Chapter 2 #2
She resisted for a moment, then leaned in, resting her forehead against my chest.
I could feel her breathing—trembling.
I held her a little tighter—enough for her to feel it, but not to feel trapped.
Just held. Safe.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered against her hair.
The words were quiet, but certain. “Always. No matter what comes next.”
She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to.
Her fingers curled into my shirt, gripping the blood-soaked fabric like a fragile anchor.
Her breaths softened against my chest, still uneven, but steadier with each passing moment.
So I stayed there—on my knees, in the dirt—holding her until the shaking eased, until her breathing settled, until the wind carried away the sharp scent of blood and left something quieter behind.
Something close to peace.
When I finally pulled back, I didn’t release her immediately.
My hands lingered—one at her shoulder, the other still resting lightly over hers—grounding her, anchoring her, making sure she was steady before I let the world touch her again.
Then, slowly, I leaned back just enough to meet her eyes.
They were still glassy with tears, lashes damp, cheeks flushed from the cold and everything that had just passed.
But beneath that—beneath the grief, the exhaustion, the quiet devastation—there was something new.
Something fighting to exist.
I held her gaze a moment longer before speaking.
“Ciro will take you to the airport.”
My voice was calm.
But softer than anything I had used all day.
She nodded.
It was small. Almost hesitant.
I rose to my feet slowly, giving her time to adjust, to breathe, to settle.
Then I stepped behind her wheelchair, my fingers curling around the handles—firm, steady.
Carefully, I turned her—not just slightly, but all the way around. A full, deliberate circle.
Three hundred and sixty degrees.
Until the mountain, the blood, the body—everything—was out of her line of sight.
No last look. No final imprint.
No more nightmares fed by that image.
She didn’t resist.
Didn’t turn her head. Didn’t look back.
Some things deserved to be left behind without ceremony.
I began to push.
The path down the ridge was narrow—too narrow for mistakes.
Uneven rock jutted out at sharp angles, loose gravel shifting beneath every step.
The wind had picked up, stronger now, whipping across the mountainside in cold, relentless gusts that threatened to unbalance even the sure-footed.
I adjusted my stance instinctively.
Angled the chair.
Controlled the descent.
Every step calculated.
My boots dug into the ground harder on the steeper drops, acting as a brake as I guided her carefully over jagged stone and exposed roots.
The wheels caught once—twice—but I corrected instantly, steadying the frame before it could jolt her.
“I’ve got you,” I said quietly, more to remind her than reassure myself.
Her hands tightened slightly in the blanket.
We moved like that for several minutes, until the path narrowed further, twisting into a jagged descent that the chair couldn’t safely navigate.
I stopped.
Measured the slope.
Then made the decision.
Without a word, I stepped around her, crouched slightly, and slid one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back.
Careful.
Her body tensed for half a second as I lifted her, instinct kicking in.
Then she relaxed.
Her arms slipped around my neck, fingers curling into the back of my shirt. Her face pressed against my shoulder, breath warm against my skin despite the cold air around us.
I adjusted my grip slightly, ensuring her weight was supported without pressure on her stomach.
Protected.
Then I moved.
One step at a time.
Down the uneven descent.
Each foothold tested before I shifted my weight.
By the time we reached the base, the world opened up again.
The mountains gave way to something wider.
A clearing stretched out before us, carved cleanly into the landscape.
And waiting within it—
Power.
A line of black SUVs circled the space, engines idling, vibrations running low through the ground. Their tinted windows caught the pale morning sky and gave nothing back.
Men stood at intervals around them.
Still.
Alert.
Dressed in dark suits that concealed more than they revealed.
Rifles hung loose at their sides like they’d been born holding them. Earpieces caught the light. Their eyes never stopped moving.
My system. My army.
Enough to start a war.
Or end one.
The moment Loretta and I came into view, they straightened.
Ciro stepped forward first—my second in command—6’1, broad-shouldered, scarred, and unshakable.
“Boss.”
His voice was steady, respectful.
I gave a single nod. “Get her to the airport. Private jet. No detours.”
My gaze hardened. “You stay with her until she’s wheels-up.”
Ciro met my eyes, understanding the weight behind the order. “Understood.”
I stepped aside, lowering Loretta carefully back into her chair.
Ciro moved in, taking hold of the handles with the same steadiness I had used.
