Chapter 12
FRANCESCA
Dinner is over.
The plates have been cleared—by him, not some invisible staff. He cooked. He served. He cleaned up while I sat at his table drinking wine and watching him move around his kitchen like this is normal. Like we're normal.
Now we're on the couch. Some Italian crime film is playing on the massive screen. Subtitles scroll across the bottom. I don't really understand what's happening. It's something about revenge and blood feuds and men who don't forgive.
On brand, I think, and almost laugh.
I'm in silk pajamas from the delivery that arrived this afternoon—boxes and bags of clothing, lingerie, things I didn't ask for but that fit perfectly anyway—drinking wine from a crystal glass, curled up on his couch like I belong here.
I should not be comfortable. I should not feel safe... but I do.
And that's the problem, isn't it? I've endured this whatever this is—being kept, controlled, owned. Days of trying to find the angle that makes sense and coming up empty every time.
So I stopped looking.
I let myself sink into the couch. I let myself watch the subtitles scroll across the screen. I let myself pretend that the man sitting next to me is just a man and not a killer.
His phone buzzes on the coffee table. He glances at it, frowns, ignores it.
"Work?" I ask.
"Probably." He doesn't elaborate. He just refills my wine glass and settles back against the cushions.
I should ask more questions. I should push for information about the war, the Bratva, what's happening outside these walls. But I don't. Because right now, in this moment, I don't want to know. I just want to exist in this pocket of stillness before everything inevitably goes to hell.
Luca shifts beside me. His hand finds my ankle, thumb stroking the bone there absently. It's not sexual. It's just touch. Contact. It's proof that I'm here, that I'm his, that I haven't disappeared. I should pull away. I don't.
The elevator dings.
The doors open and a man is standing there—right there in the penthouse—gun already drawn.
Luca is on his feet before I can process what's happening. A gun appears in his hand. I don't even see where it came from. One second his hand was on my ankle, the next he's armed and moving.
"Stay." One word—not loud, but absolute.
He shoves me behind him. I stumble back, my wine glass falling, red spreading across the white rug. The movie keeps playing. Someone on screen is shouting in Italian. I can't hear what they're saying over the pounding of my heart.
The man steps forward into the living room.
He's tall. Broad. His shaved head is covered in tattoos that crawl up his neck. He's holding a gun. It's pointed at Luca.
The man says something in Russian. I don't understand the words but I understand the tone—cold and final.
Luca doesn't move. He doesn't lower his weapon. His voice when he speaks is calm, almost bored.
"You're in the wrong penthouse."
"L'Ombra." The man spits the name like a curse. "You're a dead man."
"Not tonight."
Everything happens fast.
The Russian raises his gun. Luca moves. There's a shot. I flinch, ducking behind the couch, hands over my ears. But the sound still echoes. Again. Again. Then there's silence.
I should run. I should hide. I should do something other than crouch here shaking. But I can't move. I can't look away.
Luca is standing over the body near the elevator. The Russian is on his back, eyes open, staring at nothing. Blood pools beneath him, spreading across the hardwood. There's so much blood. More than I've ever seen outside the ER.
This isn't the ER. This is Luca's living room, a man he just killed, and it's real.
Luca kicks the gun away from the Russian's hand. He checks for a pulse even though it's obvious there isn't one. Then he turns to me.
He's covered in blood. There's spatter across his face, his chest, his arms. His eyes find mine across the room.
"Are you hurt?"
I can't answer. I can't make my throat work. I'm shaking so hard my teeth are chattering.
He approaches slowly. The gun is pointed at the floor. He moves like I'm a spooked animal he doesn't want to frighten further.
"Francesca." His voice is gentle—too gentle for a man covered in another man's blood. "Look at me. Are you hurt?"
I shake my head without speaking. He exhales, relief visible on his face, and sets the gun on the coffee table before crouching in front of me. He doesn't touch me, just waits.
"I'm okay," I finally manage, though my voice doesn't sound like mine—it’s too thin, too high.
"You're okay," he says, a statement rather than comfort.
I look past him at the body on the floor, the spreading blood, the gun lying a few feet away.
"Is he dead?"
It's a stupid question. Of course he's dead. I can see he's dead. But my brain isn't processing properly. Everything feels distant and close at the same time.
"Yes."
"You killed him."
"Yes."
"In your living room."
"Yes." He's watching me carefully. He's cataloging my reactions. He's looking for signs of shock or hysteria or breakdown.
