Chapter 19
T he car glides to a stop in an abandoned construction site, concrete pillars rising like sentinels into the night sky. I kill the engine but leave the music playing. Melania hasn't spoken in twenty minutes, her breathing finally steady but her eyes vacant, staring at nothing.
I scan our surroundings through the windshield. No movement. No lights except distant city glow. We're alone for now, exactly where Damiano directed us to wait.
My mind replays the call I made after we fled the convenience store.
"They found us," I'd told Damiano, voice tight with controlled urgency. "We need immediate extraction."
"How?" Damiano's response was sharp.
"They must have another way to trace us that we didn't catch." The admission burned—a failure on my part. "Moving in the same car is too dangerous now."
"Same as yesterday. I'm sending Matteo with a vehicle." Damiano's voice had been clipped, practical. "Where are you?"
After I gave him our location, I'd added something unexpected: "Melania saved my life tonight."
The silence that followed stretched long enough that I thought we'd lost connection.
"She what?" Damiano finally asked.
"Third attacker came up behind me. She shot him." The image of turning to see Melania standing there, gun in hand, her face pale with shock, is burned into my mind. "Would have taken a bullet to the back of my head otherwise."
Another pause. "Then you owe her."
"Yes." The word tasted strange in my mouth. Simple but weighted.
"Be careful, Alessio." Damiano's tone shifted, carrying a warning I couldn't quite decipher. "We need those files, even if it's not all the evidence. Don't let anything compromise the mission."
Now, sitting in darkness with only the soft piano notes filling the space between us, I turn to study Melania's profile. The moonlight catches on her cheekbones, the delicate curve of her nose, the tear tracks still visible on her skin.
She killed for me. The thought circles in my mind, refusing to settle. Antonio Lombardi's sheltered daughter pulled a trigger to save my life.
I reach across the console, my hand hovering over hers where it rests in her lap, still twisting around her mother's ring. I hesitate, then withdraw without touching her.
"Matteo will be here soon," I say instead, hoarse. "We'll switch vehicles and move to the next location."
Melania turns to face me, her beautiful face enveloped in pain. Her lips part slightly, trembling with words I can already tell I won't like. Something about what she did. About killing a man. My fault.
Without thinking—without fucking planning—I move. One hand slides behind her neck, fingers threading through her hair, and I pull her to me. Our mouths crash together with a raw urgency that burns through my veins like wildfire.
I kiss her like we were supposed to be doing this for a whole fucking eternity. Like every moment until now has been wasted. Her taste—sweet despite everything—floods my senses, drowning out the lingering smell of gunpowder and blood.
For one terrifying second she freezes stiff in my hold. Then her hands grab my shoulders, fingers digging in with desperate strength. She kisses me back with a ferocity that matches my own, clambering halfway across the console to press herself against me.
Her kiss is desperate, frantic—like she's trying to eradicate everything that happened tonight. I feel the wetness of tears on her cheeks, but her mouth is hungry, demanding. She makes a sound against my lips that shoots straight to my groin, something between a sob and a moan.
I pull her closer, one arm wrapping around her waist. My fingers find skin where the shirt has ridden up her thigh, and the contact is electric. Scorching. Her body trembles against mine as she presses herself impossibly closer.
This is madness. This is exactly what I shouldn't be doing. But with her taste on my tongue and her hands clutching at me like I'm her only lifeline in a storm, I can't remember a single fucking reason why.
Headlights cut through the darkness, twin beams sweeping across us. I tear my mouth from Melania's, my body still burning with need even as my instincts snap to high alert.
"Matteo," I rasp, recognizing the black SUV pulling up yards away.
Melania scrambles back into her seat, fingers tugging the shirt down over her smooth thighs. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, chest rising and falling with heaving breaths. The moment shatters between us, reality crashing back.
I exit the car first, scanning the perimeter before circling around to Melania's door. When I help her out, I feel the tremor running through her body. Her legs shake so badly she nearly stumbles against me. I can't tell if it's from the kiss, the killing, or both. Probably fucking both.
"You good?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended.
She nods once, not meeting my eyes.
Matteo approaches, concern etched on his face as he takes in Melania's state and my tense posture. "You two okay?"
"We need to move," I say, avoiding details. "Grab the laptops and chargers from the backseat."
Matteo doesn't question the order, just moves to retrieve the items. I guide Melania toward the SUV with my hand holding her from her waist, feeling each tremor that runs through her. Her skin radiates heat even through the shirt fabric.
I pull open the SUV passenger door. "Get in."
She slides into the seat without argument, her movements mechanical.
I secure her seatbelt, our faces inches apart again.
Her scent fills my head—fear and adrenaline mixed with something uniquely her.
My hard fingers graze her soft curves as I tighten the strap and I pull back before I do something stupid. Again.
Matteo meets me halfway between the vehicles, arms loaded with our equipment. "What the hell happened?" he asks, voice low. "Damiano said there were casualties. You both look like shit."
"Convenience store. Three armed men."
"And?" Matteo presses, reading something in my expression.
I glance toward the SUV where Melania sits motionless, staring straight ahead. "She saved my life. Took out the third guy when he had a clean shot at my back."
Matteo's eyes widen. "Antonio's daughter? Killed someone?"
"Yeah." The weight of it hits me again. What she did. What it will cost her, mentally, emotionally. "Get rid of the Audi. Complete wipe down. We were never there."
I sit frozen in the SUV, fingertips touching my lips where Alessio's mouth was just pressed against mine. My heart bursts up into my throat like it's trying to escape. This shouldn't have happened.
