Chapter 9
LUCA
Idon't sleep.
I stand outside her door for hours, listening to the sound of her breathing on the other side. Steady. Deep. She's asleep, finally. Exhausted from fighting me, from fighting herself.
The door is unlocked. I kept my word.
It takes everything in me not to turn the handle, not to slip inside. I've imagined watching her sleep—unguarded, within reach, mine. But she needs rest. She needs to feel safe, even if that safety is an illusion I've constructed around her.
Now she's here. In my home. In my bed—well, the bed I've given her.
Soon she'll be in mine.
In the hours before dawn, I finally force myself to walk away. I head down the hall to my bedroom—the locked room she tried earlier. I strip off my clothes and step into the shower, letting the hot water pound against my shoulders.
I don't think about her.
That's a lie. I can't stop thinking about her. The way she looked at me across the dinner table. The way she ate the food I made for her, trying so hard not to enjoy it. The way she walked through my apartment like she was cataloging escape routes, always thinking, always planning.
My Francesca is a fighter. I've known that since she fought off the mugger I sent after her, refusing to let go of her bag even when she was terrified. But seeing it up close, directed at me, is something else entirely. Most women would have crumbled by now—begged, screamed, broken.
Not her.
She bends, but she doesn't break.
Not yet.
The thought sends guilt through me, sharp and unexpected. I've always been honest with myself about what I am, what I want. I want to break her just enough that she stops running. Just enough that she sees what I've known for months.
We belong to each other.
I dress in dark jeans and a black henley. No suit today. The job in Brighton Beach doesn't require elegance, just efficiency. I strap on my shoulder holster, check my Glock, slide a knife into my boot. The familiar weight grounds me.
I'm L'Ombra. The Shadow. The Outfit's most reliable enforcer.
At least I was, before her.
The kitchen is dark when I enter. Dawn hasn't broken yet, but I know my way around in the shadows. I've always preferred them. I pull eggs from the fridge, butter, bread. My nonna taught me that a man who cares for a woman feeds her well.
I'm not just caring for Francesca. I'm claiming her. There's a difference.
The eggs sizzle in the pan. I make coffee—the expensive kind she'll pretend not to like. Brew it strong and black, the way I take it. Toast bread. Slice fruit. Set the table for two.
Domestic. Civilized. As if I didn't lock her in this penthouse last night. As if she has a choice about staying. As if I'm not wearing a shoulder holster while I plate her eggs.
I'm plating the food when I hear her door open. Soft footsteps echo in the hallway. She's trying to be quiet, probably hoping I'm still asleep. Hoping for a chance to explore, to find something she can use against me.
She won't find anything. I'm too careful for that.
I pour two cups of coffee and wait.
She appears in the kitchen doorway. For a beat, we just watch each other. Her hair is wild from sleep, dark curls tumbling over her shoulders. She's put her jeans and sweater back on from yesterday—the same clothes she wore when I brought her here.
My jaw tightens. Even rumpled and defiant, she's beautiful.
She looks exhausted, wary, beautiful.
"Buongiorno, Francesca," I say quietly. "I made breakfast."
Her eyes flick to the table—two plates, coffee steaming. She doesn't move.
"I'm not hungry."
"You said that last night too." I pull out a chair. "Sit."
"Don't tell me what to do."
There it is. That fire I love. I could push. Force her into the chair. Make her understand that defiance only goes so far in my world.
Instead, I sit down myself. I pick up my fork and start eating.
She stands there for a long moment, arms crossed over her chest. Then, as I knew she would, she moves to the table. Sits across from me. Her stomach growls. She's practical, my girl. She'll eat.
She does. She eats the eggs first, then the toast. She ignores the fruit.
We don't speak. The silence hangs between us. I watch her eat, memorizing the way her lips close around the fork, the delicate movement of her throat when she swallows.
"I have to leave this morning," I say finally.
Her head snaps up. Hope flashes across her face before she can hide it.
My lips curve. "Don't get excited, tesoro. I'll be back tonight."
"Where are you going?"
"Work."
"What kind of work?"
"The kind that keeps you safe." I drain my coffee. "The kind that keeps our enemies from thinking they can touch what's mine."
She flinches. I love that reaction.
"While I'm gone," I continue, my voice dropping lower, quieter, "you're welcome to explore the penthouse.
Read. Watch television. Make yourself comfortable.
