28. Gilly
Gilly
We should feel safe now. We should feel whole.
But instead, there’s something broken between us—something I don’t know how to fix.
The ride back to the estate is cloaked in silence.
Rafa sleeps in my arms, his tiny fingers curled into my shirt, his soft breaths brushing against my collarbone. Matteo is slumped in the backseat, his head resting against the window, his breathing shallow. Every bump in the road makes him flinch, but he doesn’t complain.
And then there’s Luca.
He’s gripping the steering wheel like he’s still driving through a war zone. His knuckles are white, his shoulders locked tight, his face unreadable. He hasn’t spoken since we left the safehouse. Hasn’t looked at me. Hasn’t looked at Rafa.
Just the road.
Like the battle isn’t over. Like he’s still chasing something—still preparing for a fight.
The war is over, but Luca hasn’t stopped fighting.
The estate looms ahead, dark and empty against the night sky. It feels different now—too big, too quiet, too cold.
Not home.
Nico pulls up behind us, parking the second SUV. Before I can shift Rafa’s weight and reach for the door, Luca is already out, moving fast. He yanks open the back door and hooks an arm under Matteo before I can stop him.
Matteo groans, barely conscious. “Christ, Luca. You could at least pretend to be gentle.”
Luca doesn’t answer.
He hauls Matteo out of the car, gritting his teeth as he adjusts his brother’s weight. Matteo exhales sharply, his face tight with pain, but he doesn’t fight him. He just lets it happen.
I don’t know which one of them scares me more.
Nico steps forward. “I got him, boss.”
Luca hesitates for half a second before he nods, passing Matteo off.
Matteo exhales shakily, blinking at me as Nico helps him toward the house. “Remind me to never get shot again.”
The joke falls flat.
I force a tight smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. Rafa stirs slightly in my arms, his tiny face scrunching up before he settles again. I press a kiss to his soft curls.
Luca still hasn’t looked at us.
He’s already moving again, shoving the car door shut and heading toward the house.
Like this is just another night. Like we didn’t almost die. Like he didn’t almost lose everything.
Like the war isn’t still bleeding into the spaces between us.
---
Inside, the estate feels wrong.
The familiar scent of leather and wood polish lingers in the air, but there’s something else now—something heavy. The silence stretches too long, settling over us like dust.
I adjust Rafa against my chest as Nico lowers Matteo onto the couch. Matteo groans, squeezing his eyes shut before letting his head drop back.
“Finally,” he mutters. “A bed.”
Nico snorts. “That’s a couch.”
Matteo waves a weak hand. “Same thing.”
I should be relieved. He’s talking. Joking. He’s still Matteo.
But then I glance at Luca.
He’s standing near the liquor cabinet, his back to us, one hand braced against the marble countertop. His head is bowed slightly, tension coiled in his shoulders like he’s barely holding himself together.
He doesn’t look at Matteo. Doesn’t look at me.
Instead, he reaches for a glass and a bottle of whiskey, pouring himself a drink with steady hands.
Like nothing just happened.
My chest tightens.
I inhale slowly, steadying my voice. “Luca.”
He doesn’t turn.
I set Rafa down on the couch beside Matteo, carefully tucking a blanket around him before straightening. I step closer.
“Luca.”
Nothing.
My patience snaps.
“Luca, look at me.”
Slowly, he exhales. Then, finally, he turns.
His eyes are cold. Distant.
Not the man I’m in love with.
I cross my arms, my pulse hammering against my ribs. “Renzo is dead. The war is over.”
He stares at me, silent.
I take a step forward. “So why do you still look like you’re at war?”
Luca’s grip tightens around his glass.
For a moment, I think he won’t answer.
Then, his voice comes out low, rough.
“Because I don’t know how to be anything else.”
His words hit harder than I expect.
Because for the first time, he’s not just shutting me out—he’s telling me the truth.
And I don’t know what scares me more.
That he doesn’t know how to stop fighting.
Or that maybe… he doesn’t want to.
The room is silent.
Luca is still standing by the liquor cabinet, his back partially turned to us.
His grip on the whiskey glass is tight, his knuckles white.
Matteo is stretched out on the couch, his breathing uneven, Rafa curled up against him.
I sit on the edge of the couch, my hand on my son’s back, feeling the slow rise and fall of his tiny chest.
This is what Luca fought for.
But now that he has it, he doesn’t know how to hold on.
I look at him again, watching the rigid line of his shoulders. He hasn’t moved since he poured that drink. Hasn’t spoken since he admitted the truth.
That he doesn’t know how to stop fighting.
