Page 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Lea

Blood never comes out from under your fingernails completely. I’ve been scrubbing for ten minutes straight, the water running from pink to clear and back again as I find new crimson crescents to clean.

I killed a man tonight.

The thought surfaces for the hundredth time as I scrub harder, my skin turning raw under the scalding water. It should feel monumental, earth-shattering. Instead, there’s a disturbing practicality to my movements. Soap. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.

Alessandro’s estate bathroom is all marble and gold fixtures, obscenely luxurious compared to the violence that brought us here. The mirror shows a stranger. My hair is wild, specks of dried blood on my neck that I missed, eyes too wide and bright. I barely recognize myself.

A sharp knock breaks my trance.

“Ms. Song?” A clipped, professional voice. “The doctor requires your assistance.”

I shut off the water, watching the final swirl of diluted red disappear down the drain. My hands are shaking again as I dry them. I’ve been cycling between mechanical efficiency and trembling shock since we arrived twenty minutes ago.

When I open the door, a severe-looking woman in a pressed uniform gestures for me to follow. “Quickly, please.”

We hurry down the hallway to a bedroom that’s been transformed into a makeshift medical station. Nico lies on the bed, pale and still. His shirt has been cut away, revealing the full extent of his injuries. He has a ragged graze along his side where the bullet passed, a deep laceration across his shoulder, and bruising already darkening across his ribs. A gray-haired man in a sweater vest works efficiently, cleaning the wounds.

“Ah, good. Hold this,” he says without looking up, extending a bloodied gauze pad in my direction.

I take it automatically, my brain disconnecting from the horror of the situation and focusing on the immediate task. The doctor, I assume he’s a doctor, though no one has actually said so, doesn’t bother with introductions or explanations. He simply points to where he needs pressure applied, hands me instruments, while giving me clipped instructions.

“Keep that steady. More pressure there. Hand me the suture kit.”

Nico’s eyes are closed, his face unnaturally slack. They’ve given him something for the pain. Without his usual intensity, he looks different. Younger, almost vulnerable. It’s jarring to see him this way after witnessing his ruthless efficiency in the club. After watching him put three bullets into a man without hesitation.

After seeing him nearly die lost in rage over Marco.

The memory makes me shudder. Marco’s body jerking as the bullet struck, the pool of blood spreading beneath him on the concrete floor. The look in Nico’s eyes when he realized his friend was gone. That animal fury that sent him charging forward, abandoning all his careful control.

And then…

I close my eyes, but it only makes the images sharper. Vincent standing over Nico, knife raised. My hands finding Nico’s fallen gun. The unfamiliar weight of it. The recoil shocking up my arms as I fired, the acrid smell of gunpowder sharp in the air. The horrible, wet sound of the second bullet striking Vincent’s throat. The gurgle as he fell.

“Pressure, Ms. Song.” The doctor’s voice snaps me back. “I need steady hands if you’re assisting.”

I refocus, pressing gauze against the wound as he begins stitching. My hands are steady now, surprisingly so. Some part of me has shifted into crisis mode, compartmentalizing the horror to deal with later.

“The bullet graze is superficial,” the doctor explains as he works. “The shoulder laceration is deeper but missed anything vital. Ribs are bruised, possibly cracked. We’ll need X-rays to confirm.”

His movements are precise and practiced. This isn’t his first gunshot wound. I wonder how many times he’s patched up Nico or others in Alessandro’s organization. How many bullets and knife wounds he’s sewn closed without ever filing reports or asking questions.

“You did well,” he says quietly, eyes on his sutures. “Most people freeze in situations like that. Fight, flight, or freeze. Freeze is most common.”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me, about what happened at the club. About me killing someone.

“How do you…” I start.

“Alessandro’s men briefed me on the extraction. You saved his life.” He glances up. “That’s not something Alessandro will forget.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t want Alessandro’s gratitude or his memory. I don’t want any of this to have happened. I want to be back in my apartment with my article half-written, my biggest worry being whether Harrison will approve my draft.

But that world doesn’t exist anymore. It disappeared the moment I pulled the trigger. Actually, the moment I agreed to shadow Nico.

