Chapter 13
LUCA
Iwake to her weight against mine and light seeping through the windows.
For the first time in years, I actually slept. No waking every two hours to check the perimeter. No hypervigilance pulling me from half-formed dreams. Just deep, unbroken sleep with her warm and soft in my arms. More hours than I can remember. I can't remember the last time that happened.
She's curled into me with one leg thrown over mine and her face buried against my chest. Her breathing is slow and even. Peaceful. She trusts me enough to sleep like this, completely vulnerable with her guard down.
The thought settles like lead.
She's not just my obsession anymore. She's become something worse. Something I can't afford. A weakness.
I watch her sleep and catalog all the ways she's made me sloppy.
The Orlov hit, rushed and messy because I was thinking about getting back to her.
The guy who tried to follow me home. The Bratva soldier last night who got past my security because I was distracted, watching her instead of monitoring the elevator like I should have been.
Every decision I've made since I met her has been compromised by the need to possess her, protect her, keep her close.
Anyone who knows about her can use her against me.
The Bratva already tried. That soldier didn't come here just for me. He came to send a message, and part of that message was showing me they know where I live, what matters to me, how to hurt me. They failed last night, but they proved they could reach her. They proved she's vulnerable.
Don Marco will have heard about the hit on my penthouse by now.
He'll know a Bratva soldier breached my security, and he'll connect it back to her immediately.
My uncle didn't build an empire by being stupid or missing details.
The cleanup crew I called would have reported everything—every detail, every mistake, exactly where the body fell.
Don Marco already knows about Francesca.
Has known since I started keeping her. Now he'll know the Bratva knows too.
Every family in this city will eventually learn that L'Ombra has a woman. They'll file that information away and wait for the moment when they need leverage. She's a target now, painted bright red just by being in my bed.
There's only one way to fix this. Only one way to make her untouchable enough that the other families think twice. And even then, it might not be enough.
But I'm not letting her go. Can't. Won't.
She shifts against me, making a small sound in her sleep. Her hand spreads across my chest with her fingers curling slightly, like she's holding on even while unconscious. The gesture tightens something in my chest. Not pain. Not exactly. Just pressure where there shouldn't be any.
This is what weakness looks like. This soft ache. This need to keep her safe even when keeping her puts her in more danger.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it carefully, trying not to wake her. A text from Sal came in at six.
Don Marco wants to see you. Social club. This morning.
Early morning. Don Marco doesn't summon me this early unless it's serious.
I set the phone back on the nightstand and take one more look at Francesca. Her dark hair is spread across my pillow and her lips are slightly parted. There's a bruise on her neck from my mouth, marks on her hips from my hands. Evidence of ownership that anyone looking at her would recognize.
I need to move. I need to shower, dress, deal with whatever Don Marco wants. But I give myself another minute of this dangerous illusion of peace before reality crashes back in.
Then I slide out from under her carefully. She makes a small protesting sound but doesn't wake, just burrows deeper into the pillows where my warmth was. The sheet gets pulled up over her naked body before I force myself to walk away.
The shower is quick and cold. I need to be sharp for this meeting, not distracted by the memory of her skin against mine. I dress in a dark suit, strap on the shoulder holster, check the Glock before sliding it into place. The routine is familiar and grounding. This is who I am. This is what I do.
In the kitchen, I start the coffee maker—the dark roast she likes. When it's ready, I leave a note on the counter.
Meeting. Back soon. Stay.
That last word is enough. She'll know what it means.
The drive to Little Italy cuts through early morning traffic. The city is waking up with delivery trucks blocking the streets and coffee shops opening their doors. Normal life continuing while men like me handle the violence underneath.
I park the car two blocks away from the club and walk. Sal is waiting at the door with his face grim.
"He's been waiting," Sal says.
Not good.
I nod and push through. The front room is empty this early, just the smell of espresso and old wood. I head straight to the back room where Don Marco conducts business.
He's already seated at his usual table, perfectly groomed in every way. He's reading the Post. He doesn't look up when I approach. I stand and wait.
After what feels like too long, he folds the newspaper precisely and sets it aside. Then he looks at me. His eyes are cold.