I'm a nurse. I've seen death. I've seen trauma. I've held pressure on wounds and watched people bleed out on gurneys and called time of death more times than I can count.
But I've never seen someone killed. I've never see someone killed right in front of me. I know death, and I’ve seen the moment when a person becomes a body, but I’ve never been witness to a murder.
"He was going to kill you," I say.
"He was going to try."
"And then he would have killed me."
"Yes, right after he raped you."
The truth of that settles over me. If Luca hadn't been faster, hadn't been better, that Russian would have shot him and then turned his violence on me. I'd be the one bleeding out on the floor right now. I should feel something about that. Horror. Fear. Gratitude. I feel numb.
Luca reaches out slowly and takes my hand. His fingers are warm. They're steady. There's blood on them but I don't pull away.
"I need to make a call," he says quietly. "Someone will come take care of this. But I need you to go to my room. Lock the door. Don't come out until I tell you it's safe."
"I'm not leaving you with a body."
The corner of his mouth twitches. It's almost a smile. "I've handled worse."
"I don't doubt that." I look at the Russian again. He's young. Maybe younger than me. "Who was he?"
"Bratva soldier. Sent to deliver a message."
"What message?"
"That I'm not untouchable." He stands and pulls me to my feet. "And they're right. I'm not. Which is why you're going to my room while I handle this."
"What if someone else comes?"
"No one else is coming. This was a lone wolf play. Stupid and desperate." He cups my face with both hands. Blood smears across my cheek but I don't flinch. "I need you in that room. Now."
I nod.
He walks me to his bedroom. Now he's checking the door lock and the windows. He's making sure I'm secure.
"I'll come get you when it's done," he says. "Soon. Not long."
"Okay."
He kisses me. Hard. Claiming. He leaves. I hear his footsteps. Then I hear his voice, low and clipped, speaking on the phone. I can't make out the words.
I sit on the edge of his bed and wait. The room smells like him. Clean. Expensive. Male.
I should cry. I should shake. I should have some kind of emotional response to watching a man die, but all I feel is tired. I'm tired of fighting. Tired of pretending this isn't what it is. Tired of lying to myself about what I want.
I want to be safe. And the safest place I know is with the man who just killed someone in his living room without hesitation.
What does that say about me? I don't think I want to know.
Time passes. I don't know how much. Could be minutes. Could be longer. I'm not wearing a watch and my phone is somewhere in the apartment, dead or dying.
The door opens and Luca steps inside.
He's cleaned himself up. He's changed his clothes. The blood is gone from his face and hands. He looks normal. It's like he didn't just end a life.
"It's done," he says.
"The body?"
"Gone. The floor is clean. You wouldn't know anything happened."
His world runs like this. It's clean. Fast. It's like death is just another mess to handle.
"Come here," he says.
I stand. I walk to him. I let him pull me against his chest. His heart is beating steady and slow. Mine is still racing. His arms lock around me, holding me in place while he assesses the damage. Not the body on the floor. Me.
After a moment, he steps back. "Shower."
It's not a question.
I follow him to the bathroom. It's massive. All marble and glass and obscenely expensive. The shower could fit four people comfortably.
He strips. He's efficient. There's no show. He's just a man getting undressed.
I'm slower. My hands are shaking. He helps me out of my clothes and then I'm standing there naked while he turns on the water and adjusts the temperature.
Steam fills the room. He takes my hand and leads me under the spray.
The water is hot. Almost too hot. It beats down on my shoulders, my back, washing away the numbness. I start to shake for real now. Not fear. Not shock. Just release.
Luca holds me. He lets me tremble against him while the water runs over both of us. His hands move over my back. They're not gentle. They're just... there. Anchoring me.
"He would have killed me. Then you. I'd do it again," he says quietly.
Something breaks in me. Some last wall I was holding up.
I kiss him. I'm desperate. Needy. Trying to prove I'm alive. That he's alive. That we're both still here.
He kisses me back just as hard. His hands fist in my wet hair, tilting my head back, angling me exactly how he wants me. His tongue invades my mouth. He's claiming. Possessing. I need this. I need him. I need to feel something other than numb.
He must sense it because his hands drop to my ass, gripping hard enough to bruise. "Tell me what you need."
"You." My voice breaks. "I need you."
His teeth sink into my neck. Not asking. Taking. "Then you'll take what I give you."