“Will he be okay?” I ask instead.

“He’ll live. Infection is the primary concern now.” The doctor finishes the last suture and begins applying antiseptic. “He’ll need monitoring through the night. Fever is likely given the circumstances.”

When he’s done with the bandaging, he leaves detailed instructions about when to change dressings, what signs of infection to watch for, how often to check his temperature. He hands me a small case of medical supplies and medications.

“You’re leaving?” The panic in my voice surprises me.

“I have other patients who need attention, Ms. Song. Mr. Varela is stable.” His voice softens at my obvious distress. “The staff will check in regularly, but it’s best to limit who has access to him right now. Alessandro’s orders.”

And just like that, I’ve become Nico Varela’s nursemaid. The absurdity of the situation would be laughable if I weren’t so exhausted and traumatized. Four weeks ago, I was pursuing him for an interview. Now I’m changing his bandages after killing a man to save him.

The doctor leaves, and silence fills the vast bedroom. I sink into a chair beside the bed, suddenly overwhelmed by everything that’s happened. My muscles ache from tension and exertion. My head pounds. I haven’t eaten since before we went to the club, and that feels like a lifetime ago.

I look at Nico’s sleeping form. He seems almost human like this, no calculating gaze, no controlled movements. Just a man, wounded and vulnerable. His breathing is even but shallow, careful even in unconsciousness to avoid straining his injured ribs.

Without thinking, I reach out and brush a strand of hair from his forehead. The gesture is so intimate it startles me. I jerk my hand back as if burned.

What the hell am I doing?

This man has manipulated me from the beginning. He’s been surveilling me, used me, drawn me into a world of violence and moral compromise. I should hate him for that. I should use this opportunity to gather information for my article, to finally gain the upper hand in our ongoing power struggle.

Instead, I watch the rise and fall of his chest, reassuring myself that he’s still breathing.

I killed a man tonight.

The thought keeps returning, relentless as a tide. Each time it feels less shocking, which terrifies me more than the act itself. Is this how it happens? How someone like me becomes someone like them? One compromise, one act of violence at a time, until the extraordinary becomes mundane?

I press my hands against my eyes, trying to block out the thoughts, the images. I need to focus on something immediate and concrete. Nico needs monitoring. I’ll check his temperature, change his bandages as instructed, watch for infection. One step at a time.

When I lower my hands, Nico’s eyes are open, watching me.

“You’re still here,” he says, voice rough with pain and medication.

“Where else would I be?”

He doesn’t answer, just holds my gaze before his eyes drift closed again. I’m not sure if it’s a genuine question or if he’s too drugged to maintain a conversation. Either way, it hangs in the air between us.

Where else would I be? Running as far from this world as possible, if I had any sense of self-preservation. Going to the police, if I believed in their ability to protect me from Moretti. Writing my article, if I were still the journalist I thought I was.

Instead, I’m here, watching over the man whose world has consumed mine. The man for whom I crossed a line I can never uncross.

I settle in deeper, preparing for a long night. Outside the window, rain falls, soft and steady against the glass, washing away another day I never could have imagined.

I jerk awake to the sound of muttering. The room is dark except for a small lamp in the corner, casting long shadows across the walls. For a moment, I’m disoriented, unsure where I am or why my neck aches from sleeping upright.

Then I see Nico.

He’s moving restlessly in the bed, sheets tangled around his waist. Even in the dim light, I can see the sheen of sweat on his skin. His head turns back and forth on the pillow, lips moving in words too low to catch.

Fever. The doctor warned this might happen.

I hasten to his side, laying my palm against his forehead. His skin burns under my touch. Too hot. Much too hot.

“Shit,” I mutter, fumbling for the thermometer in the medical kit. I press it against his temple, waiting for the digital readout: 102.8. Not life-threatening yet, but definitely cause for concern.

I hesitate, uncertain whether to call for help or try to manage this myself. The doctor left antipyretics, but Nico’s too restless to take pills. Cold compresses then, to bring the fever down.

