Chapter Eight
Alessandro
Sleep refuses to come.
The penthouse is silent except for the ambient hum of the city thirty floors below. Every shadow could be a threat. Every creak of settling steel and glass sends adrenaline spiking. Old habits die hard, and the habit of sleeping with one eye open has kept me alive for fifteen years.
That, and the knowledge that Elena is down the hall in the guest room, vulnerable and trusting and completely unprepared for the kind of violence that follows men like me.
The clock on the nightstand reads 2:47 AM when soft footsteps pad down the hallway. Every muscle tenses, hand instinctively reaching for the gun on the nightstand before recognition kicks in. Those footsteps are too light, too hesitant. Not a threat.
Elena.
The bedroom door opens slowly, a sliver of hallway light cutting through the darkness. She’s silhouetted in the doorway, small, uncertain, wearing what looks like an oversized t-shirt that hits mid-thigh.
“Alessandro?” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Are you awake?”
Sitting up triggers the motion sensor on the bedside lamp, casting soft light across the room. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“No, nothing happened. I just—” She wraps her arms around herself. “I couldn’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see that brick coming through the window. Or that man in my shop. Or—” Her breath hitches. “Is it okay if I stay here? Just for a little while?”
Every rational thought screams this is a terrible idea. Elena in the guest room is manageable. Elena in this room, in a t-shirt, looking vulnerable and beautiful and completely off-limits, that’s a special kind of torture.
“Of course.” The words come out rougher than intended. “Come here.”
She crosses to the bed, and up close the t-shirt is revealed to be one of mine, she must have found it in the guest room closet. It swallows her frame, the collar slipping off one shoulder, and the sight of her wearing something of mine does something primal to my chest.
“Which side do you want?” The question is practical, normal, as if sharing a bed with the woman slowly unraveling every defense mechanism is completely fine.
“I don’t care. Whichever you’re not using.”
“Right side, then.” The covers are pulled back, an invitation and a test of self-control.
Elena climbs in, keeping a careful distance. The bed is king-sized, plenty of room for two people to sleep without touching. But somehow, even with a foot of space between us, her presence is overwhelming, the scent of her shampoo, the sound of her breathing, the warmth radiating from her skin.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For letting me stay. For not... judging.”
“There’s nothing to judge. After what you went through today, anyone would be shaken.”
“You’re not shaken.”
“Years of practice.”
She turns on her side to face me, head propped on one hand. In the dim light, her honey-colored eyes are dark, searching. “How many years?”
“Too many to count.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, it’s not.” Rolling onto my side mirrors her position, facing her across the pillow barrier between us. “But it’s the truth. When you grow up in this life, you learn early that showing fear gets you killed. You learn to bury it. To function despite it.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
Her hand reaches out, tentative, and settles on the pillow between us. Not touching, but close enough that moving an inch would bridge the gap. “Do you ever get tired of it? The constant vigilance? The violence?”
Every single day. “Sometimes.”
“What would you do? If you could just walk away?”
The question catches me off guard. No one has ever asked what Alessandro De Luca would do if he wasn’t The Shadow. What dreams died when my father’s blood soaked into marble floors and a sixteen-year-old boy had to become a man overnight.
“I don’t know,” the admission comes slowly. “Maybe something quiet. Normal. Something that doesn’t require checking for exits in every room or sleeping with a gun under my pillow.”
Her eyes flick to the nightstand where the weapon rests. “Is that why you couldn’t sleep? Because you were on guard?”
“Partly. Also because you’re under this roof, which means ensuring nothing happens to you.”
“Alessandro, you can’t stay awake all night protecting me.”
“Watch me.”
She studies my face for a long moment, then makes a decision. The space between us closes as she moves across the invisible barrier, tucking herself against my chest with a boldness that steals my breath.
“What are you doing?” The question comes out strained.
“If you’re going to stay awake guarding me anyway, I might as well be comfortable.” Her head rests on my shoulder, one arm draping across my stomach. “This okay?”
Okay doesn’t begin to cover it. She’s warm, soft and fits against me like she was designed for this exact purpose. Every nerve ending is suddenly hyperaware, her breath on my neck, her leg brushing against mine, the weight of her body pressed to my side.
