25. Gilly
Gilly
There should be relief. There should be safety. But there’s only silence, blood, and the weight of everything we’ve lost.
The SUV’s headlights cut through the darkness as we pull up to the safehouse—a low, nondescript structure hidden behind thick trees and a rusting chain-link fence.
The night feels thick with exhaustion, but Luca’s grip on the wheel is tight, his jaw locked as he stares ahead, he took over the driving from Nico who circled around at the Renzo’s compound and picked him up.
The war isn’t over.
I feel it in the way he doesn’t check on Rafa, in the way his hands remain steady, controlled. He’s still in fight mode, still planning his next move.
Rafa stirs against my chest, a soft whimper escaping his lips, and I run my fingers through his curls, whispering, “It’s okay, baby. We’re safe now.” The lie tastes bitter.
Matteo groans from the backseat, shifting slightly. He’s been in and out of consciousness since we left Renzo’s compound, his skin pale, sweat dotting his forehead. The bullet wound in his shoulder is still bleeding sluggishly through the makeshift bandages.
Luca parks the car and gets out without a word.
I glare at his retreating form as he strides toward the entrance, already pulling out his phone, barking orders into it. No hesitation. No pause.
He’s not here. Not with us.
I bite my lip, pushing back the burn of frustration as I reach for the door. Matteo stirs again, his voice rough. “Damn. He really doesn’t waste time, does he?”
I ignore the comment and shift Rafa in my arms before carefully sliding out of the car. Matteo tries to follow, but the moment he moves, pain rips across his face. His breath hitches as he grips the car door for balance.
I move toward him instantly. “Stop. You’ll make your wound worse.”
Matteo chuckles weakly, wincing. “I’m pretty sure I already have.”
I curse under my breath. He’s in worse shape than I thought. Luca, of course, doesn’t even glance back as he disappears into the safehouse.
I want to scream.
Instead, I hook an arm under Matteo’s good shoulder and help him inside.
The safehouse is as cold and impersonal as I expected—bare walls, sparse furniture, the scent of disinfectant lingering in the air. A table is pushed against one wall, stocked with medical supplies. Someone—likely Nico—thought ahead.
I lower Rafa onto the small couch first. He curls into himself, still fast asleep, oblivious to the chaos around him.
Matteo slumps onto the second couch with a groan. “I might die just to prove a point,” he mutters.
“Shut up,” I snap, already reaching for gauze and antiseptic.
Matteo lifts an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you cared.”
I shoot him a look. “I care about keeping my son from watching another person bleed out in front of him.”
Matteo exhales, but there’s something almost thoughtful in his gaze. “Fair enough.”
I kneel beside him, peeling back the blood-soaked bandage. The wound is deep, but the bullet passed through clean. It’s painful, but not fatal—if he stops moving long enough to let it heal.
The problem is, no one here knows how to stop.
“Hold still,” I say, pressing a fresh cloth to his shoulder. He hisses but doesn’t pull away.
Luca’s voice carries from the other side of the room. He’s pacing near the doorway, his phone still pressed to his ear. “No. I don’t care how many men we lost. We move in two days.” A pause. “Then find replacements.”
I stiffen, anger curling hot in my stomach.
He’s not even looking at us. At Rafa, who’s curled up on the couch. At Matteo, who’s barely holding on.
At me.
Matteo lets out a low chuckle. “You’re wasting your time.”
I glance at him. “What?”
He nods toward Luca. “He’s not listening.”
I swallow hard. I know he’s right.
Luca ends the call and immediately dials another number.
Something inside me snaps.
“You’re not even here,” I say, my voice sharp, cutting through the silence.
Luca’s back tenses, but he doesn’t turn.
I stand, wiping my hands on my jeans, my pulse hammering. “Matteo is bleeding out, your son is scared, and you—” I shake my head. “You’re still planning the next fight.”
Luca exhales slowly, then finally turns. His eyes are cold, unreadable. “I’m finishing this.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “And then what, Luca? What’s left of you after this?”
A flicker of something passes through his gaze. But it’s gone in an instant.
He steps toward me, slow and deliberate. “Renzo is still breathing.”
“And when he’s dead?” I challenge. “What then? You think you’ll just flip a switch and suddenly be the man you used to be?”
He doesn’t answer.
Matteo sighs from the couch. “You’re wasting your breath, Gilly.”
I swallow hard and glance at him. His expression is weary but sharp, his voice rough but sure. “Renzo is losing. But he’s not dead.” He turns his gaze to Luca. “And you won’t stop until he is.”
