Chapter 27 Lupo
The barn is dark and cold when I return. I stand just inside the door for a moment, letting my eyes adjust, feeling the weight of the conversation still pressing on my chest.
I told her everything. And she didn't run.
She should have.
I move through the darkness to the back corner of the workshop, to where I hid the gun. My hands find it without hesitation, unwrapping it from the old rag like I've done this a thousand times before.
Because I have.
The Beretta feels alive in my hand. Warm, despite the cold metal. Like it recognizes me. Like it's been waiting. I check the magazine again. Fifteen rounds. I chamber one, the mechanical sound sharp in the quiet. Safety on. Safety off. The movements are automatic, effortless.
And with each motion, the memories come faster now. Stronger.
A car. Night. Rain streaking the windshield. I'm in the passenger seat, the Beretta in my lap. Ciro is driving, his eyes on the rearview mirror.
"Two cars," he says. "They've been following us since we left the warehouse."
"Florence family?"
"Has to be." He takes a sharp turn, tires squealing. "They knew we'd be there."
I twist in my seat, looking back. Two sets of headlights, closing fast. "Someone talked."
"We'll deal with that later. Right now we need to lose them."
But we can't lose them. The streets are too narrow, too winding. They're gaining.
"There." Ciro points to an alley ahead. "We make a stand."
He whips the car into the alley, kills the lights. We're out before the engine stops, taking positions behind the car. I check my weapon. Ciro does the same.
"How many?" I ask.
"Four. Maybe six."
"Odds could be better."
"Could be worse." He grins, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Remember Milano? We were outnumbered then too."
"We barely made it out of Milano."
"But we made it."
The first car screeches to a stop at the mouth of the alley. Doors open. Four men pile out, weapons drawn.
"Don Rossi!" one of them shouts. "Come out. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
Rossi. The name settles in my chest, familiar and right. That's who I am. Who I've always been.
I look at Ciro. He nods once. Then we move.
I come around the passenger side, firing as I emerge. Two shots, center mass. The man who called my name drops. I shift my aim, fire again. Another goes down.
Return fire. Muzzle flashes in the darkness. Bullets punch into the car behind me, shattering windows. I drop low, roll, come up firing.
A man appears at my three o'clock. I swing toward him but I'm too slow—he's already aiming—
Ciro's gun barks twice. The man crumples.
"On your left!" Ciro shouts.
I spin. Another shooter, this one with better cover. I put three rounds into the wall near him, forcing him back, then advance. He leans out to return fire and I'm ready. One shot. He drops.
Silence. Ringing ears. The smell of gunpowder thick in the air.
"Clear," I call.
"Clear," Ciro echoes.
We stand there for a moment, breathing hard, checking for more threats. Four bodies. No movement.
"You saved my life," I say.
"That's the job." Ciro reloads his weapon with steady hands. "Besides, you've saved mine more times than I can count, boss."
"We need to move. Someone will have heard the shots."
"Already on it."
We're back in the car, pulling out of the alley, leaving the bodies behind. Just another night's work. Just another close call.
Just Ciro having my back, like he always does.
I come back to the present slowly, the memory fading but not gone. I'm standing in the barn, the Beretta still in my hands, my heart pounding like I've just run a mile.
Don Rossi.
That's who I am. My real identity. And Ciro—Ciro saved my life that night. Has probably saved it dozens of times. Is loyal in a way that goes beyond business or obligation.
He's family.
The realization settles something in me. If I go back—when I go back—I won't be alone. I'll have Ciro. Someone I can trust. Someone who's proven himself over and over.
I set the gun down on the workbench and stare at it.
I have to go back.
The thought crystallizes, becomes certainty. There's no other choice. No other option that keeps Isabella and Elena safe.
We have no money. Can't run far on what little I've saved from construction work. Can't disappear without resources, without help, without someone powerful enough to make the threats go away.
And I'm that someone. Or I was. Or I can be again.
