Page 55

“This changes nothing,” she says, her voice soft, breaking the hush.

I lift my head, meeting her eyes. “I know. But it means something.”

She sits up, scanning the room, our makeshift sanctuary. “You think you can fix what Ferrano broke?”

I sit beside her, pulling her close, kissing her shoulder. “I can hold it while it heals.” She turns away slightly, her chain resting between her shoulder blades. I trace it with one finger, slow enough that she feels each touch. “That yours or his?”

“Luca’s,” she whispers.

I press my palm flat against her back, feeling the tension release. “Then I’ll protect it like I protect you.”

She closes her eyes, leaning into my chest, and we stay like that, her body warm against mine, until a roar of engines shatters the moment. Headlights carve through the blinds, footsteps pounding outside.

My hand tightens around hers. She presses closer, and we stand, half-dressed, moving to the door.

“Ready?” I ask.

She nods, chain swinging. “Anytime.”

Darkness presses in beyond the curtains, and the steady hum of the mini-fridge echoes in this cramped room. I lie on my side, one arm looped over Chiara’s waist. Her back curves against mine, and I feel her breath rise and fall. I drift in and out of sleep, haunted by last night’s violence and comforted by her weight against me.

She wakes first, shifting beneath the thin motel sheet. I hear her inhale sharply, fingers clutching the fabric at her shoulder. She turns her head, hair brushing my arm. I hold still, hoping she drifts back to rest.

Instead, she stares at the ceiling, eyes open in the dark. I listen to her breath—steady, cautious. I want to speak, but the words stick in my throat.

My own rest comes in fragments. When I stir, I nearly touch her shoulder. My fingers hover against bruised skin.

“Sorry,” I murmur.

She startles, but not from fear. Her body tenses and then releases. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

I shift, propping myself up on one elbow. Her profile is half-lit by the streetlamp through the blinds. I study her face, still flushed from our first night together, and I feel the pull to reassure her.

She turns to face me fully. Her eyes search mine, raw with exhaustion and something fragile. “I didn’t plan this,” she says, voice low.

“Neither did I,” I answer. My fingers brush a loose strand of hair from her cheek. It falls back against her ear. “But I’m glad it happened.”

She nods and reaches for her jeans beside the bed. We both pull on clothes in near-darkness—me in my once-crisp shirt now wrinkled, her in her tank top and jeans zipped halfway. I notice her bruises again, along her shoulder and arm. I wonder whether I should say something, but I wait.

She sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed and rests her chin on her knees. A moment of quiet passes, thick and necessary. Then she says, “You gonna ask what happens next?”

I stand and pace toward the window. Outside, traffic drips past in long streaks of light. I chew on my lower lip. Usually, I’d have a plan, a back-up, a route to safety. Now I just have her and this moment. “No,” I say, turning back to the bed. “I’ll wait until you do.”

Her head lifts. She brushes her fingers across the ledger tucked under her pillow—a reminder that our work isn’t over. “I don’t want to run anymore,” she says.

Her words drop and hang in the room. I feel an ache behind my ribs. I walk over, kneel beside her, and lightly touch her ankle. “Then we stand together,” I say. “No matter who comes.”

She nods. Tears blur her lashes but don’t spill. I cup her face and brush my thumb across her cheek. “I’m here,” I whisper.

She manages a small, vulnerable smile. Then she breaks the tension with a quiet laugh. “You snore like a chainsaw.”

I laugh too. “That was me trying not to talk in my sleep.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You do that too?”

I grin. “Only about you.”

Her laughter fades into a gentle smile. She leans her head against my chest. I wrap my arm around her and feel the steady beat of her heart. The moment holds us in a safe pocket, away from every threat that hunts us.