Luca doesn’t deny it.
I feel something inside me sink.
Matteo lets out a slow breath. “Thing is, fratellino, you already won.”
Luca doesn’t flinch. “Not yet.”
He turns away, his shoulders rigid. He pulls a gun from his waistband.
My breath catches.
Luca wouldn’t—
But he doesn’t raise it. Instead, he places it beside Matteo on the couch, his voice low, final.
“Stay here. Get patched up. Or pick up the gun and finish what you started.”
Matteo stares at it, unreadable.
Luca doesn’t wait for a response. He walks toward the door, his steps even, controlled.
I don’t move. I just watch him disappear into the night.
And for the first time, I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.
The door clicks shut behind Luca.
I don’t move.
The room is silent except for the soft hum of the overhead light and Matteo’s uneven breathing. My heart hammers against my ribs, but it’s not from fear. It’s from something worse—the sinking certainty that Luca is slipping away from me, and I don’t know how to stop it.
Matteo lets out a slow exhale, his gaze still fixed on the gun Luca left beside him. His fingers twitch like he’s considering picking it up, but he doesn’t. Not yet.
I cross my arms, trying to shake the cold settling in my chest. “You’re just going to let him do this?”
Matteo smirks, but it’s tired, almost resigned. “You think I can stop him?”
I clench my jaw. “You’re his brother.”
“That doesn’t mean anything anymore.” Matteo shifts, wincing as the movement aggravates his wound. His head tips back against the couch, his voice quieter now. “He made his choice a long time ago.”
I don’t want to believe that.
I can’t.
I glance toward the couch where Rafa sleeps, curled into himself, blissfully unaware that his father just walked out that door with murder in his veins.
I kneel beside him, running a hand through his curls. He stirs slightly but doesn’t wake, his little face scrunching up before settling again. He trusts that we’ll keep him safe.
But how can I, when the man who promised to protect us is turning into someone I don’t recognize?
Matteo watches me, his expression unreadable. “You’re wasting your time worrying about him.”
I lift my head, narrowing my eyes. “Excuse me?”
Matteo shifts, exhaling through his nose. “Luca’s not your problem, Gilly. He never was.”
I stand, anger flashing hot in my chest. “He’s my husband.”
“Not really.”
His words hit like a slap.
Matteo lets out a low chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “You two are playing house, sure. But Luca doesn’t belong in that life. You think one contract and a kid are enough to make him something he’s not?”
I glare at him. “You don’t know a damn thing about us.”
Matteo’s gaze sharpens. “Don’t I?”
I cross my arms, willing myself not to snap. “Luca fought for this. He chose me.”
Matteo nods slowly. “Yeah. And now he’s choosing something else.”
The words settle between us, heavy and suffocating.
I refuse to believe it. I won’t.
I drop onto the couch across from him, pressing my hands against my face. The exhaustion finally catches up to me, the weight of everything we’ve been through pressing down like a thousand bricks.
Matteo sighs. “Look. I get it. You want to save him. But you can’t.”
I lower my hands, my voice hoarse. “And you think you can?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “No. But I know one thing—you can’t love someone into being something they’re not.”
I stare at him, my chest aching.
Because deep down, I’m afraid he’s right.
The silence stretches between us, thick with things neither of us wants to say.
Matteo eventually reaches for the bandage at his shoulder, adjusting it with a grimace. “You got any painkillers, or are we doing this the old-fashioned way?”
I stand, moving toward the table where the medical supplies are. “I’ll get you something.”
He doesn’t say thank you, and I don’t expect him to.
I hand him the pills and a bottle of water, and he takes them without comment.
I glance at the clock. It’s been almost an hour since Luca left.
I exhale, rubbing my hands over my face. “I should go after him.”
Matteo snorts. “And do what? Talk him out of it? He’s already gone, Gilly. Whether he comes back or not—it’s not up to you.”
His words cut through me, sharp and brutal.
Because what if he’s right?
What if Luca isn’t just chasing Renzo?
What if he’s running from me?
The thought makes my stomach twist.
I glance at Rafa again, my heart squeezing. I don’t know what I’ll tell him if Luca doesn’t come back.
I turn back to Matteo, watching as his eyes flicker to the gun beside him. He hasn’t touched it, but he hasn’t looked away from it either.
“Are you going to pick it up?” I ask softly.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Then, after a long moment, he exhales and leans his head back against the couch, closing his eyes.
“No.”
I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Matteo smirks faintly. “Don’t get excited. I’m still a bastard.”
