Chapter 16
Elias
Iwake up to silence.
Not the dangerous kind. Not the kind that means something is wrong. The kind that comes after a storm.
For a second I don’t move. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling of Lucian’s bedroom, watching the faint gray of morning press against the blackout curtains. My body feels heavy. Sore. Warm.
And then it all comes rushing back.
The snowstorm.
The cabin.
Lucian’s hands on my face.
His voice breaking for the first time since I’ve known him.
I love you.
My stomach flips painfully. I didn’t say it back.
I sit up abruptly, heart pounding. The sheets fall to my waist and cold air brushes my skin, but that’s not what makes me shiver. Lucian side of the bed is empty and cold.
I swallow.
Maybe he’s showering. Maybe he’s downstairs. Maybe he’s…
I throw the covers off and stand, pulling one of his black t-shirts over my head. It hangs loose on me, soft and familiar. I run a hand through my hair and step into the hallway.
The house is quiet. Mara is sleeping in with Riley. She was a mess when we returned home late covered in snow.
My feet carry me toward his office without thinking. I push open the door to see Lucian seated behind his desk, elbows braced on the wood, head bowed slightly like he’s thinking too hard. He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt and black silk pajama pants, dark hair falling messily over his forehead.
For a moment, he looks almost normal.
Then I see his arms.
Bruises bloom across his forearms. Purple. Blue. Angry. There’s a split along his knuckles. A cut at his bicep that’s been cleaned but not hidden.
I stop in the doorway.
“What happened?” I ask quietly.
He looks up.
His eyes soften when he sees me, but there’s something else there too. Something tired.
“Morning,” he says.
“Lucian.”
He leans back in the chair slowly. Doesn’t hide his arms. Doesn’t cover anything.
“It was Hartford,” he says simply.
My chest tightens. “Fight?” I ask.
“Execution.”
I step into the room, closer now, close enough to see the swelling at his wrist.
“He framed you,” Lucian continues. “Told a few key people you were feeding information to the Morettis. Built a narrative. Almost convincing.”
My stomach drops. I remember him covered in someone’s blood. But I was too angry to care.
“When you came to the cell...”
“I handled it,” he says calmly.
“How?” I whisper.
His eyes flick to mine.
“I killed him.”
The room feels smaller suddenly.
I search his face for hesitation. For regret.
There isn’t any.
But there is exhaustion.
“I’m so tired,” he says, and the words surprise me more than anything else this morning.
Lucian Romano does not admit fatigue.
“I’m tired of looking over my shoulder,” he continues quietly. “Tired of wondering which man at my table is calculating my death. Tired of coming home and smelling like blood.”
His voice roughens slightly.
“I can’t keep doing this and pretend I deserve anything good,” he says.
I step closer.
“You have Mara,” I say. “You have Riley.”
He huffs softly. “They’re different.”
“You have me,” I say.
That makes him go still.
“I wish I could be normal,” he says after a moment. “Normal enough to deserve you.”
The words slice through me. Lucian goes quiet after he says it.
The words linger between us like smoke. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks again.
“You’re free to go,” he says.
For a second, I don’t understand.
His jaw tightens. “If you want to go home… I won’t stop you.”
Home.
The word feels foreign now. Distant. Like something from another life.
“And if you don’t want to go back there,” he continues evenly, still not meeting my eyes, “I’ll give you enough to start over somewhere else. Anywhere. New name. New city. You’ll never have to look over your shoulder again.”
The air leaves my lungs.
“Away from here,” he adds. “Away from me.”
That part almost sounds forced. Like he has to make himself say it.
I stare at him. He’s fucking serious. There’s no manipulation in his tone. No test. No trap.
He’s offering me freedom. The kind people kill for.
“You think that’s what I want?” I ask quietly.
“I think you deserve a choice,” he says. “A real one.”
“I won’t cage you,” he says. “I won’t keep you because I’m afraid to lose you.”
“You’d let me go?” I whisper.
His throat moves as he swallows. “Yes.”
It isn’t easy for him. I can see it in the tension running through his shoulders. In the way his fingers curl slightly at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to reach for me.
He’s bracing himself for me to say that I want to go.
“You think I’m here because I have to be?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
That hurts more than anything.
I sit on the edge of his desk, close enough to place my hand on his chest.
“You bought Mara’s freedom,” I say softly. “You carried me back to your bed when I tried to sleep somewhere else. You shut down an entire restaurant so we could eat in peace. You fought a man who raised you because he tried to frame me.”
His eyes flick to mine at that, but I continue. “And you think I’m here because I’m trapped?”
Lucian’s voice lowers. “I think I’m dangerous.”
My fingers skate across his cheek, lovingly. “You are.”
That makes him flinch slightly.
“But I’m not scared of you,” I say. “I’m scared of losing you.”
He exhales slowly, like the words hit somewhere unprotected.
“I don’t want you tied to this life,” he says. “Not if it costs you something you can’t get back.”
“What would that be?”
“Peace,” he answers immediately. “Normalcy. A future that isn’t shaped by my enemies.”