“Elena—”
“Please don’t push me away. Not tonight.” Her voice is small, vulnerable. “I just need to know I’m safe. Ee’re safe. Even if it’s an illusion.”
Arms wrap around her before conscious thought intervenes, one hand settling on her hip, the other threading through her hair. “You’re safe. I promise.”
She sighs, tension melting from her frame. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being you. Dangerous and protective and completely contradictory.” Her fingers trace absent patterns on my chest through the thin fabric of my sleep shirt. “Marco’s right, you know. You should probably send me away. Put me on a plane to somewhere safe until this is over.”
“Marco worries too much.”
“Does he? Or does he see something you’re too close to see?”
The question deserves honesty. “He sees that caring about you makes me vulnerable. Love is a weakness in our world.”
Her hand stills on my chest. “Love?”
The word slipped out without permission, but there’s no taking it back now. “Love. Affection. Whatever term makes it less terrifying.”
“None of them make it less terrifying.” She tilts her head back to look at me, and the vulnerability in her eyes mirrors what’s probably showing in mine. “But I don’t think I’d change it even if I could.”
“You should want to change it. Run far away from me and this whole mess.”
“Probably. But I’ve never been good at doing what I should.” Her hand resumes its pattern-tracing, now moving up to my collarbone, my neck. “Tell me something true. Something you’ve never told anyone else.”
The request is dangerous. Truth is currency in my world, something to be guarded and rationed. But with Elena warm against me, her touch sending electricity through my skin, my defenses crumble.
“Sometimes I dream about a different life. One where I’m just Alessandro, not The Shadow.
Where I can walk into a flower shop and buy roses without calculating threat assessments.
Where the woman I care about doesn’t need armed guards and bulletproof glass.
” The confession comes out rough. “But then I wake up, and this is still my reality. This is all I know how to be.”
“What if you could learn to be something else?”
“Men like me don’t get redemption arcs, tesoro. We get prison or death, and if we’re lucky, we get to choose which.”
She’s quiet for a moment, processing. “I don’t believe that. I think people can change if they want to badly enough.”
“And what would I change into? A florist?” The attempt at humor falls flat.
“Why not? You obviously have good taste in flowers. And you know all about thorns and danger and things that are beautiful but can hurt you.” Her fingers trace the line of my jaw. “Sounds perfect.”
Despite everything, the danger, the exhaustion, the impossible situation, a laugh escapes. “A mob boss turned florist. That’s a new one.”
“See? You’re already thinking about possibilities.”
“I’m thinking you’re dangerously optimistic.”
“Someone has to be. You’re pessimistic enough for both of us.” She yawns, the sound muffled against my chest. “Stay with me? Until I fall asleep?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Her breathing gradually evens out, body growing heavy with sleep. But true to form, vigilance remains. Every sound is catalogued, every shadow assessed. The gun on the nightstand is within easy reach. The security system monitors every entry point.
But somewhere between checking the cameras and listening for threats, exhaustion finally wins. The last conscious thought is of Elena’s warmth, her trust, the way she chose to seek safety in the arms of the most dangerous man she knows.
And then, for the first time in months, sleep comes, deep, dreamless and surprisingly peaceful.
Sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows and provides the wake-up call. For a disoriented moment, the situation doesn’t register, why is there weight on my chest? Why does everything smell like vanilla and flowers?
Then memory returns. Elena. In my bed. Still tucked against my side like she belongs there.
Sometime during the night, positions shifted.
She’s half on top of me now, one leg thrown over mine, her face pressed into the curve of my neck.
My arms are wrapped around her possessively, one hand tangled in her hair, the other resting on the small of her back where the t-shirt has ridden up to reveal warm, soft skin.
This is dangerous. This is playing with fire. This is—
She stirs, making a small sound of contentment, and any thought of extricating myself evaporates. When her eyes flutter open and meet mine, still hazy with sleep, something in my chest cracks wide open.
“Morning,” she mumbles, not moving. “You actually slept.”
“Apparently.”
“Good. You needed it.” She stretches, catlike, and the movement presses her body more fully against mine. Heat floods through me, and she must feel the evidence of exactly what her proximity is doing because her eyes widen slightly. “Oh.”
“Sorry. Morning biology. Can’t exactly control it.”