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He tries to speak but only manages a rasp. I step beside her. There is no mercy. Only justice.

“I’m done running,” he whispers, voice fading.

Chiara hesitates for only a second. Then she drives the knife upward, piercing his chest. He gurgles once, blood jetting from the wound. His body goes limp, sliding off the crate and hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Silence follows. The only sound is the fire’s crackle and the tide’s rhythmic slap against the dock pilings. I lower my pistol, fingertips trembling. My ribs ache, and my bicep burns where he grazed me before.

Chiara wipes the blade on his shirt. Blood soaks the cloth but not her fingers. She steps away, breathing heavily, but her eyes are clear.

I slide down against a support beam, legs folding beneath me. Flames flicker across the room, staining bodies with red light. Everything is over. Dino Ferrano is dead.

I close my eyes for a moment. The warehouse settles into a hush, weighed down by our actions.

Chiara crouches beside me, pressing a rag to her shoulder where she bled. “I have to go,” she says quietly. “I need peace. I need quiet.”

I open my eyes. Her face is pale in the flickering light, eyes distant. “You don’t have to decide now,” I say. My voice is low, exhausted, but steady.

She exhales, sounding tired in a way I have never heard. “I’ll come back when I can stay. Not because I have to, but because I want to.”

I nod, not trusting my throat to hold the words. I slide my arm around her shoulders, careful not to squeeze too hard. She leans into me, resting her head on my chest.

No words pass between us. Just the roar of the fire and the hush that follows. Outside, the tide pulls at the dock. I stay alert, listening for sirens or footsteps that might signal more trouble. But for now, it is just the two of us—breathing, bleeding, still alive.

Chiara closes her eyes. I feel her body relax. After everything, she finally finds a moment of calm.

I remain awake, keeping watch. The next fight may come, but not tonight. Tonight, we let the world turn on without us. I hold her a little tighter, memorizing the weight of her body against mine.

And in the flickering red light of the dying flames, I know this moment is ours alone.

Chapter 25 – Chiara

The sun’s barely clawing its way up, the sky a dull smear of blue bleeding into gray, the damp pavement outside the garage reflecting the weak light.

The air smells of last night’s rain, sharp and clean, a contrast to the restless half-sleep I managed. The car engine hums behind me, steady and waiting, tuned to perfection for the road ahead. I zip the duffel shut, pressing it into the trunk, tugging the strap once to secure it. Inside, it’s just the essentials—tools, cash, burner phone, fresh clothes.

My Atlanta jacket, still carrying the faint scent of smoke, goes on top, a piece of me I can’t shake.

Rocco leans against the wall by the garage’s side door, hands in his pockets, legs crossed at the ankle, his posture casual but his eyes heavy with something unspoken.

He’s been standing there since I started loading the car, silent, unmoving, waiting without holding me here. It’s a quiet strength, and I love him for it—not pushing, not begging, just letting me be. But I’m not built to stay, and we both know it.

I close the trunk, the thud sharp in the early morning stillness. His eyes follow the motion, like it’s a verdict, a sentence we can’t appeal.

“You sure?” he asks, his voice low, tired but steady, no edge, just truth.

I don’t hesitate. “I have to be.”

My boots crunch on the wet gravel as I walk toward him, tiny splashes breaking the quiet, but they don’t touch the space between us, heavy with everything we’re not saying. He stays rooted, his gaze dropping to the Ferrano chain around my neck, glinting faintly in the dim light.

His hand lifts, the back of his fingers brushing the warm metal against my skin, a touch so light it sends a shiver through me.

I breathe in, the air cool in my lungs, and say it. “Don’t wait.”

His mouth twitches, a half-smile. “Can’t stop.”

Our eyes lock, the moment stretching long enough for the damp alley air to seep through my sleeves, chilling my skin.

I see the words he doesn’t say, the ones I feel too—a plea, a thread we both refuse to pull. I step into him, our bodies pressing chest to chest, no kiss yet, just the heat of him grounding me.