I hurry to the adjoining bathroom, soaking washcloths in cold water and wringing them out. When I return, Nico’s mumbling has grown more agitated.

“Marco,” he says as I approach, the name like a knife twist in my chest. “Left flank. Check the left.”

He’s reliving the attack, I realize. Trying to warn Marco even now.

I place a cold cloth on his forehead, another on the back of his neck. “Shh,” I soothe. “It’s okay.”

His eyes open but don’t focus, glazed with fever and memory. “They took the shipment,” he mutters. “Have to secure the north side. The families will…” He trails off, gaze drifting past me to some point only he can see.

I replace the cloths, which have already warmed against his overheated skin. “You’re safe,” I tell him, though I have no idea if that’s true. Moretti’s men could be surrounding the estate for all I know. “Try to rest.”

“Can’t rest,” he argues, voice clearer though his eyes remain unfocused. “Too many depending on me. The city needs…” He struggles to sit up, wincing as the movement pulls at his stitches.

I press him gently back. “The city will be there tomorrow. Right now, you need to heal.”

He subsides, but his expression remains troubled. “You don’t understand,” he insists. “If I don’t maintain balance, others will fill the void. Moretti doesn’t care who gets caught in the crossfire. The streets will run red.”

I freeze adjusting his bandages. Is this fever talk, or is he revealing something genuine? The idea that Nico sees himself as some kind of necessary evil, a control valve on Chicago’s violence, is not new, but still seems like self-serving justification. And yet there’s something in his intensity that gives me pause.

“Balance,” I repeat cautiously. “Between the crime families?”

He nods, eyes drifting closed again. “Someone has to maintain order. Better me than the alternatives.”

I continue cooling his burning skin, replacing cloths as they warm. His breathing gradually steadies as the fever medications I’ve administered sets in. The restless movement calms.

But his words linger in my mind. Is it possible there’s more to Nico’s role as “The Diplomat” than simple self-interest? The idea that he sees himself as a guardian of sorts who prevents worse violence by controlling and channeling it? The idea is both absurd and strangely compelling.

As the fever spikes higher, his mumbling becomes more disjointed. Fragments of conversation with invisible others. Names, I don’t recognize. And then, unexpectedly, a child’s voice, plaintive and frightened.

“Papa, wake up. There’s blood. Papa, please wake up.”

A chill runs through me despite the heat radiating from his body. This isn’t the calculating crime lord speaking. This is a memory, a child finding something terrible.

“They won’t let me see,” he continues in that younger voice. “Uncle Alessandro says I can’t go in there. Why won’t they let me see Papa?”

I swallow hard, continuing to bathe his face and neck with cool water. I shouldn’t be hearing this. It feels like a violation somehow, accessing memories he would never willingly share.

The fever continues to rise despite my efforts. His restlessness increases, movements growing more agitated until he nearly tears his stitches. I need to cool him more effectively.

I glance at the bathroom door, considering my options. A cool bath would help, but I can’t possibly move him in this state. Which leaves…

“Dammit,” I mutter, making my decision.

I pull back the sheets and begin to remove his remaining clothing. It’s a clinical process, or it should be. But as I expose more of his body, it becomes anything but clinical.

His chest and arms are sculpted muscle, testament to a physical discipline I hadn’t fully appreciated when he was clothed. But it’s the scars that capture my attention. A roadmap of violence and survival. A puckered bullet wound on his abdomen. A long, jagged line across his left pectoral. Smaller marks scattered across his skin like constellations.

Each one represents a moment where he nearly died. Each one a testament to the violence of his world.

By the time I’ve stripped him down to his boxer briefs, my hands are trembling. I focus on my task, running cool, damp cloths over his chest, arms, and legs. His skin is furnace-hot beneath my touch, but gradually, the relentless heat recedes.

Throughout the process, his mumbling continues, fragments of memory and current fears blending together. Marco’s name appears repeatedly. References to Moretti, to balances of power, to protection and territory.

And once, startlingly clear: “Lea.” Just my name, but spoken with such complex emotion that my hands still.

After what feels like hours, the fever breaks. His restlessness subsides, his breathing deepens, and his skin cools to a more normal temperature.

