Domenico
Ican’t tell if it’s abandoned or just so hipster that it loops back around to decrepit.
Either way, the building looks condemned.
The menu is painted in chipping, artsy letters on exposed brick, and the light fixtures are repurposed soda bottles.
It’s cold, and the coffee tastes like burnt cardboard.
It’s hard to believe she suggested this place.
But there she is, sitting at a small table in the corner, a steaming mug of something in front of her.
I haven't seen her in a week, not since the mess at the theater, and my heart clenches. Her hair is down, which is so unusual I almost don’t recognize her.
No sign of a designer dress so angular it could poke out an eye, either.
She’s wearing tailored pants and a loose blouse, with her fur coat hanging over the back of her chair.
She’s still got the steel in her spine, but she doesn’t look like the girl I married. She looks like the girl I lost.
The place is full of people who think they’re in on some exclusive secret, laptops and beanies, knit scarves and bad coffee. None of them look like they’d survive a real battle. My suit draws stares, but I’m used to that.
My shoes scrape against the cracked tile floor as I head toward her. I make it halfway, and she still hasn’t looked up. I stop and watch, telling myself it’s to get a read on the situation. It’s not. I’m buying time, and I know it.
She takes a slow sip from her mug, and the steam curls around her face, catching the morning light. It’s a view I’ve missed.
It’s almost a relief when she looks up and sees me watching. Her eyes widen. Just a flicker. She recovers, and they’re ice again. I don’t know if she’s glad to see me. But she is surprised I came, and that’s something.
She shifts in her chair and takes another sip.
A group of hipsters in the corner glance our way. A few weeks ago, I would’ve worried about eyes on us. Now, the only eyes I care about are hers. I force myself to move. Head to her table, one slow step at a time.
When I sit, she nods at the menu. “Order some terrible coffee,” she suggests.
“Why this place?” I ask.
There are a million other questions in my head, but this is the one that comes out.
“Neutral territory,” she says. “Like you wanted.”
“This wasn’t what I had in mind.” I sound too harsh, but I don’t care. “What’s wrong with Bell & Fig? Or the Hilton bar?”
Her lips curve up, but it’s not quite a smile. “Too obvious.”
She’s doing it again. Holding all the cards and laying them out one by one, as if she has all the time in the world. The worst part is, she does. She always has.
“It’s been a while,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply, and we both know how useless that word is.
I want to shake her. I want to pull her close, breathe her in, make sure she’s real. I haven’t laid eyes on her in a week, seven long days since the shootout at the abandoned theater, 168 hours she’s refused to talk, and finally, she’s agreed to meet.
She doesn’t fill the silence, just waits me out. The clock on the wall clicks too loud, each second grinding its heel into me, reminding me she’s only here because she wants to be. Because she called the shots, and I showed up. Just like always.
“Why are we here, Besiana?” My voice is too quiet. I’m almost afraid of the answer.
“I wanted you to hear it from me,” she says.
“Hear what?”
Her mouth presses into a tight line, the way it does when she’s about to deliver a killing blow. “Sorry.”
The word is heavy. Full. Final. It doesn’t feel like the end of something. It feels like the end of everything.
“Dom,” she finally says, and there’s something in her voice I almost don’t recognize.
Vulnerability. “I didn’t want this to happen.
I didn’t plan it. I gave him the location of the warehouse, but I thought after that I was out.
” Her eyes dart to mine and then away again.
“Baba planted that tracker in my coat, you know.”
“I see.” It’s all I can manage to get out.
“I wanted to say something else,” she says.
Her voice is low and shaky, and I think for a second it might break. She might break.
“Go ahead.”
Her hands twist in front of her, and that’s how I know she’s scared. Not of me. Of what she’s about to say.
“You were right,” she says. “About everything. About my father. About your family, how I had them round the wrong way.”
I can see a small tremble in her shoulders as she leans forward.
“Obviously”
I give her nothing else, even though watching her fall apart makes me want to reach across the table and stop this whole conversation.
She doesn’t look at me when she says it. Just studies the splintered edge of the table.
“If you want to end this,” she says, “you can. I won’t fight you. You can divorce me. Or annul it. Or whatever makes it easier.”
She takes a breath. The kind you take before you dive deep.