"A Bratva soldier. In your penthouse. Last night." He picks up his espresso cup and takes a sip. "In your living room, according to the cleanup crew. Want to tell me how that happened?"
"Security breach. He bypassed the elevator codes. Came in armed."
"And you killed him."
"He came to kill me. I killed him first."
"In your living room."
"Yes."
Don Marco sets down his cup slowly. "You've been distracted, Luca. The Orlov hit was sloppy. Now your own home is compromised. This isn't like you."
I don't respond. There's nothing to say that won't make this worse.
"The woman in your penthouse." He leans back in his chair. "The one you've been keeping."
Not a question. A statement.
I meet his eyes. "Mine."
"I've watched you lose focus for months. Watched you get sloppy. I hoped it would pass. Instead, you brought her home. And now the Bratva knows exactly where to find your weakness." He sets down his cup. "So I'll ask you directly—what are you going to do about it?"
The real question. The one that matters.
"Keep her."
"Even if it costs you everything?"
"Yes."
He studies me for a long moment. "You kidnapped a civilian and brought her into this life. Do you understand what you've done? The Bratva know about her now. They sent that soldier to your penthouse as a message. They're telling you they can reach her anytime they want."
"They won't get the chance."
"How?" He leans forward. "You can't watch her twenty-four hours a day.
You can't lock her in your penthouse forever.
And the moment you're distracted, the moment you're on a job or handling business, they'll take her.
They'll use her to hurt you, to leverage you, to destroy everything you've built. "
"Then I make her untouchable."
"There's no such thing as untouchable. Not in this life." His voice drops lower. "You made her a liability the moment you brought her into this world. Again, I ask you what are you going to do about it?"
I know what he's suggesting. I can see it in his eyes. End it. Clean and permanent. Make the problem disappear the way I make all problems disappear.
"No."
"Luca, listen to me."
"I'm not ending it. I'm not letting her go. I'm not making her disappear." I don't look away. "She's mine and I'm keeping her. Whatever that costs."
Don Marco's expression doesn't change, but I see the calculation happening behind his eyes. He's weighing options, assessing risks, deciding if I'm still useful or if I've become a problem that needs solving.
"Then protect her properly," he says finally. "Or end it. Those are your only options."
"I can't end it."
"Then you've already lost, nephew." He picks up his espresso again. "A man who can be controlled through his woman is a man who's no longer dangerous. You've given them the knife and shown them exactly where to put it."
He's right. I know he's right. But it doesn't change anything.
"So marry her," Don Marco says. "Like we discussed. Make it official."
"I'm making the arrangements."
"Good." He picks up his espresso again. "Do it fast. Before the Bratva decides she's an easier target than you are. Once she's a Santoro, touching her means war with the entire Outfit. It changes the equation."
"And the spousal privilege."
"Exactly. The cops can't make her testify against you. It protects you both." He pauses. "But Luca, you need to understand—marrying her doesn't eliminate the danger. It just raises the stakes for anyone who comes after her."
"And the war?"
"Handle it. That's what I pay you for." He opens his newspaper again, signaling the meeting is over. "But fix this situation with the girl first. I need you sharp, not distracted by protecting your weakness. Make her your strength instead."
"Yes, Don Marco."
"Luca."
I stop at the door.
"Your father made the same mistake. Fell for a woman, let her become his weakness. It got him killed." Don Marco doesn't look up from his paper. "Don't make me bury you next to him."
The words hit harder than they should. My father died when I was eight. Shot in the street by men who knew exactly how to hurt him. My mother followed six months later.
Don Marco's made his point.
I leave the social club and walk back to my car. The morning is getting brighter with traffic picking up and the city moving through its routines. My phone buzzes with messages about the Bratva, about our operations, about a dozen fires that need putting out.
I ignore all of it.
Marriage. The word sits strange in my head. I've never thought about it, never wanted it, never saw the point. But Don Marco is right. It's the smart play. Spousal privilege, family protection, a public claim that marks her as untouchable in a way that just keeping her in my penthouse never will.
And it binds her to me in a way she can't escape.