Exhausted, I sink back into the seat. The clock on the wall shows 4:17 AM. Dawn isn’t far off.

I study Nico’s face in repose, trying to reconcile the different versions of him I’ve witnessed. The calculating manipulator who orchestrated my assignment from the beginning. The ruthless enforcer who broke a man’s fingers without hesitation. The grieving friend who lost control at Marco’s death. The feverish man who spoke of protecting the city. The child who found his father’s blood.

Which is the real Nico Varela? Perhaps all of them. Perhaps none.

And where does that leave me, the woman who killed to save him?

I close my eyes, overwhelmed by exhaustion. Just a moment’s rest, I tell myself. Just until morning comes.

* * *

I blink, disoriented, my neck stiff from sleeping in the chair. The events of the night rush back, the fever, the cooling cloths, Nico’s delirious confessions.

I straighten, checking the bed. It’s empty, sheets thrown back.

Panic flares until I hear water running in the bathroom. A moment later, the door opens and Nico appears, wearing only pajama pants riding low on his hips, fresh bandages stark white against his skin. He moves slowly, mindful of his injuries, but the improvement from last night is remarkable.

“You should be resting,” I say, rising.

“I’ve rested enough.” His voice is stronger, his gaze clear and focused. The vulnerable man from last night is gone, replaced by the controlled, calculating Nico I’ve come to know. But now that I’ve seen beneath the mask, I can’t unsee it.

“How are you feeling?” I ask. The answer is clear in his posture, in the return of his intensity.

“I’ve had worse.” He crosses to a wardrobe and selects a shirt, moving with deliberate care as he slides it on, not bothering with the buttons.

“You had a fever last night,” I tell him. “You were…talking.”

His hands pause in the act of pouring water from a carafe on the nightstand. “What did I say?”

“Different things. Some of it made little sense.” I hesitate, uncertain how much to reveal. “You mentioned Marco a lot. And something about protecting the city.”

He turns to face me, expression opaque. “And that surprised you.”

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “It contradicts the narrative that you’re only in this for personal gain.”

The faintest of a smile touches his lips. “Perhaps that’s the narrative you constructed, not the reality.”

Before I can respond, there’s a knock at the door. Nico calls for them to enter, and Alessandro steps into the room, impeccably dressed despite the early hour. He carries a silver tray with coffee service, the domestic gesture incongruous with his aura of controlled power.

“Nephew,” he greets Nico, eyes assessing his condition with clinical detachment. “You look better than expected.”

“I had good care,” Nico replies, with a nod in my direction that feels like more than simple acknowledgment.

Alessandro turns to me, his expression warming. “Ms. Song. I thought you might appreciate coffee after your long night.” He sets the tray on a side table. “Black, if I recall correctly.”

That he knows how I take my coffee is unsettling.

“Thank you,” I manage, accepting the cup he offers. The coffee is perfect, of course, strong and rich, how I prefer it.

“I’d like to speak with Ms. Song,” Alessandro says to Nico. “If you’re stable enough to be left alone for a few minutes.”

Nico’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly. “I’m fine. Take all the time you need.”

I follow Alessandro from the room with a feeling of foreboding. What could he want to discuss with me alone? Has he somehow learned that I’ve been playing his nephew, using seduction as a strategy just as Nico has been using me?

We walk in silence through the grand hallway of the estate. Alessandro leads me to a sun-drenched conservatory filled with exotic plants. The air is warm, humid, smelling of damp earth and sweet blossoms. The glass walls offer a panoramic view of manicured gardens extending to a distant tree line. It’s beautiful, peaceful, a stark contrast to the violence that brought us here.

“Please, sit,” he gestures to a comfortable chair. “I imagine you’re exhausted.”

I sink into the seat, cradling my coffee cup like a shield. “It was a long night.”

“You saved his life,” Alessandro states, taking the chair opposite mine. “That creates a certain bond between people. A debt.”

“I didn’t do it for a debt,” I say.

