

“But the guy who saved you—maybe he took care of it? Maybe it’s over?”

I think of the intensity in his eyes as he’d hovered over me, his weight pressing me into the mattress. The way he’d whispered “mine” against my skin like a promise.

“It’s not over,” I say, certain down to my bones. “It’s just beginning.”

Chiara steps toward me, arms outstretched for a hug I’m not ready to give. I step back, and the hurt on her face mirrors the ache in my chest. We’ve fought before, but never like this. Never with this chasm of secrets between us.

“I need to be alone,” I say, turning away. “You should go—they’re expecting you at the café to show up.”

“Aria—”

“Please, Chiara.” I’m too tired to fight anymore. Too scared. “Just go.”

After a moment of heavy silence, I hear her gather her things. The door closes with a soft click.

I sink onto the couch—my battered secondhand couch—and stare at nothing. The apartment is immaculate, but I can still see it if I close my eyes. I can still feel him if I let myself remember.

Somewhere out there, a dangerous man knows where I live. A man who can kill without hesitation. A man who looked at me like I was already his to keep.

And deep down, beneath the fear and confusion, a tiny, traitorous part of me wishes he’ll find me again and make my troubles go away.

6

MARCO

Idrum my fingers against the leather steering wheel, not out of nervousness, but impatience, watching the café through tinted windows.

The café is too small, too public, too exposed. I didn’t need to be in there for this part—I already knew the outcome. Chiara—whatever her last name is—is about to become Chiara Bianchi.

Nicolo would make the offer. She would hesitate, fight it, pretend she had a choice. But in the end, she’d say yes.

Because there was no other option.

I lean closer to the window, counting the minutes until Nicolo delivers my proposition. The earpiece in my ear crackles with ambient noise from the mic he’s carrying—standard protocol, nothing fancy. Just efficient.

I could’ve done this myself. Walked in, laid the offer on the table. But that’s not how men like me operate. And right now, she needs to see that I don’t come knocking—I send. She needs to understand who she’s dealing with, long before I walk through that door myself.

What she doesn’t know is that I’m no philanthropist. The proposal Nicolo delivers today will outline all the ways I can helpher. What it won’t mention is the real reason—that marrying her gets me out of a future with Valentina Costa.

From this angle, I can see her behind the counter, moving like she always did—effortless, graceful, like she didn’t have the weight of a city hunting her down.

But there’s something different about Chiara today. She’s not stopping by the tables to speak; she’s holding back her usual charm and those smiles.

My fingers tighten around the cigarette I haven’t even lit, a flicker of unease curling in my chest.

She’s wearing that same uniform, but there’s a boldness to it. Her hair’s tied up in a high bun, and her face is painted with heavy makeup that screams for attention. Her shirt, I notice, has an extra button unopened.

I don’t mind the boldness… not at all… but it doesn’t feel like her. Then again, I’ve known her for two days. Not exactly enough time to judge.

My phone vibrates with a text from Nicolo:Ready?