The words linger between us, heavy and unspoken.
I take a slow breath. “That’s not true.”
Luca lets out a quiet scoff, shaking his head. “Isn’t it?” His voice is rough, like gravel. “You think I can just flip a switch? Pretend the last ten years didn’t happen? That I can suddenly be the kind of man who—” He cuts himself off, jaw locking.
I sit forward slightly. “The kind of man who what?”
He exhales sharply, setting his whiskey down with too much force. “The kind of man you deserve.”
The words cut deep.
He thinks this is about me? About what I deserve?
My hands tighten on my lap. “You fought so hard for this life, Luca. For me. For Rafa. And now you’re just—what? Throwing it away?”
His gaze snaps to mine, dark and intense. “I’m not throwing anything away.”
I push myself to my feet, careful not to disturb Rafa. “Then prove it.”
Something flickers across his face. A crack in the armor.
But it’s gone in an instant.
Luca’s hands curl into fists at his sides. He looks at Matteo, then at Rafa, then back at me. And for the first time, I see it—not just the exhaustion, but the fear.
Luca Marchesi, the man who has walked through fire, who has killed to protect the people he loves—he’s afraid.
Not of the past. Not of Renzo.
But of what comes next.
I cross the room slowly, step by step. Luca watches me, his expression unreadable, but he doesn’t move as I close the distance between us.
I reach for his hand, my fingers brushing his wrist. For a second, he lets me.
Then he pulls back.
Not violently. Not coldly.
Just—like he doesn’t know how to be touched.
Like he doesn’t think he deserves it.
I swallow hard. “Luca…”
His throat bobs. His gaze flicks away. “I need to check on security.”
I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Of course. That’s what you do, right? Walk away when things get too real?”
He doesn’t answer.
I take another step, refusing to let him shut me out. “You don’t get to do this, Luca. You don’t get to stand there and act like you’re alone in this.”
His jaw clenches. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing?” I snap. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to disappear.”
The tension in his body coils tighter, his breathing heavier now. Matteo shifts on the couch, eyes barely open, but he doesn’t interrupt.
Luca stares at me like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.
I grab his hand before he can pull away again, pressing his palm flat against my cheek. “You have a family, Luca.” My voice is softer now, but firm. “Rafa needs a father.”
His fingers twitch against my skin.
For the first time, I see something flicker in his gaze.
A hesitation. A crack in the wall he’s been holding up.
My free hand moves to his chest, pressing against the steady, strong beat of his heart. “I need my husband.”
His breath hitches, and his eyes snap to mine.
For a moment, just a moment, I think I’ve reached him.
But then—his expression shutters again.
And I realize—he’s not ready.
Not yet.
A sharp ache settles in my chest, but I don’t let it break me. I don’t beg. I don’t cry.
Instead, I step back, releasing his hand.
He watches me, silent.
I force a small, sad smile. “Now we focus on building a family.”
Then he turns away.
I hear the quiet clink of his whiskey glass as he sets it down. The weight of my words lingers in the air, but I don’t know if he’ll let them sink in.
Luca isn’t in the room anymore.
Matteo shifts slightly on the couch, exhaling slowly. “Damn,” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “That was brutal.”
I let out a small, dry laugh, but it holds no real humor. “Yeah.”
My eyes flicker to Rafa, still curled up beside Matteo, peaceful and unaware.
I lean down, pressing a soft kiss to my son’s forehead, brushing my fingers through his curls.
This is what Luca fought for.
Not power. Not revenge.
Family.
And now, when he finally has it, he doesn’t know how to hold onto it.
A lump rises in my throat, but I push it down.
I straighten, my gaze flickering toward the hallway.
A ripple of unease curls in my stomach as I step forward, my bare feet silent against the floor. The whiskey glass still sits on the table, half-empty.
Then I hear it.
A quiet breath.
I turn my head—and freeze.
Luca is sitting on the couch in the dimly lit living room, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. His hands are clasped together, fingers interlocked like he’s trying to hold himself together.
I’ve seen Luca fight. Kill. Bleed.
But I’ve never seen him look lost.
The sight cracks something inside me.
I step forward cautiously. “Luca?”
He doesn’t look up immediately.
Then—slowly—he lifts his head.
And I swear, for the first time in weeks, I see him. The real him.
Not the king of a war.Not the man who buried his enemies.
Just Luca.
And I realize—maybe he wants to let go.
He just doesn’t know how.
The weight in my chest is unbearable.
I don’t look back as I walk away from Luca. If I do, I’ll break.
