Chapter 9 #2
There's blood on my jacket, spatter across the shoulder. I strip it off, shove it in the trunk. The jeans will have to stay—I can't drive back to Manhattan in my underwear.
In the car, I check myself in the rearview mirror. Still a mess, but better.
She's in my head, in my blood. She's made me sloppy, weak, human.
I start the car and pull into traffic, driving carefully, under the speed limit. The last thing I need is to get pulled over with blood evidence all over me.
My phone buzzes. It's Don Marco.
I don't answer.
I should dump the car. Burn the clothes. Call him back with excuses that won't work.
Instead, I drive toward Tribeca, toward her.
I need to see her. Need to put my hands on her and confirm she's still there, still mine, still locked in my penthouse where I left her.
The drive feels endless. Every red light, every slow driver, every fucking second away from her scrapes against my nerves like a blade on bone.
When I finally pull into my building's garage, I take the private elevator straight to the penthouse. I unlock the door and the penthouse is quiet... too quiet.
The main space is empty—kitchen, living room, all of it. My pulse kicks up. I head down the hallway to her room.
Her door is still open. I left it unlocked, kept my word.
She's still there, sitting on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself, staring out the window. She's wearing the same clothes from this morning, hair still wild.
She's been trying to escape. Testing windows. Checking locks. Looking for any weakness in my cage. The tension radiates off her.
She's not going anywhere. She's never going anywhere. The sooner she understands that, the easier this will be for both of us.
"Francesca."
She turns her head to look at me. That's when I see the tear tracks on her face. I watch her take in the blood on my jeans, the way I'm breathing, the violence still clinging to me.
"You're back," she says, her voice carefully neutral.
Smart girl.
"I needed to see you." The words come out rough.
She doesn't look away. I watch fear and anger war across her face. And underneath—always underneath—that thing she won't acknowledge.
Then her gaze drops to my hands. They're clean—I wiped them on my jacket before I dumped it in the trunk—but she knows.
"Did you..." She stops, then swallows. "Is it done?"
"Yes."
She nods slowly, then wraps her arms tighter around herself like she's trying to hold herself together.
The tears are still there, tracking down her face.
Cazzo.
Not dramatic sobs. Just quiet tears from exhaustion and fear and the weight of understanding that there's no way out of this. No way out of me.
It guts me. I'm destroying her, breaking her down piece by piece, and I did this. I put her in this cage and now I'm watching her come apart.
I'm breaking her.
Not the way I planned. Not by overwhelming her with pleasure, with the certainty of us. I'm breaking her by caging her. By taking away every choice until the only one left is me.
I tell myself it's necessary. That she'll understand eventually. That she'll thank me for saving her from the dangers I know are out there.
But watching her cry destroys something in me.
I should turn around. Walk away. Change out of these bloody clothes and deal with the shitstorm I've created. Let her have this moment without my eyes devouring every second of her pain.
I just stand in the doorway with blood on my jeans, watching my Francesca break, and it's worse than taking a bullet.
Worse than anything I've felt in over a decade of violence. This morning I killed three men and barely registered it—just targets, just work, just another day.
But watching her cry feels like dying.
She's changing me. Making me weak. Making me sloppy. Making me human.
I left my footprint in Orlov's pooling blood because I was thinking about her instead of the job.
I killed two extra men because I rushed, because I couldn't wait another fucking second to get back to her.
I'm standing here covered in evidence instead of cleaning up, instead of making calls, instead of doing damage control on the disaster I created.
I'm choosing her over the Outfit. Over my reputation. Over everything I've built.
And the worst part?
I'd do it again. I'd do it all again. I'd kill a hundred men in broad daylight if it meant getting back to her faster.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, insistent. I pull it out. Don Marco again. I step back and answer.
"Where are you?" His voice is cold.
"Home."
"Orlov?"
"Dead."
The silence stretches. "I just received a call from our contact in the NYPD. Multiple bodies. Brighton Beach. Broad daylight. Multiple witnesses reported hearing a gunshot."
My stomach drops. I knew it was bad. I didn't realize it was already making the rounds.
"There were complications."
"Complications." His voice stays quiet, controlled. Infinitely more dangerous than shouting. "You were supposed to send a message, Luca. Not start a war."