But it felt right. Like my lips were carved specifically for his. Like every moment of my life—every decision, every mistake—was leading to that kiss.
I watch through the windshield as Alessio speaks with Matteo, their faces serious in the dusk. My body still burns at every place where Alessio touched me.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to sort through the chaos in my mind. My hands still smell faintly of gunpowder. The scent makes my stomach roll, but not as much as it should. Not as much as the thought of Alessio lying dead on that convenience store floor.
When did he become so important to me? When did his survival become worth killing for?
The driver's door opens and Alessio slides in beside me. His presence fills the vehicle—all coiled strength and barely-contained energy.
I stare out the window as Alessio starts the engine, unable to look at him directly. The SUV pulls away from the construction site, leaving Matteo and our old car behind. My mind keeps replaying the kiss, the feel of his hands, the way my body instantly responded without my permission.
"We're about fifteen minutes away from where we're going," Alessio says, breaking the silence gruffly so that I wonder if he's as affected as I am.
I nod, still watching the darkened landscape pass by outside the window.
"Are you okay?" he asks, glancing over at me.
"Yes," I lie, then amend it with something closer to truth. "Just... exhausted."
The word barely captures the bone-deep weariness that's settled into me. My body feels heavy, like I'm moving against rushing water. The adrenaline that kept me functioning through the convenience store horror has drained away, leaving nothing but hollow fatigue.
"I've never felt this tired before," I admit. "It's like something inside me has been used up."
Alessio's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "That's normal. After what happened."
I close my eyes but immediately snap them open when images of the man I shot flash across my mind. "Will it always be like this? Seeing it when I close my eyes?"
"No," he says with certainty. "It gets easier to live with."
The way he says it—like a hard-won truth rather than empty comfort—makes me believe him. He would know. How many people has he killed? How many lives has he taken to protect the Feretti family?
And now I've joined those ranks. One life taken to save another.
I don't realize we've arrived until the SUV stops moving. The drive passes in a fog, my mind replaying the convenience store scene on endless loop.
"We're here," Alessio says, his voice cutting through my rumination.
I blink, focusing on what's outside the window. The house sits perched on the edge of a cliff, modern and sleek with large windows reflecting the moonlight. Below, I catch glimpses of dark water crashing against rocks. Something about the isolation calms me.
"Is this... safe?" I ask, my voice hoarse.
"One of Damiano's properties. Off the books." Alessio presses a button on a small remote, and a gate slides open. "No digital footprint."
The SUV glides forward and another button press reveals a garage door opening beneath the house. Alessio drives inside and the door closes behind us with a mechanical hum. The space is pristine—nothing like the warehouse. This is a real home.
When the engine cuts I sit motionless, my body unwilling to move. Everything feels heavy.
"I need a shower," I say, the words barely making it past my lips. "Desperately."
Alessio nods, coming around to my side of the vehicle. He doesn't touch me but his presence guides me to a door at the back of the garage. It opens into a hallway with warm recessed lighting and polished hardwood floors. The air smells clean—like lemon polish and fresh linens.
We pass a spacious kitchen with marble countertops and stainless steel appliances. Beyond that, a living room with plush furniture facing floor-to-ceiling windows that would showcase the ocean view in daylight.
Alessio leads me up a curved staircase to the second floor. The carpet is soft beneath my feet. He opens a door to reveal a bedroom.
"Bathroom's through there," he says, pointing to a door on the right. "You'll find everything you need. Towels, soap, shampoo."
I stand awkwardly in the center of the room, still feeling disconnected from my body.
"I think clothes havebeen left for you in here." Alessio tugs a dresser drawer open,adding darkly; "Matteo told them all that you were running around wearing only my T-shirt."
He attempts a grin and I appreciate his attempt to lighten the mood now that we’re safe. I do my best to respond but my facial muscles are ice cold.
"OK. I'll be downstairs if you need anything," he says, backing awkwardly toward the door. "Take your time."
I wait until Alessio's footsteps fade down the stairs before I move to the dresser. My limbs feel disconnected, like I'm operating a body cobbled together by Dr Frankenstein. The drawer slides open, revealing neatly folded clothes in soft fabrics.
I run my fingers over cotton t-shirts and leggings—all looking barely worn, if at all. Tucked in the corner is a pair of pale blue pajamas. They still have price tags attached. Another drawer reveals underwear, also new with tags. Designer brands I recognize from London shopping trips with Ashley.
For a moment I just stand there in a daze, holding these immaculate clothes that belong to someone else.
I gather some clothes and push open the bathroom door. The sight stops me in my tracks.
The bathroom is enormous—gleaming white marble with gleaming gold fixtures. A freestanding tub sits beneath a window that must offer an incredible ocean view by day. The glass-enclosed shower could fit three people comfortably, with multiple showerheads and built-in benches.
I set the clothes on the counter and peel off Alessio’s T-shirt, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I don't want to see myself right now. Don't want to look into the eyes of a woman who took a life today.
The shower turns on with a twist of a gold knob, water streaming from the ceiling. I step under the spray, the heat immediately enveloping me. The pressure is perfect—strong enough to massage my aching muscles but not painful against my tender skin.
I push my forehead against the cool glass wall, letting the water cascade down my back. The heat seeps into me, washing away the day's horrors—the gunshots, the blood, the look in that man's eyes as he fell. My tears mix with the shower water, indistinguishable as they circle the drain.
I don't know how long I stand there, letting the water pummel my shoulders. Long enough that my fingertips wrinkle and the bathroom fills with steam. Long enough that the memory of what happened today starts to feel like something that happened to someone else.