Chapter 48
Lucio
I reach out and brush a knuckle along her jaw. She flinches.
Yeah. That tracks.
I clear my throat. “Get up.”
She groans into the pillow.
I try again, sharper this time. “We leave in ten.”
Her head snaps up.
“Ten?” she rasps, mascara smudged, hair a storm around her face. “You couldn’t have said that before now?”
I shrug, already pulling on a clean shirt. “You’re not that high-maintenance.”
She scowls, but throws the blanket off anyway, stumbling toward her bag like she’s still half-asleep and half-ready to kick my ass.
We don’t talk while she gets dressed. I don’t explain.
She doesn’t ask. The air is too thick with things we left unsaid last night—venom laced into every kiss, every touch, every damn apology neither of us was brave enough to say out loud.
Princess packs up Frankie’s things in a bag while I pick up our sleeping daughter.
By 3:08, we’re in the car, the motel sign fading in the rearview mirror like a bad decision. I watch our daughter sleep in her car seat, used to the routine by now. Guilt eats at me. She shouldn’t be in this fucking position.
Princess doesn’t say a word. Neither do I. The silence between us is glass. Brittle. Close to cracking.
The roads are slick from a storm that passed sometime after midnight.
Vegas is always quieter when it rains, like even sin has to sleep.
Streetlights reflect off the wet asphalt, making the city look like it’s made of ghosts.
She pulls her hoodie tighter around herself and rests her forehead against the window.
I glance at her once. She’s still mad.
I could say something. I should. But every word that comes to mind sounds either like surrender or war, and I don’t know which one would break us faster.
Instead, I turn up the heater and keep driving.
We pass casinos still lit up like they don’t know how to die, diners with their open signs half-flickering, liquor stores closed but glowing like temptation. Out here, past the noise, the desert breathes slower.
She finally speaks as we pull off the highway. “Where the fuck are we going?”
I park in front of the diner—empty, glowing warm behind a rain-flecked window. It looks like it belongs in a different decade, like it’s been standing in the same place since the world was less broken.
She squints at it. “What is this? Breakfast? You dragged me out here at three in the morning for waffles?”
I smirk. “Trust me.”
Her arms fold across her chest. “Last time I did that, your brother tried to shoot me.”
Fair.
I get out anyway. She hesitates, but follows, grumbling under her breath as she slams the door.
I grab Francesca’s car seat and bring her inside with us before locking the car.
The bell above the diner’s entrance jingles when we step inside.
It’s warm, too warm, smelling like syrup and grease and late-night regrets.
There’s no one else here. Perfect.
A tired waitress behind the counter blinks at us like we’re psychos for being awake at this hour. I give her a nod.
“We’ll be quick.”
She waves us off. “Take your time.”
Princess scans the empty booths, suspicious, arms still crossed.
“Lucio…” she says warily. “What is this?”
I take a breath. “It’s ours.”
She frowns. “What?”
I walk past the booths, motioning her to follow, stopping just short of the jukebox. “The diner. I bought it.”
She blinks. “You what ?”
I turn to face her, watching it land. “This is ours now. I’ve been setting things up the last few days. Not just this place—a house nearby too. Quiet, off-grid. Clean titles, clean money, clean start.”
She stares at me wide-eyed, like I’ve lost my mind. “You bought a diner.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I bought a diner. I figured you’d like it. Somewhere normal. Somewhere we could just…exist.”
Her jaw tics. She looks away, like if she keeps her eyes on me too long, she’ll believe it. And belief right now? That’s dangerous.
I step closer.
“And I’m sorry,” I add, voice low. “For snapping at you the other night. For being…” I exhale. “All of it.”
She doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just stands there, chest rising and falling, like she’s trying to hold in something that wants to break out.
Then her eyes soften and she exhales. “You’re still an asshole.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But I’m your asshole.”
She lets out a half-laugh, like it catches her off-guard. Setting Frankie’s car seat down on a table nearby, I make sure our precious angel is still sleeping.
I slide a quarter into the jukebox and let the music drift through the room—soft, jazzy, timeless. Then I hold out my hand.
“Dance with me.”
She gives me that look. “Seriously?”
I nod. “Seriously.”
“Why?” she asks, quiet again.
I meet her eyes. “Because I don’t know how much time we’ve got left before the world finds us again. And I don’t want to waste it.”
She hesitates. Then slowly, warily, she steps into my arms.
I pull her close. She fits against me like she always has, like chaos pressed against calm, fire curled around a blade. We start to sway. The diner blurs around us, the rain on the windows catching the light like it’s trying to turn pain into something pretty.
Her head rests against my shoulder. I tighten my hold. Not too much. Just enough.
“I’m still mad at you,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I’m mad at me too.”
She breathes out something like a laugh. Or maybe it’s a sob. Doesn’t matter. I let the music carry us, slow and simple, as if the two of us didn’t leave a war behind in New York, as if I didn’t watch blood pool under Ma’s body, as if loving her didn’t mean burning every bridge I ever built.