" I lean forward slightly. "But don't try to leave, Francesca.
Like I told you, the elevator door won't open without the code.
The windows don't open at all.” I let the sentence hang.
"And you'll find me," she finishes, her voice flat. "You've made that clear."
"I will." I stand, collecting our plates. “I'll find you. Every time."
She glares at me. Cazzo, I love that look. All fury and fear and heat she won't acknowledge.
"I already don't like you."
I move around the table, and she goes very still. I stop behind her chair, close enough that I could reach out and touch her hair, run my fingers through those dark curls.
I don't. Not yet.
"Yes, you do," I say softly, my lips close to her ear. "That's what scares you."
I feel her shiver. Hear her breath catch.
Then I step back, putting distance between us before I do something stupid. Before I cancel the job and spend the day showing her exactly how much she affects me.
"Be good, mia bella," I say as I head for the door. "I'll know if you're not."
I leave her sitting at the table, fury and confusion warring on her beautiful face.
The drive to Brighton Beach takes longer than it should.
Traffic on the BQE crawls, giving me too much time to think.
I should be focused on the job—reviewing Orlov's patterns, planning my approach, running through contingencies.
Instead, all I can think about is Francesca locked in my apartment, pacing like a caged animal, looking for ways out.
Looking for ways to leave me.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
By the time I reach Brighton Beach, the sun is high and harsh. The neighborhood is uglier than I remember. Soviet-era architecture mixed with an aging boardwalk. Russian signs on every storefront. This is Bratva territory through and through, and I'm walking into the heart of it.
The folder Don Marco gave me contains detailed surveillance on Max Orlov. He frequents a bar called the Red Star, arrives every night around eleven, stays until closing. Always leaves alone. Walks three blocks to his car—a black Mercedes with tinted windows, parked in the same spot every time.
I should wait until tonight. It would be a clean, simple execution.
But the file mentions other patterns. Every morning around midday, he meets with his crew at a warehouse near the beach. Discusses collections, resolves disputes, plans the week's operations. The meeting lasts an hour. Then he walks to his car. Usually with protection, but sometimes alone.
All I can think about is getting back to her.
I arrive early, position myself in an alley across from the warehouse. The Mercedes is already there, gleaming black paint, perfectly maintained. Orlov takes pride in his possessions.
He won't be around to enjoy them much longer.
The morning is cold, wind coming off the ocean carrying the smell of salt and rotting fish. I pull my jacket tighter and wait. Patience is half the job. The other half is execution.
At late morning, the warehouse door opens. Orlov emerges, flanked by his bodyguards. They walk him to his car, standard protection protocol. The men are armed—I can see the bulge of shoulder holsters under their jackets.
This is going to be messy.
I should abort. Wait for tonight when he's alone. That was the plan.
But all I can think about is Francesca in my apartment. Pacing. Testing the windows. Searching for exits.
Trying to get away from me.
I move.
The first man goes down with a knife to the kidney. Silent and efficient. I catch him as he falls, lower him to the ground. The second man is turning, reaching for his gun, and I'm on him. I clamp my hand over his mouth, draw the blade across his throat. Quick and clean.
The body hits the pavement with a thud.
Orlov spins, his hand going to his hip. He's fast. Former military, clearly. A professional.
But I'm faster.
I close the distance before he can draw. My knife finds the soft space below his ribs, angling up toward his heart. His eyes go wide. He gasps. Tries to speak.
I twist the blade.
He drops.
It's done.
The bodies lie in broad daylight on a Brighton Beach street. Not the clean, professional hit Don Marco wanted. Not the subtle message that says "stay out of our territory."
This is a declaration of war.
I stand there, blood on my hands and shoes, and the reality crashes down. I've just made a catastrophic mistake.
There's blood spray on my jeans. A footprint in the pooling blood near Orlov's body—my footprint, my shoe, a pattern that could be traced. One of the bodyguards' guns went off during the struggle—I didn't even notice until now. The sound would have carried. Someone heard it.
All these years without a mistake. Not anymore.
Merda.
I move fast, wiping the knife on my own jacket, pocketing it. I should clean up the scene, remove the footprint, stage it better. But I can hear sirens in the distance. Someone called the cops.
I run.
I sprint to where I left my car, breathing hard, heart pounding—and it's not from exertion. It's from the realization of what I've done. How badly I've fucked this up.