43. Pietro
Pietro
The safehouse is quiet.
Not a palazzo. Not a villa. Not a bunker. Just a tucked-away three-room sandstone house in Florence with sun-warmed shutters and a creaky floor that groans under every step. Stairs to a rooftop terrace.
I still use a cane, but the bandages are gone. All that remains are the scars.
Valaria stands on the terrace in one of my shirts—I know the scars that it covers. Her beautiful body scarred—but alive. That’s all that counts. She’s sipping coffee, hair messy, bare legs crossed at the knee.
I’ve never loved her more.
She turns when she senses me watching. Her mouth curves—not a smirk. Not a performance. Just a small, sleepy smile meant only for me.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“You’re beautiful,” I say.
“Scars and all?”
“Scars and all.”
She walks over. Slides into the bed beside me. Warm skin, cool linen. Her fingers trace my jaw, soft and slow.
And she kisses me.
Not rough.
Not frantic.
Just real.
And when we fall back against the pillows, limbs tangled, our lips brushing between breaths, it’s not about a mission.
It’s about presence.
Love without fear.
Fire without ash.
“I don’t know what comes next,” she says, head on my chest.
“Me neither.”
I kiss the top of her head.
We lie there as sunlight creeps across the floor.
No weapons. No mission.
Just us.
And Valaria’s night terrors.