Matteo is still slumped on the couch, his face pale but eyes sharp as he watches me approach. Rafa is nestled against his side, one tiny fist gripping Matteo’s shirt in sleep. My heart clenches at the sight.
This is what Luca fought for.
This is what he’s afraid to hold onto.
I lower myself onto the edge of the couch, my fingers automatically running through Rafa’s curls. He sighs in his sleep, nuzzling into Matteo’s uninjured side. Matteo exhales, tipping his head back against the cushion, studying me.
“He’s still stuck in it, isn’t he?” Matteo says after a moment, voice hoarse but knowing.
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
Matteo lets out a humorless chuckle, rubbing a hand down his face. “Figures. Always thought if one of us made it out of this life, it’d be him.”
I glance at him sharply. “You both made it out.”
He meets my gaze, something tired and heavy settling into his expression. “We’re breathing, Gilly. That’s not the same thing.”
His words sink into my skin like ice.
Because I know he’s right.
The war is over. Renzo is dead. But Matteo is still bleeding, and Luca is still fighting a ghost.
And if I don’t do something, I’ll lose him.
Not to death.
To the war inside his own head.
I press my lips together, brushing a soft kiss to Rafa’s curls before gently peeling his tiny fingers from Matteo’s shirt. “I’m taking him to bed.”
Matteo nods, shifting slightly. “I’d help, but, you know—bullet wound.”
I roll my eyes, but my smile is weak. “You just want an excuse to stay on the couch.”
“Damn right.”
I lift Rafa carefully, his small body limp and warm in my arms as I stand. He stirs slightly but doesn’t wake, his face pressing into my neck.
My steps are quiet as I carry him toward his room. I feel Luca’s presence before I see him.
He’s standing near the liquor cabinet, staring down at the glass in his hand like it holds all the answers he’s been searching for. His body is tense, coiled tight with things unsaid.
I hesitate, Rafa heavy in my arms.
Luca doesn’t look at me.
Doesn’t move.
Just breathes.
I force my voice to stay even. “I’m putting him down for the night.”
Luca nods once, but it’s stiff, like his body doesn’t know how to react.
I don’t push. Not yet.
I take Rafa into his room, lowering him carefully into his bed. I smooth the blanket over him, pressing my palm lightly against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.
He’s safe.
He’s home.
So why doesn’t it feel like we are?
I step back, lingering in the doorway for a second before exhaling and head to the living room where Matteo is.
Luca is there.
He looks up when I enter.
And something is different.
I cross my arms, leaning against the doorway. “Are you going to stand there all night?”
His jaw flexes. He sets the glass down, untouched. Then, slowly, he turns to face me fully.
His gaze flicks toward the couch, where Matteo is watching with mild curiosity. “He asleep?”
I nod. “Out cold.”
Luca nods slowly, exhaling.
Something shifts in his posture. A crack in the tension.
Matteo takes the moment for what it is and groans as he pushes himself up slightly, shifting his weight. “Alright, since you two are finally talking and not just brooding in the same room, I’m going to bed before I actually bleed out.”
I roll my eyes, stepping forward to help him up, but Luca is already there.
He moves before I do, steady hands gripping Matteo’s arm as he helps him stand. Matteo grimaces but doesn’t push him away.
Luca doesn’t say anything.
But his actions speak for him.
Matteo studies him for a long moment before exhaling sharply. “You good, fratellino?”
Luca doesn’t answer right away.
Then, quietly—“I don’t know.”
Matteo nods once, like he expected that.
“Get some sleep,” Luca mutters, voice gruff.
Matteo gives him a long look before smirking faintly. “You too.”
Luca huffs but doesn’t argue as Matteo shuffles toward the hallway, leaving just the two of us standing in the room.
Silence stretches between us.
Then—Luca exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “I keep thinking… I don’t deserve this.”
I step closer. “Why?”
His throat bobs. “Because I should still be out there.” His voice is quiet, rough. “Like I haven’t earned this.”
I shake my head, reaching for his hand. He lets me take it this time.
“You fought for this,” I murmur. “You bled for this.”
His fingers twitch around mine.
“You deserve it more than anyone.”
His eyes flicker, something breaking inside them.
I step even closer, resting my forehead against his.
For the first time, he lets me hold onto him.
For the first time, he holds me back.
And for the first time, I know he’s coming back to us.
Luca stays silent for a long time, his breath warm against my skin.
Then, finally—finally—his arms wrap around me, pulling me in.
And for the first time since this war started, I don’t feel like I’m losing him.
We’re here.
We’re home.
And we’re still standing.
Together.