His smile is knowing, even indulgent. “No, I don’t imagine you did. Which makes it all the more significant.” He studies me for a long moment. “Our first meeting…perhaps I underestimated the mettle beneath the journalistic curiosity.” “You’re not what I expected, Ms. Song.”

“What did you expect?”

“Someone more malleable. Someone who would be overwhelmed by Nico’s world, either running from it in terror or succumbing to its allure.” He sips his coffee. “Instead, you maintain a curious balance, neither fully rejecting nor entirely embracing what you’ve witnessed. It’s unusual.”

I’m not sure if it’s a compliment or an accusation. “I’m here to document, not judge.”

“Are you?” His tone suggests he knows better. “Is that why you picked up a gun last night? For documentation?”

The coffee suddenly tastes bitter on my tongue. “I acted on instinct.”

“Yes. That’s my point.” Alessandro leans forward. “When instinct overrides calculation, we reveal our true selves. And your instinct was to protect him, even at the cost of taking a life.”

I have no answer for that. The truth of his observation settles uncomfortably in my chest. My actions last night weren’t those of a detached journalist or even a manipulative strategist. They were raw, unfiltered impulses that revealed feelings I’ve been trying to deny.

Alessandro seems to take my silence as confirmation. “Nico had a difficult childhood,” he says, changing direction. “His parents were killed when he was seven. A business disagreement that turned violent.”

The image of the feverish Nico calling for his father flashes in my mind. “He found them,” I say softly, the pieces connecting.

Alessandro’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Yes. How did you know?”

“He was delirious last night. He remembered being kept from seeing his father.”

“I tried to protect him from the worst of it,” Alessandro says, voice distant with memory. “But he heard the gunshots. Saw the blood before I could get him away from the scene.” He sighs heavily. “No child should witness such things.”

“So you raised him,” I prompt, curious despite myself about the forces that shaped Nico into the man he became.

“I did what was necessary. Taught him to protect himself in a world that had already shown its cruelty.” Alessandro’s gaze sharpens. “The first lesson was control of himself, then of others. The second was strategy. Never act from emotion. Never reveal weakness.”

“You taught him to manipulate,” I translate.

“I taught him to survive,” he corrects. “And he has done more than survive. He has thrived in a world that would have destroyed a lesser man.” There’s unmistakable pride in Alessandro’s voice. “But he has paid a price for that success.”

“Marco,” I say quietly.

Alessandro nods. “Marco was the closest thing to a friend Nico allowed himself. His death. It will change him.”

“He was different last night,” I admit. “When the fever broke through his control.”

“Vulnerability is not a state Nico permits himself,” Alessandro agrees. “Which makes what I observed between you even more remarkable.”

I tense. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve never seen him react to anyone the way he reacts to you. How he trusts you.” Alessandro’s gaze is penetrating, as if he can see through my constructed masks to the confusion beneath. “And I’ve never seen him more dangerous than when he thought you were threatened.”

The statement lands hard. Trust. The word feels like mockery when I know our entire relationship has been built on mutual deception. I’ve been playing him just as he’s been playing me and using seduction as strategy, intimacy as a weapon.

“You’re wrong,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “Nico doesn’t trust me. He’s been manipulating me from the beginning.”

Alessandro’s smile is knowing. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive, Ms. Song. Nico can manipulate you while also trusting you. Human emotions are rarely tidy or consistent.” He rises. “Think about what I’ve said. And consider your own motives with equal honesty.”

He leaves me sitting in the sunlight, surrounded by exotic flowers and troubling thoughts. The coffee has grown cold in my cup, forgotten during our conversation.

I’ve never seen him trust anyone the way he trusts you.

The words resonate in my mind, colliding with the knowledge of our mutual deception. How can there be trust between people who are lying to each other? Who are using each other for their own ends?

And yet, I killed for him. Not for my story. Not for strategic advantage. But because, in that crucial moment, the thought of losing him was unbearable.

What does that say about me?

When I return to the bedroom, Nico is seated by the window, a laptop balanced carefully to avoid his injured side. He looks up as I enter, his expression guarded.

“What did my uncle want?”

“To talk about you, mostly.” I cross to the bed and begin straightening the tangled sheets, needing something to do with my hands. “About your childhood. How he raised you after your parents died.”