I shake my head, the exhaustion finally winning out. I sink into the chair near Rafa, keeping one hand on my son as I watch the door.
Waiting.
Praying.
Hoping Luca will come back.
Hoping he won’t come back as a stranger.
The minutes stretch. Then an hour. Then longer.
I don’t move from my spot, my fingers still resting lightly against Rafa’s back as he breathes in deep, steady rhythms. The weight of exhaustion is a living thing pressing down on me, but I don’t close my eyes. I can’t.
Not when Luca is out there, chasing ghosts in the dark.
Matteo hasn’t moved much either. He’s slumped against the couch, his wounded arm limp at his side, his face pale in the dim light. He’s still awake, though, his sharp eyes flicking toward me every so often, like he’s waiting for me to break the silence.
But I don’t.
Because what is there to say?
That I’m scared? That I don’t know what happens next? That I don’t know if Luca will come back the same—or if he’ll come back at all?
I glance at the gun still sitting beside Matteo, its presence a weight between us. He hasn’t picked it up, but he hasn’t pushed it away either.
Finally, he exhales. “You’re thinking too loud.”
I blink, tearing my gaze away from the gun. “What?”
He smirks, but it’s weak. “Your brain. I can hear it grinding from here.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to be funny.”
Matteo chuckles, but it turns into a quiet groan as he shifts against the couch. “Yeah, well. Near-death experiences bring out my best material.”
The joke lands flat.
I sigh, rubbing at my temples. “You should rest.”
“You should, too.”
I don’t answer.
Because we both know I won’t.
Matteo watches me for a moment before rolling his head against the cushion, looking up at the ceiling. His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “You still think he’s coming back?”
The words punch the air from my lungs.
I swallow, forcing myself to answer. “He always comes back.”
Matteo’s gaze flicks to me, unreadable. “And if he doesn’t?”
I tighten my grip on Rafa. “Then I’ll find him.”
Matteo exhales through his nose. “That’s a mistake.”
I glare at him. “You don’t get to say that.”
He lets out a slow, humorless chuckle. “Gilly, I know exactly what it’s like to chase after someone who’s already lost.”
I clench my jaw. “Luca isn’t lost.”
Matteo doesn’t argue. He just gives me a look.
And I hate it.
Because deep down, I know what he’s thinking.
Deep down, I know he’s right.
I shake my head and push to my feet, trying to shove away the spiraling thoughts. The room suddenly feels too small, too suffocating. I need air.
“I’m going outside,” I mutter.
Matteo doesn’t stop me. He just exhales, closing his eyes again. “Try not to get yourself killed.”
I don’t respond as I step outside the door.
The night is cold, the air sharp against my skin as I step onto the porch. The safehouse sits in near-total darkness, nothing but thick trees stretching into the distance. The wind rustles the leaves..
But otherwise, it’s silent.
Too silent.
I wrap my arms around myself, staring out into the blackness.
Where are you, Luca?
Are you even thinking about us? About me? About Rafa?
Or are you so deep in your war that nothing else matters?
A lump rises in my throat, but I shove it down. I refuse to break. Not now. Not when we’re this close to the end.
I just need him to come back.
I don’t care if he’s bloody, bruised, broken—I just need him to come back.
I stand there for a long time, watching the road.
Waiting.
---
I don’t know how long I stay outside before I hear the door creak open behind me.
I turn, expecting Matteo.
But it’s not him.
It’s Rafa.
His small frame is silhouetted in the doorway, his pajamas slightly wrinkled, his hair tousled from sleep. His tiny fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt as he looks up at me, blinking sleepily.
“Mama?” His voice is soft, unsure.
I swallow hard and kneel down, opening my arms. “Hey, baby.”
He stumbles toward me, warm and small as he buries himself in my embrace. I press my face against his soft curls, inhaling the familiar scent of him.
He clutches at my jacket, his voice barely above a whisper. “Where’s Daddy?”
The question shatters something in my chest.
I pull back just enough to look into his wide, sleepy eyes. “He had to go do something, baby.”
Rafa frowns, his brows knitting together. “Is he coming back?”
I cup his face, my heart squeezing.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “He’s coming back.”
Because he has to.
Rafa watches me for a moment longer, then nods, seemingly satisfied. He rests his head against my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck.
I stand, carrying him back inside, my grip on him tight.
Matteo looks up as I enter, his expression unreadable.
I don’t say anything as I sit down on the couch, holding Rafa close.
I just watch the door.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Praying that when it finally opens, it’ll be Luca walking through it.