But before he could move—I stepped around to face her again.
Dropped into a crouch so we were level.
So she didn’t have to look up.
“So listen to me,” I said quietly.
Her eyes met mine, focused and present.
“If you ever need me—any hour, any day—you call.”
I held her gaze, letting the words settle.
“I don’t care where I am or what I’m doing,” I said, then added after a brief pause, “I’ll come.”
She tried to smile. It hurt to see—not because it failed, but because it cost her something.
Still, it was there. And this time, it reached her eyes—for the first time in months.
Her hand lifted in a small wave, her fingers trembling, but she didn’t stop.
I reached out and brushed my thumb lightly along her cheek.
Then I leaned in.
Pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her left cheek.
Careful. Gentle.
A promise without words.
When I pulled back, I didn’t look away immediately.
I let myself see her.
Alive. Still here.
Then I stood.
And stepped back.
Ciro gave a slight nod and moved at once, guiding her toward the nearest SUV.
The words rose fast: “Ciro—wait. Take her back. Keep her here. Where I can see her. Where I can protect her. Where no one will ever touch her again.”
But I clenched my jaw and swallowed them down, because I knew better.
This place—this life—wasn’t safety; it was a battlefield.
There is an ongoing war in my city, Lombardy, between us Italians and the Spanish mafia factions.
I could give her everything I had—every man, every weapon, every ounce of power I controlled—but none of it mattered against chaos.
Bullets didn’t listen. They didn’t care about promises.
Out there—beyond these mountains, beyond my name, beyond this world—she had a chance. A real one.
No one would know her. No one would recognize her. No one would come looking.
I don’t plan to end the war anytime soon, and I’m worried Loretta could get caught in the chaos.
Sending her away is the safest option—somewhere she can live, heal over time, and try to exist like an ordinary civilian.
I forced myself to stay where I was as Ciro guided her toward the long black limousine.
Every step felt like something was being pulled out of me, piece by piece.
He moved carefully, stopping at the door.
One of the men stepped forward instantly and opened it without a word.
Ciro lifted her into the car, making sure she was settled before stepping back.
Then he turned to the wheelchair, folded it with practiced ease, and placed it in the trunk before shutting it firmly.
He walked around and slipped into the front passenger seat.
The engine came alive.
Inside the car, she turned slowly, like it took effort.
Her hand pressed against the tinted glass, fingers splayed slightly, as if she needed the contact—as if she needed something between us that distance couldn’t fully erase.
She waved. Small. Unsteady. Her fingers trembled.
And her eyes—God. Her eyes. They weren’t just sad. Sadness would have been easier to bear.
They were hollow. Drained.
Sixteen years of hell lived inside them—years that began when she was eight and only ended when I pulled her out at twenty-five, just three months ago. I knew it was far too late.
The damage was written across her like a map no one else could read.
Her shoulders curved inward, even now—protective, instinctive—as if she still expected hands, pain, violation.
My throat tightened.
I forced myself to breathe.
I raised my own hand. Returned the wave.
It felt heavier than anything I had done today.
Heavier than the gun. Heavier than the blade.
Heavier than the man I had just killed.
Because this—
This was loss.
Not of life. But of something I could never give back.
That little girl—
The one who used to laugh too loudly.
Who believed the moon followed her home.
Who stole gelato and blamed the sky for it—
She was gone.
Completely.
In her place sat someone else.
Someone who had survived.
But survival came with a cost.
And I would spend the rest of my life paying for it.
The limousine began to move.
Slow at first.
Then steady.
Four armored Hummers fell into formation instantly—two pulling ahead like hunting predators, engines roaring low, and two locking in behind, tight and precise.
A moving fortress.
Every window dark.
Every weapon ready.
Every man inside prepared to die before letting anything reach her.
Dust rose behind them, thick and swirling, catching in the morning light as the convoy pushed forward.
I watched.
The vehicles snaked down the valley road, tires gripping and sliding as they rounded the first bend.
The sharp screech of rubber against stone echoed back toward me, cutting through the air like a blade.
Each sound hit something inside me.
Hollowed it. Carved it out.
Until there was nothing left but space.
The convoy disappeared behind the curve.
Gone from sight.
But I stayed there.
Staring.
At the empty road.
At the place where they had been.
As if I could hold onto it long enough—
They might come back.