Nico’s fingers still on the keyboard. “He’s not usually so forthcoming with family history.”

“Maybe he thought I should understand the man whose life I saved.” I turn to face him. “Or maybe he was testing me, seeing how I’d react to a curated version of your past.”

“And how did you react?”

“With more questions than answers.” I move closer to him, noticing the stiffness in his posture, the careful way he holds himself to minimize pain. “You should be in bed.”

“I have matters that can’t wait.” His tone is dismissive, but when he shifts position, a flash of pain crosses his features before he can mask it.

“At least let me help you to the bathroom,” I insist, seeing how he’s avoiding movement. “You need to clean up properly, change those bandages.”

He starts to refuse, then seems to reconsider. “Fine.”

I offer my arm for support as he rises. He accepts the help with visible reluctance, but once standing, his arm slides around my shoulders, leaning more heavily than I think he intended. We move slowly toward the bathroom, his body warm against mine.

Inside, I help him remove the shirt, then step back as he braces himself against the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The bandage on his shoulder is spotted with seepage, the bruising on his ribs darkened to deep purple overnight.

“Let me,” I say, reaching for the medical supplies. He watches in silence as I peel away the old bandage and clean the sutured wound. My fingers slide over his skin, clinical in their purpose but intimate in their care.

“You’ve done this before,” he observes.

“My roommate in college was in nursing school. She practiced on me.” I apply fresh antiseptic, noting how he doesn’t flinch despite the sting it must cause. “And I’ve patched up my minor injuries over the years. Hazards of being a curious kid.”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “You? Curious? No way…”

“You can keep joking all you want, but hold still.” I secure the new bandage and step back to examine my work. “There. Better.”

He turns to the sink, wetting a washcloth to clean his face. I hand him a toothbrush already prepared with paste, our fingers brushing in the exchange. These small, domestic acts feel strangely more intimate than our sexual encounters. There’s no performance here, no strategic seduction. Just basic human care.

When he finishes, I help him back to the bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed, clearly tiring but unwilling to admit it.

“You should rest,” I tell him.

“So should you.” He studies my face. “You were up all night with me.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” His voice softens. “None of this is fine, Lea. What happened at the club? What you did…”

The gentleness in his tone threatens to undo me. I’ve been holding myself together through shock, through necessity, through sheer force of will. But his simple acknowledgment of the trauma cracks something in my maintained composure.

“I killed someone,” I say, the words finally spoken aloud between us. “I picked up your gun, and I shot a man in the throat and watched him die.”

Nico reaches for my hand, his grip warm and steady. “You saved my life.”

“That doesn’t make it okay!” The emotion bursts out of me, uncontrollable. “None of this is okay! Marco is dead. I killed someone. I’m hiding in a mansion with a man who’s been manipulating me from the moment we met. Everything about this is wrong!”

“Is it?” he asks quietly. “You found evidence on my laptop, didn’t you? About the surveillance. About arranging your assignment.”

I freeze, caught off-guard by his directness. “How did you?—”

“You’re not the only one who can observe patterns, Lea. Your behavior changed. You became more strategic in your approach. More calculated in your responses.” His eyes hold mine, unflinching. “You started playing the game on my level.”

I should deny it, maintain the pretense, but I’m too exhausted for more lies. “Yes. I found the surveillance photos. The emails to my publisher. All of it.”

He nods slowly, no surprise in his expression. “And you decided to turn it to your advantage. To seduce information from me while letting me believe I was the one in control.”

“Just like you’ve been doing to me from the beginning,” I counter, defiance rising through the fatigue.

“Yes.” The simple admission surprises me. “We’ve both been performing. Both been calculating each move, each response.” His hand still holds mine, thumb brushing mine in a gesture that feels genuine despite our conversation. “And yet here we are.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means when it mattered, when there was a knife at my throat, you didn’t calculate. You acted.” His gaze is intent, searching. “Just as I would have done for you.”

The statement hangs between us, weighted with implications neither of us seems ready to fully examine.