I almost laugh.
“Lucian,” I say gently, “my future was shaped the day my family handed me over like a peace offering. Normal left the building a long time ago.”
His jaw tightens.
“You didn’t choose that,” he says.
“No,” I agree. “But I choose this.”
He stills.
“I choose you,” I say.
The words feel solid. Grounded.
“I don’t want a new city,” I continue. “I don’t want a new name.
I don’t want your money. I want the man who smells like metal and still presses his head against my chest to hear my heartbeat,” I say.
“I want the man who pretends he doesn’t read poetry and then remembers what kind of movies I like.
I want the man who thinks he’s too broken to be loved. ”
Lucian’s composure fractures just slightly.
“You deserve better,” he says again, but it sounds weaker now. Less certain.
“Maybe,” I admit. “But I don’t want better.”
I tilt his chin up, forcing him to look at me.
“You don’t get to decide what I deserve,” I tell him softly. “That’s my choice.”
His hands hover at my waist like he’s afraid to touch me.
“If I stay,” I say, “it’s not because I’m trapped.”
His breath is uneven now.
“It’s because I love you.”
A terrified silence hangs between us.
He searches my face like he’s looking for doubt. For hesitation. He won’t find it.
“You’d really stay, knowing what I am?”
“I know exactly what you are,” I reply. “You’re a man carrying sins that weren’t his to begin with. You’re a brother protecting Riley. You’re a boss protecting Mara. You’re someone who shut down an empire for one dinner.”
A faint, broken smile flickers across his mouth.
“And you’re mine,” I add softly.
Something shifts in his eyes at that. Relief.
“I don’t want to be free from you,” I whisper. “I want to be with you.”
The words settle into the space between us like something inevitable. Lucian closes his eyes for a moment, just a moment, like he’s letting himself believe it. When he opens them again, there’s still fear there. But there’s something else too.
Hope.
And that’s when I decide—
If he thinks we can’t be normal…
I’ll show him what normal looks like.
“If we were normal,” I say softly, “we would’ve never met.”
He looks up at that.
“Okay,” I say, trying to lighten the air before it crushes us both. “Let’s pretend.”
He arches a brow faintly. “Pretend what?”
“We’re normal.”
His mouth twitches.
“Fine,” he says. “How?”
I think for a second.
“Coffee shop,” I decide. “Small one. Corner of a quiet street. You walk in first.”
Lucian leans back slightly, watching me.
“And I’m…?” he prompts.
“You’re the mysterious guy who orders black coffee and pretends not to read poetry.”
“I don’t read poetry,” he says automatically.
“Exactly.”
That earns the smallest ghost of a smile.
“And you?” he asks.
“I’m already there,” I say. “Headphones in. Writing something dramatic in a notebook.”
“That tracks,” he mutters.
I grin.
“You sit down across from me,” I continue. “Even though there are other tables.”
“And you don’t tell me to leave?” he asks.
“I think about it,” I admit. “But I don’t.”
He watches my mouth as I speak. I notice. My heart stutters.
“And then what?” he asks.
“Then you say something blunt and slightly rude.”
“Like?”
I mimic his calm tone. “‘You look like someone who doesn’t finish what they start.’”
His eyes darken slightly.
“And what do you say?” he asks.
“I tell you that’s rich coming from a man who looks afraid of his own feelings.”
He actually laughs at that. “And then?” he presses.
“And then,” I say softly, “you ask for my number.”
He studies me.
“I don’t think I would,” he says.
“Why not?”
“I’d assume you’d say no.”
I shake my head.
“In this version,” I tell him, “I don’t.”
Silence settles between us again. But this time it’s warm.
“You’d deserve someone normal,” he says quietly.
“I don’t want normal,” I reply. “I want you,”
The room feels like it’s holding its breath.
I slide off the desk and straddle his lap. My hands rest lightly on his shoulders.
His hands slide up to cradle my face, thumbs brushing along my cheekbones like he’s memorizing me.
“You love me?” he says, like he’s testing how it sounds.
“I do.”
He exhales like something inside him just broke loose.
“If we were normal,” he murmurs, “I would’ve taken you on three dates before admitting that.”
I laugh softly. “That’s way too soon.”
His forehead rests against mine. “I love you,” he says again.
This time it doesn’t sound like a confession. It sounds like a choice.
His mouth finds mine. The kiss isn’t rushed or desperate. Just slow and certain. The kind of kiss that feels like the first one in a life that might actually stretch forward instead of collapsing in on itself.
His hands tighten at my waist.
For once, there’s no blood in the air.
No storm.
No ghosts of his father standing between us.
Just us.
When we pull back, he brushes his thumb along my lower lip.
“Coffee shop,” he murmurs.
“Yeah?”
“What’s wrong with black coffee?”
I grin. “It’s fucking gross.”
He smiles fully then. Not the smirk. Not the controlled tilt.
A real one.
And for the first time since I walked into his house wrapped in a red silk bow, I don’t feel like a pawn.
I feel chosen.
And choosing him right back.