We’re just two people. Dancing. Alive. Still here.
She leans up and presses her lips to my jaw, soft and unsure. “I’m scared.”
I kiss her temple. “Me too.”
And then we keep dancing.
Because for now—just for this moment—we still can.
We sit in the quiet booth by the window, the orange-pink haze of dawn casting soft shadows over the blue leather seats and cherrywood. She’s still staring at me wide-eyed, her coffee untouched between her palms.
“You bought this place?” Her voice is hoarse, as if saying it out loud makes it real.
I nod once, leaning back against the booth. “It’s ours.”
She blinks at me like I just confessed something unholy. And maybe I have. Because it’s not just a building. It’s a vow.
She’s silent for a beat.
“You’ve been…busy.”
I crack a grin. “Someone had to make sure we weren’t living in a damn bunker forever.”
She smiles—barely—and takes a sip of her coffee. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I did,” I say, reaching for her hand across the table. “Because this life, this thing we’ve built…it doesn’t survive on the run. I needed to give you something real. Something solid.”
Her fingers tighten around mine. Still no words.
“And about the other night,” I add, glancing down. “I was outta line. You didn’t deserve that. I was…sharp. Snappy.”
She snorts softly, almost laughing. “Snappy?”
“Yeah,” I say, a sheepish half-smile tugging at my mouth. “Asshole. Whatever you wanna call it. I’m sorry.”
Her expression softens. “Thank you.”
A pause.
Then, as if trying to change the subject before the moment gets too heavy, she asks, “So, what now? You gonna put me to work? Make me serve hashbrowns and wipe counters?”
I lean forward. “Only if you wear the uniform.”
She shoves my shoulder. “Pervert.”
We both laugh. Really laugh. And it’s the first time in weeks—maybe months—that the tension doesn’t hang in the air like a loaded gun.
We finish breakfast—pancakes, bacon, two rounds of coffee—in easy silence, and when she slips on her coat again, I see the way her eyes linger on the space.
She likes it. She won’t say it, not yet. But I see it.
We step outside into the fresh morning chill. The desert wind’s gentler now, the sky washed pale gold. I buckle Frankie’s car seat back into the back, making sure it’s sturdy. I don’t know how she’s sleeping through all of this shit, but I can’t say I’m complaining.
Back in the car, Princess curls her legs under her, yawns, and glances at me. “Are we going home now?”
I grip the steering wheel. “Something like that.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Lucio…”
“You’ll see.”
It’s almost an hour’s drive before we pull up the long, tree-lined driveway.
The road curves through pines and stone lanterns, winding like something out of a movie.
She starts straightening in her seat as the house comes into view—that sprawling, old-money kind of estate with its steep gables, tall chimneys, and soft ivy climbing the stone walls.
The car slows. She doesn’t speak. Just stares.
The driveway opens into a wide circle with a fountain in the center and lanterns lit even though it’s morning. I stop the engine.
She blinks, then turns to me. “What is this?”
I step out, walk around to her door, and open it.
“This,” I say, offering my hand, “is ours.”
She doesn’t move at first. Then she steps out, slowly, eyes wide as they scan the palatial estate: the manicured gardens, the elegant gazebo by the pool, the fire pit still burning in the patio lounge.
“You bought this?”
I nod. “No more motels. No more running. We’ve got land. Privacy. Safety.”
She walks toward the house like she’s afraid it’ll vanish. Her hand grazes the stone railing; her mouth parted in disbelief. I scoop up Francesca out of her car seat. There’s a comfortable bed in there for her, something I should’ve given her from the moment she was born.
“And the inside?” she murmurs.
“C’mon.”
I lead her up the steps, through the carved wooden doors into the grand foyer.
Crystal chandeliers glow above, soft golden light spilling over marble floors.
The curved staircase sweeps across the entry like something out of a dream.
Gold inlays. Antique vases. Velvet drapes.
It’s warm, regal, like the kind of place made for fairytales and dangerous men.
Her heels click against the polished floors as she moves, slow and reverent.
“Lucio,” she whispers.
I stop beside her, hand resting on the small of her back. “Every room’s been redone. Security in place. Staff vetted. You have a dressing room the size of the old apartment.”
She stares at me. “You did all this while your daughter and I were sleeping in a room with burnt carpet and buzzing lights?”
I shrug. “You and our precious daughter deserved better. We all did.”
She looks like she’s going to cry. Instead, she turns and punches me lightly in the chest.
“You idiot. You beautiful idiot.”
I catch her hand, kiss her knuckles. “I know.”
She leans into me, and for the first time since we left New York—since we bled and broke and clawed our way out—she lets herself believe it.
We made it. This isn’t just survival anymore.
This is home.
The End
If you would like to read a teaser of the next book in the series then keep reading.