I pull my hand from his, needing distance to think clearly. “So what now? We just acknowledge we’ve been manipulating each other and move on? Continue the game with new awareness?”

“Or we stop playing,” he suggests quietly. “Put down the masks, the strategies. See what’s left when the performance ends.”

The offer is tempting. Dangerously so. But I’ve been deceived too many times to trust easily, even now. “How do I know this isn’t just another manipulation? A more sophisticated level of the game?”

“You don’t,” he admits. “Just as I don’t know if your vulnerability right now is genuine or crafted to lower my defenses.” He sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion and something that might be regret. “That’s the price we pay for starting as we did.”

I turn away, moving to the window to gather my thoughts. Outside, the estate grounds stretch in manicured perfection, a deceptive tranquility. Everything in Nico’s world is controlled, arranged for maximum effect, including me, from the beginning.

But last night wasn’t controlled. The fever, the vulnerability, the memories that slipped through his defenses, those were real. Just as my instinct to save him was real, cutting through all the layers of deception between us.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I say, turning back to him. “The constant calculation, the strategic moves and countermoves. I’m exhausted.”

“Then don’t.” He watches me, something almost hopeful in his expression. “Be honest instead. Tell me one true thing, Lea. Something you haven’t planned or constructed.”

The request is simple but terrifying. One true thing. After all the layers of deception between us, can I even distinguish truth from performance anymore?

But as I look at him, all wounded and vulnerable despite his attempts to hide it, waiting for my response with uncharacteristic patience, the truth rises unbidden.

“I’m afraid,” I admit, voice low. “Not of you, or Moretti, or even what I did last night. I’m afraid of how much I care. How easily I crossed a line I always thought was absolute. How much I’m changing, becoming someone I don’t recognize.” I take a shuddering breath. “I’m afraid because when I had to choose between my principles and your life, it wasn’t even a choice.”

The confession hangs in the air between us, raw and unfiltered. Nico’s expression shifts, softens in a way I’ve never seen before. He rises from the bed, moving to stand facing me despite the pain it must cause.

“Your turn,” I whisper. “One true thing.”

His hand lifts to my face, fingers gentle against my cheek. “When I was on that floor, bleeding out while Vincent stood over me, my thought wasn’t of revenge, or regret, or even Marco.” His voice drops lower, intimate in its honesty. “It was of you. Of all the moments between us I would never see.”

The confession shatters my last defenses. I move into him carefully, mindful of his injuries, my forehead resting against his chest. His arms encircle me, holding me as if I’m something precious rather than a pawn in his game.

“What are we doing, Nico?” I murmur against his skin.

“I don’t know,” he admits, the uncertainty so unlike his usual measured confidence. “But I don’t want to stop.”

I lift my face to his, and the kiss that follows is unlike any we’ve shared before. No power play, no artful seduction. Just the simple, devastating truth of connection.

He winces as my hand brushes his injured side, and I pull back. “You need to rest.”

“Stay with me,” he says, the request unguarded in a way I’ve never heard from him.

I help him back to the bed, arranging pillows to support his injured side. When he’s settled, I hesitate only briefly before climbing in beside him, careful not to jar his wounds. His arm curls around me, drawing me against his uninjured side.

The intimacy of the moment, this quiet, unguarded closeness, feels more significant than any of our previous encounters. There’s no audience here, no strategic advantage to be gained. Just two people finding comfort in each other after surviving something terrible together.

As his breathing steadies into sleep, I remain awake. The man beside me is still Nico Varela, manipulator, criminal, dangerous in ways I’m only beginning to understand. But he’s also the man who held me with unexpected tenderness, who admitted fear and vulnerability when he could have maintained his mask.

The truth settles over me like a physical weight: I’m no longer pretending. The feelings that have been growing since that first meeting at Purgatorio. All of it, the fascination, the desire, the deepening emotional connection are real, despite all the reasons they shouldn’t be.

And that makes me more vulnerable than any surveillance or manipulation ever could. Because now, when Nico Varela inevitably returns to being the calculating strategist I know him to be, it won’t be a performance that’s shattered.

It will be my heart.