"I know."
"Do you?" Another pause. "I need you sharp. I need you focused. I need L'Ombra, not whoever the fuck showed up in Brighton Beach today."
He's right. I know he's right.
"It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't. Clean yourself up. Get rid of the evidence. And come to the club. We need to discuss this situation. And we need to discuss this woman who's making you sloppy."
He hangs up.
I stand in the hallway, blood on my jeans, Francesca crying in the next room.
Over a decade of this work—clean kills, no mistakes. Nothing ever mattered more than the job.
She's ruined me for this life.
I can hear her breathing through the door—unsteady, broken, mine.
I need to clean up, change clothes, dispose of evidence. Tonight I'll face Don Marco's wrath, deal with the war I just started.
The Bratva will retaliate. Don Marco will want blood. The cops might have everything they need to bury me.
None of it matters.
I turn back toward her door. She's crying in there, and I need to put my hands on her more than I need my next breath. Need to make sure she's real, still here, still mine.
But if I go in now, I won't leave. And Don Marco is already furious.
I force myself to walk away. Down the hall to my bedroom. I strip off the blood-stained jeans, shove them in a plastic bag for disposal. Change into clean dark jeans and a black button-down. Check my Glock, slide it into my shoulder holster.
The bloody clothes go in the trunk of my car. I'll burn them later. Right now, I have a different fire to deal with.
The drive to Little Italy takes forty minutes in early evening traffic. I park two blocks away from the club and walk. The streets are busy with tourists and locals heading to dinner. No one looks twice at me.
Sal is at the door. He nods, steps aside. "He's been waiting."
Not good.
I head through the front room—card tables, old photos on the walls, espresso machine in the corner that actually works—and into the back.
Don Marco sits at his usual table. Hair perfectly combed, wearing a charcoal three-piece suit. He's reading the Post, espresso cup at his elbow.
He doesn't look up when I approach.
I wait.
"Sit," he says finally. Still not looking at me.
I sit.
He turns the page. Reads for another thirty seconds. Then folds the newspaper precisely, sets it aside, and looks at me.
His eyes are cold.
"Three bodies," he says. "Brighton Beach. Eleven in the morning. Gunshot that half the neighborhood heard. Blood everywhere. Witnesses." He picks up his espresso, takes a sip. "Want to tell me what the fuck happened?"
"It got complicated."
"Complicated." He sets down the cup. "I sent you to send a message. Clean. Professional. Make it look like an accident or make it look like we're serious. Either way works. You know this. You've done this a hundred times."
"I know."
"So what happened?"
I could lie. Make excuses. Blame Orlov's security or bad intel or a dozen other things.
But Don Marco taught me better than that.
"I was distracted," I say. "I rushed the job. Made mistakes."
"Distracted by what?"
He already knows. I can see it in his eyes. But he wants to hear me say it.
"A woman."
"A woman." He leans back in his chair. "The same woman who's had you checking your phone during meetings? The same woman who made you late last week? The same woman who's turned my best enforcer into a sloppy, careless amateur?"
"Yes."
The silence stretches. He's not yelling. That's worse. Don Marco only yells at people who don't matter. The people who matter get this—quiet disappointment laced with threat.
"Tell me about her," he says.
"She's a nurse. Works at Metropolitan Medical. She's... she's not part of this world."
"But you brought her into it anyway."
"Yes."
"Where is she now?"
"My place."
His eyebrow rises. "She's living with you?"
"Yes."
"Voluntarily?"
I don't answer. Don't need to.
"Cristo." He rubs his face. "You kidnapped a civilian."
"I'm protecting her."
"From what? From who?" He leans forward. "You made her a target the moment you started watching her. You made it worse when you were seen with her. And now you've locked her in your penthouse like some kind of princess in a tower, and you think that makes her safe?"
"It does."
"No, Luca. It makes her a liability." His voice drops lower. "The Bratva knows you fucked up their lieutenant. They know you left evidence. They're going to come after you, and the first thing they'll do is look for weaknesses. And what do you think they're going to find?"
I don't answer.
"A woman," he continues. "A woman you're obsessed with. A woman you've been careless about. A woman locked in a penthouse in Tribeca with an address that took me twenty minutes to find." He pauses. "How long do you think it'll take them?"