If I stay here, eventually someone finds us. The Florence family. Draco's people. Someone. And when they do, I won't have the power or resources to protect Isabella and Elena. I'll just be a construction worker with a gun and muscle memory, trying to hold off an entire organization.
We'll die. All of us.
But if I go back—if I remember everything, reclaim my position, stabilize my organization—I have a chance. I can eliminate the threats. Can use my power and my people to make sure no one ever comes after Isabella and Elena again.
It's the only way.
I don't want to leave them. The thought of walking away from Elena's laughter, from Isabella's touch, from this simple life we've built, it physically hurts.
But staying is selfish. Staying gets them killed.
I'll go back. I'll become Don Rossi again. I'll do whatever it takes to make them safe.
And then—if I survive it, if I can find a way out—I'll come back for them.
If they'll still have me.
I wrap the gun back up, hide it again. Then I stand there in the darkness, trying to prepare myself for what comes next.
Leaving. Fighting. Possibly dying.
All for two people who've become my entire world.
I cross the yard to the house. The kitchen door is unlocked. It always is now. Inside, everything is quiet and dark. Elena's door is closed, her soft breathing audible even from the hallway.
I make my way to Isabella's room. Our room, really, though we've never said it out loud. I've been sleeping here for weeks now, ever since that first night after Draco. Ever since she reached for me in the darkness and I couldn't let go.
The door is open and she's asleep, curled on her side, dark hair spread across the pillow. In the faint moonlight from the window, she looks peaceful. Younger than her years. Like the weight she carries has lifted, just for a moment.
I should let her sleep. Should climb in beside her quietly and let her have this last night of peace before I tell her I'm leaving.
But I can't. Can't lie beside her and pretend everything's normal when my whole body is screaming that this might be the last time.
"Isabella," I say quietly as I sit on the edge of the bed.
She stirs, her eyes opening. For a moment she's confused, then she sees my face and sits up immediately.
"Lupo? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Everyone's fine." I reach out and touch her face. "I made my decision."
She goes very still, and I watch understanding dawn in her eyes. "You're going back."
"Yes. I'm calling Ciro in the morning."
The pain that crosses her face is unbearable. But she doesn't cry, doesn't protest. Just nods slowly.
"For how long?"
"I don't know. However long it takes to stabilize things. To eliminate the threats. To make it safe for you and Elena."
"And then?"
"I come back. If I can."
"If you survive, you mean."
"Yes."
She's quiet for a long moment, her hand coming up to cover mine where it rests against her cheek. "When do you leave?"
"Tomorrow night. Maybe the day after. Depends on what Ciro says."
"That soon."
"I can't wait. The longer I'm gone, the more unstable things get. The more dangerous it becomes." I lean closer. "Isabella, I'm sorry. I know this isn't—"
"Stop." She shakes her head. "You're doing what you have to do. I understand that."
"Do you?"
"I understand that you're trying to protect us. That this is the only way you see." She pauses, her thumb stroking across my hand. "I don't like it. But I understand it."
I turn my head and kiss her palm.
"We should tell Elena in the morning," Isabella says quietly. "At breakfast. Tell her you're going on a work trip."
"A work trip," I repeat. The lie tastes bitter.
"She's three. She doesn't need to know that her—" Isabella stops, swallows. "That you might not come back."
Her father. She almost said her father. Because that's what Elena calls me now. What she thinks I am.
"Okay," I say. "We'll tell her together. In the morning."
We're both quiet for a moment, the weight of tomorrow pressing down on us. Then Isabella shifts over on the bed, pulling back the covers.
"Come here," she says softly.
I strip down to just my boxer briefs and climb in beside her. She's wearing a thin nightgown, and when I pull her against me, I can feel every curve of her body. I've held her like this dozens of times over the past few weeks. But this is different.
This might be the last time.
"Isabella." My voice is rough. "I need—"
Her hands are already on me, sliding up my chest, around my neck. "I need you too."
When she kisses me, it's nothing like our usual goodnight kisses. This is desperate. Hungry. Like we're both trying to pour everything we can't say into the contact of lips and tongues and teeth.
