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I don't ask any questions. Don't demand explanations. Just hold her while she falls apart, her body shuddering against mine. The weight of everything is all crashing down on her at once.
Eventually her sobs quieten to shaky breaths. I lay her gently back on the bed, then stretch out beside her. She curls against me immediately, her head on my chest, her hand fisted in my shirt like she's afraid I'll disappear.
"You should get some rest," I tell her, my fingers combing through her hair. "I'll wake you when it's time."
"Don't leave," she whispers, her voice raw.
"I'm not going anywhere." I press my lips to her forehead. "Sleep, bella. I'll be right here."
Her body gradually relaxes against mine, her breathing slowing as exhaustion claims her. I continue stroking her hair, watching as the tension eases from her face.
I stay perfectly still, listening to her breathe, feeling the steady beat of her heart against my side.
Her lashes rest on her cheeks, damp and spiky from tears. Even now, exhausted and vulnerable, she's fucking beautiful.
This room has been my sanctuary for years. The place I return to after missions for Damiano, after blood and violence,after making examples of men who crossed the Ferettis. These walls have witnessed my nightmares, my rare moments of weakness when no one else could see.
I also have an apartment in Manhattan—sleek, modern, untouched. I pay the bills but I'm rarely there. It never felt like home, just another asset, another piece of property. Something to own rather than inhabit.
But now, looking at Melania's sleeping form, I can picture it. Her books scattered on the coffee table. Her laptop open on the kitchen counter. Her scent lingering in my sheets.
I want to take her there. I want to wake up with her beside me, not because we're hiding or because she needs protection, but because she chooses to be there. With me.
I've never wanted this before. Never allowed myself to imagine a life beyond service to the Ferettis, beyond the next mission, the next target.
What the fuck am I supposed to do with these feelings? I don't even have words for them. They're foreign, dangerous—more terrifying than any gun pointed at my head.
She shifts in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and my arm tightens around her automatically.
I want her mind, her laughter, her fucking brilliant brain. I want her fears and her nightmares and her past. I want all of it.
I want her to make my miserable life shine.
The realization should send me running. Should make me put distance between us, remind me who she is, who I am. Instead, I pull her closer, press my lips to her forehead.
What are you doing to me, piccola?
She's lost in dreams I hope are kinder than reality. But I already know—she's remaking me from the inside out.
Something tickles my cheek. A whisper of breath, then the press of lips.
"Melania. Wake up,piccola."
I burrow deeper into warmth, clinging to the edges of sleep.
"It's nine thirty."
My eyes snap open. Alessio hovers above me, his dark gaze fixed on my face. Nine thirty. Leo will be at the safe soon.
"I'm up," I say, pushing myself upright. The fog of sleep vanishes instantly as adrenaline floods my system. "Did Leo call yet?"
"Not yet." Alessio's thumb strokes my bottom lip. "But we should be ready."
I nod, suddenly aware of my dry-teared face and rumpled clothes. The memory of breaking down in his arms sends heat rushing to my cheeks. I've never let anyone see me like that before—completely shattered, utterly vulnerable.
"Hey." Alessio tilts my chin up. "You with me?"
"Yes." I meet his gaze. "I'm good. Just... processing."