My hands curl into fists under the table.
"So here's what's going to happen," Don Marco says.
"You're going to fix this mess. You're going to make the Bratva understand that touching our territory costs blood.
You're going to be the enforcer I need, not some lovesick fool who leaves footprints in his victim's blood because he's thinking about getting home to his girl. "
"And if I can't?"
"Then you choose." He picks up his espresso again. "The life. Or the girl. You don't get both. Not anymore."
"I choose her."
The words are out before I can stop them.
Don Marco goes very still. Sets down his cup slowly.
"Say that again."
"I choose her." I meet his eyes. "I'll handle the Bratva. I'll clean up the mess. But I'm keeping her."
"Even if it costs you everything?"
"Yes."
He studies me for a long moment. Then he sighs. "You're just like your father. Same stubborn stupidity. Same willingness to throw everything away for a woman."
I don't respond. My father died when I was eight. Shot in the street over a gambling debt. My mother followed him six months later—heart failure, the doctors said, but I knew she'd given up on living.
"At least marry her," Don Marco says finally. "Make it official. Make it clear she's under our protection. It won't stop everyone, but it'll stop some." He pauses. "And the cops can't make her testify against you."
That stops me. I hadn't thought that far ahead.
"Smart," I say.
"That's why I'm still alive at seventy-two." He taps the newspaper. "You're not the first soldier to fall for a civilian. Won't be the last. But if you're going to be stupid about a woman, at least be smart about protecting yourself."
"She won't agree."
"Then make her agree." He waves a hand. "You're good at making people do what you want. Figure it out."
He picks up his newspaper, opens it. The dismissal is clear.
I stand.
"Luca."
I stop.
"Fix the Bratva situation," he says without looking up. "And don't make me regret not killing you myself."
"Yes, sir."
I walk out of the club, past Sal at the door, into the cool night air. The streets are busier now. Dinner rush in full swing.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number:
Three of ours just got picked up by NYPD. Bratva retaliation. They're hitting our operations.
It's starting.
I should stay. Handle this. Start making calls, gathering our people, planning our response. Instead, I get in my car and drive toward Tribeca. Toward her.
I'm two blocks from my building when I notice the tail. Black sedan, three cars back. It's been with me since Houston Street, matching my turns too perfectly.
Amateur.
I take a right onto a side street. Narrow. Less traffic. The sedan follows.
I park in front of a closed bodega, and the engine running. Wait.
The sedan pulls up behind me. One man gets out. Thick build, shaved head, leather jacket. Bratva ink on his neck—I can see it even in the dim streetlight. He's reaching into his jacket as he approaches.
I'm out of my car before he clears his weapon. Three strides and I'm on him. My hand locks around his wrist, twisting. Bone cracks. The gun—a Makarov, Russian military issue—clatters to the pavement.
He swings at me with his other hand. Sloppy. Desperate. I duck under it, drive my elbow into his solar plexus. He doubles over, gasping.
"Who sent you?" I ask quietly.
He spits something in Russian. Curses, probably.
I don't have time for this.
My knife is in my hand. One quick slash across his femoral artery. He goes down hard, hands clutching his thigh, blood pumping between his fingers. He'll bleed out in under two minutes.
I pick up the Makarov, wipe it down, and toss it into a storm drain. Check the street—empty. No witnesses. The sedan's engine is still running. I walk over, look inside. Empty.
Back in my car, I pull away from the curb. Check the rearview. The man is lying in a spreading pool of blood, movements already slowing.
My phone buzzes again. Another text:
Make it stop.
I don't respond. Instead, I drive toward Tribeca. Don Marco is right. I'm choosing her over everything else. Over the life I've built. Over the reputation that took years to earn. Over the family that gave me purpose when I had nothing. I'm choosing her, and I don't care what it costs.
She's already taken my focus, my discipline, my edge—the rest is just details.
The penthouse is dark when I enter. Just after ten. She might be asleep already. The elevator doors lock behind me. Then I walk quietly down the hall toward her room. The door is closed. I stop outside it, listening. I can hear her breathing. Awake, not asleep. Waiting for me.
I turn the handle and push the door open.