Chapter 47 #2
I hesitate. Then I follow. Because for all the broken pieces, all the cracks, all the nights like this…we’re still here. Still together. And in this godforsaken motel room at 3:14 am, with Vegas still holding its breath, that has to count for something.
The bed creaks as I settle in beside him, both of us staring up at the water-stained ceiling like it’s got answers. It doesn’t. Just more silence, more things we’re both too tired to say out loud.
Lucio rests one arm beneath his head, the other splayed across the mattress, fingers close enough to touch, but not quite reaching.
My limbs feel too heavy, my skin tight with leftover adrenaline and bitterness. But now, in the hush between us, I also feel something else. Like maybe we’re learning how to breathe again.
His voice cuts through the dark. “Do you ever wish we could go back?”
“To what?” I ask, staring hard at the ceiling crack that looks like a spider’s web.
“Before all this. Before New York. Before the war. Before blood started costing more than loyalty.”
I glance at him. His profile is shadowed, all sharp lines and quiet regret. I trace it with my eyes: jaw clenched, mouth tight, the faintest crease between his brows.
“I don’t know,” I say after a beat. “Sometimes. But then I remember going back wouldn’t fix any of it. The people who betrayed us were already that way. The ones who died…they were already marked.”
He hums in agreement, low in his throat. “Yeah.”
I roll to my side, facing him now. “But I do wish it hadn’t taken this much to find out who we really are.”
His eyes flick toward me. “You mean who you are. You’ve been sure since day one.”
I laugh—bitter, short. “That’s not confidence, Lucio. That’s survival.”
He turns fully then, facing me too, one hand lifting to brush the hair from my cheek. “Still. You’re the strongest thing in my life. You always have been.”
I don’t know what to do with that, so I look away.
“I saw Frankie’s stuffed rabbit in the glove compartment,” I whisper, needing to shift gears before I crumble under his gaze.
His throat tightens visibly. “Yeah. I didn’t want to leave it behind.”
“She wouldn’t sleep without it.” My voice is quieter now. “The last time we moved, she cried until she passed out.”
Lucio closes his eyes for a second. “I know.”
We both go quiet again. I hate this kind of quiet—the kind where we’re just waiting for the next hit. The next loss. The next reminder that we’re still fugitives with blood on our hands and a child who doesn’t deserve a single bit of the chaos we’re dragging her through.
“What if we don’t make it?” It slips out before I can stop it. “What if this ends with her alone? With us buried?”
Lucio shifts closer, reaches out, and grips my hand so tightly I can feel the shake in his fingers. “We will make it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” he says, his voice suddenly cold steel. “But I’ll kill every person between us and that outcome to make sure we do.”
There’s a pause, like something just cracked deeper under the surface.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
He doesn’t let go of my hand. “You scared?”
I look at him—really look. He’s exhausted, hollowed out from everything we’ve lost and still burning from everything we’re holding onto.
But underneath that? There’s a fight in him. Always has been.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “But not of you.”
He pulls my hand up to his lips, presses a kiss to my knuckles. His eyes are unreadable when they meet mine again. “Good.”
I nestle closer, head resting against his chest. His heart thuds beneath my ear—not fast, but not calm either. Like even asleep, it’ll be ready for war.
And for the first time since we got here, since I stood in this room wondering if he’d ever show, I let myself believe maybe, just maybe, we’re not doomed yet.
Not tonight.
His fingers start to trace lazy circles on my back. I close my eyes.
We don’t talk after that. There’s nothing else to say—not in this fragile borrowed hour before the sun dares show its face. We lie there, tangled in tension and tenderness, the kind that tastes like grief and love and fear all braided into one.
Tomorrow, we might be hunted again. Tomorrow, Vegas might burn.
But tonight, we’re still together. Still holding on. Still choosing each other in the dark.
The sunlight slices in through the blinds too sharp and too early.
I wake alone.
The bed’s cold beside me, rumpled like a ghost still lingers there. I blink at the ceiling for a few long seconds before sitting up. The room smells like cheap coffee, worn cotton sheets, and him.
My chest tightens.
“Lucio?” I say, just in case.
No answer.
I throw the blanket off and stumble across the sticky carpet, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. A breeze drifts in from the open bathroom window, fluttering a receipt stuck under a paper cup on the dresser.
I pull it free.
It’s not a receipt. It’s a note.
Back soon. Stay inside. Doors locked. No one gets in but me. —L
I stare at it for a long time, willing it to mean something more than it says. He’s not running again. He’s not leaving. Just out handling something—probably something bloody, something complicated.
Still, my gut twists.
I check the lock. It’s jammed tight. The motel’s deadbolt is older than my first cellphone, but it’ll have to do.
I check the window next. The curtains shift.
Outside, the parking lot is quiet: a few cracked pavement lines, an oil stain, the same shitty vending machine humming like it’s daring me to need something.
I don’t.
I head to the bathroom instead, splash cold water on my face. My eyes are bloodshot, mascara smudged into something raccoon-adjacent. I look like the end of the world. Fitting.
I brush my teeth with my finger, then stare at my reflection. I look…more me than I have in days. Still pissed. Still scared. Still alive.
A knock jolts me. Three slow taps.
I freeze. Look over to where Frankie is still sleeping.
The knock comes again.
I reach for the knife hidden between the mattress and box spring. Lucio always packs two extras. He left one behind.
“Who is it?” I bark.
No answer.
I edge toward the door. Silence stretches out like a wire pulled tight. Whoever’s out there is waiting.
I crack the curtain with the tip of the blade.
Empty hallway. Nothing but shadows and the fading scrape of footsteps.
My pulse pounds in my ears. I step back, close the curtain, breathe.
That’s when I see it: a flash of something tucked under the door. Another slip of paper.
I grab it carefully, unfolding it like it might bite. One word.
Tonight.
My mouth goes dry. I tear open the drawer and toss through our burner phones, Lucio’s spare ammo, and the stack of cash we keep taped to the underside of the drawer liner. I find my burner and power it on, fingers already dialing before the screen lights up.
Voicemail.
I try again. Still nothing.
My hand starts to shake, and I shove the phone into my pocket like I can force it to work harder just by holding it tighter.
I pace. I don’t know what “tonight” means.
A threat? A deal? A warning? The Vitiellis? Emiliano?
My stomach twists. No one will touch my daughter. I’ll kill them.
That’s when I notice the lights outside the room flicker. Once. Twice. Then off. The buzzing overhead goes still.
Power cut.
I grab the second burner, flip it open, and text Lucio the code we agreed on.
Me:
Blackout. Eyes out.
No read receipt. No reply.
I force myself to sit on the edge of the bed, blade in one hand, phone in the other. Waiting again.
Only this time, it’s not just anger I’m feeling. It’s dread.
Something’s coming. And I have no idea if we’re ready for it.
But I know one thing with absolute clarity. When he walks back through that door— if he walks back through that door—I’m not just going to yell at him.
I’m going to fight beside him. Bleed beside him. And if I have to, I’ll burn this whole goddamn city down to keep what’s ours.