“You deserve someone who didn’t hand your empire over on a silver platter.”
I stare at her. Hard. Long.
She still doesn’t look up.
“You done?” I ask.
She blinks. “What?”
“I said—are you done?” I repeat patiently, leaning back in my chair. I don’t take my eyes off her.
She finally meets my eyes. And for the first time in weeks, I see her. Not the mask. Not the spy. Not the name she was born with.
Just Besiana. The woman I nearly lost.
I lean across the table slowly.
She doesn’t flinch. Brave girl.
“You want me to divorce you?” I ask, stopping inches from her. “You think I want out?”
A small pause. “I think I broke something,” she whispers, and it nearly shatters me.
I reach up and gently, deliberately, cup her jaw. Her eyes close like she’s bracing for pain.
“You did,” I say. “You broke everything.”
She exhales shakily. Her breath whispers against my skin like she’s finally letting go of something she’s held too tight.
“And I’m still not letting you go.”
Her eyes fly open.
“You’re mine, Besiana. You were mine the second you walked into that wedding looking like a fucking warrior.”
“But I—”
“You betrayed me. And then you chose me. That’s more than most people ever do.”
She shakes her head. “Dom—”
“You pointed a gun at your father for me.”
“For us,” she corrects.
I nod once. Then I kiss her.
It’s not gentle. It’s not slow. It’s weeks of want and days of pain and too many nights of pretending I didn’t want to pull her back to me and keep her.
When I break the kiss, she’s breathing like she just survived a storm.
“No divorce,” I say. “No annulment.”
“What if I ask for one?”
Her voice wavers, like she needs to hear my answer more than anything else in the world.
“Then I’ll say no.”
She lets out a shaky laugh that turns into a sound I haven’t heard in too long. Joy.
“You’re impossible,” she says.
“I’m in love with you,” I correct.
She takes my hand. Laces our fingers together. Her eyes shine in the dim light of the café, and I realize I’d die a thousand times for that look.
“Then let’s build something new. Just us.”
“No more secrets,” I say.
“No more rules,” she whispers.
“You’re still not allowed to point guns at me.”
She grins. “No promises.”
We leave the cafe, and I throw some money at the staff, enough to cover the meal and resurface the crappy counter.
The cold hits us as soon as we push out the door, and I tuck her against me.
It takes us a few blocks before I let myself really look at her, eyes wide and bright. She’s here, walking through the heart of the city, and she made a choice. I won’t forget what it cost her.
“What about your family?” she asks.
“To hell with them,” I say.
“I thought you were a smart man,” she says.
“Not where you’re concerned.”
She looks at me, eyes wide and raw.
“They won’t see me the same after this, you know,” she says
I don’t hesitate. “They’re not the ones I married,” I shoot back. “You really think I give a damn what they see?”
Her laugh this time is a sharp exhale.
“You always cared, Dom,” she says. “They’re your family, and you’ve always cared.”
“So are you,” I say. It comes out as an almost feral growl. “I don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks, Besiana. I’m not letting you go.”
“And you’re really sure?”
I pull her to me, my fingers wrapping around her waist. She feels so solid, so real, and I’ve missed this more than I’ll ever admit. I tug her even closer, my breath hot against her ear. “Don’t make me say it again.”
We walk the streets for a while, letting the cold air fill the space between us. But it’s not the same as before. This silence feels comfortable, like a bruise that’s healing, a wound that’s finally closing. My arm drapes over her shoulders, keeping the rest of the world away.
We’re not fixed, not yet. There are cracks everywhere. But we’re not shattered, either.
“Where do we go from here?” she asks, and she sounds unsure. Unsure but not afraid. “Back to the Rosetti mansion? My father will—”
“Forget him,” I cut in. She needs to know I mean it. “Forget all of them.” I hold her gaze, making sure she understands. “Somewhere new. Just us.”
“Somewhere new,” she says. “A house of our own?”
“We’ll find one,” I promise.
Her eyes search mine. “Can we celebrate holidays?”
It’s an odd request, too ordinary, too tender. “You mean,” I say, a grin spreading across my face, “like normal people?”
Her laughter is different this time. Low. Surprised. “Yeah. Like normal people.”
“Of course,” I say, pulling her even closer. “Normal doesn’t sound so bad.”