I respond with the same desperation, rolling to pin her beneath me. She makes a small sound—need and want and goodbye all mixed together.
"Lupo." She's breathing hard, her pupils blown wide. "Don't hold back. Not tonight."
"Isabella—"
"I mean it." Her hands go to my shoulders, her nails digging in. "I need to feel this. Feel you. I need—" Her voice breaks slightly. "I need to remember everything about you."
The words demolish what little control I have left. I capture her mouth again, kissing her hard enough to bruise. My hands find the hem of her nightgown and I pull it up, over her head, toss it aside. She's bare beneath me now, all smooth skin and soft curves.
"I can never get enough of you," I murmur against her throat.
Her hands are urgent now, pushing at my boxer briefs. "Stop talking."
I strip them off and then there's nothing between us. Just skin and heat.
My mouth finds her throat, her collarbone, the soft swell of her breast. She arches into me, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
I work my way down her body—kissing, tasting, memorizing. The curve of her waist. The hollow of her hip. The soft skin of her inner thigh.
When my mouth finally finds her center, she gasps, her hands flying to my hair. I work her with my tongue, with my lips, now knowing what makes her moan, what makes her shake, what makes her whisper my name.
She comes apart beneath me, her thighs trembling, and I drink down every sound she makes. But it's not enough. I need more. Need everything.
I kiss my way back up her body and she pulls me into a kiss. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer.
"Please," she whispers against my mouth.
I reach between us, line myself up, and then I'm pushing inside her in one slow, deliberate thrust. She's tight and hot and perfect, and the sensation steals my breath.
For a moment we just stay there, connected, breathing each other's air. Her eyes are locked on mine, and I see everything in them—fear and need and something deeper that neither of us can name.
Then she moves her hips and I'm lost.
I start to move—deep, measured strokes that have her gasping. Her nails rake down my back and I welcome the sting. Want the pain. Want her to leave marks that will remind me of this, of her, when I'm back in Naples surrounded by violence and power.
"Harder," she breathes. "Don't—don't be careful with me."
Something in me snaps. I bury my face in her neck and drive into her with everything I have. She meets me thrust for thrust, her body arching, her legs tight around me.
It's not sweet. It's not tender. It's raw and desperate and fierce—two people trying to say goodbye in the only language that matters.
This is everything we can't say with words. Every fear, every hope, every feeling we're too afraid to name. It's in the way she clings to me. The way I hold her like she might disappear. The way our bodies move together like we're trying to become one person.
I feel her tightening around me, getting close, and I change the angle, hitting that spot inside her that makes her cry out. I cover her mouth with mine, swallowing the sound so Elena doesn't wake.
She comes hard, her whole body shaking, and I follow seconds later, burying myself deep as the release crashes over me.
For a long moment we just lie there, still connected, both of us breathing hard. I should move, should pull away, but I can't. Can't let go yet.
She touches my face, her fingers gentle despite the desperation of moments ago. In her eyes I see tears threatening, but she doesn't let them fall.
I finally pull out, rolling to the side and taking her with me. She curls against my chest, her head tucked under my chin, and I hold her tight.
We should talk about logistics. About how she'll manage the farm without me. About when I'll try to contact her. About what happens if I don't come back.
But we don't. We just lie there in the darkness, holding each other, memorizing the feel of this moment.
Because in the morning, everything changes.
In the morning, I have to tell Elena I'm leaving. I have to call Ciro and start the process of becoming Don Rossi again. Then I start the long, bloody road to making Isabella and Elena safe.
But tonight—for just a few more hours—I'm still just Lupo. The man who fixes chicken coops and reads bedtime stories. The man who found something worth living for in a dusty farmhouse with a woman and child who saved him.
The man who's about to break both their hearts to keep them alive.
"I'll come back," I whisper into her hair. "No matter what it takes. I'll find a way back to you."
She doesn't answer. Just holds me tighter, her breath hitching slightly.
And we both know I might be lying.
But we pretend anyway.
Because sometimes, in the darkest moments, pretending is all we have.