REBECCA
An hour and a half later, we're finally back in the SUV. Nobody speaks. Not for a long time. The rhythmic hum of the SUV's tires fills the silence as the warehouse disappears behind us. Rossi is driving. Marco sits in the passenger seat. Olivere and Dino took the second vehicle.
Alessio hasn't let go of my hand once. Not while Rossi cut the last zip tie from around his chest. Not while we searched the warehouse. Not now.
His thumb slowly brushes over my knuckles, over and over again, like he's reassuring himself I'm still here.
I'm not sure I am. I stare down at my hands.
I scrubbed them three times in the warehouse bathroom.
The blood is gone, but I can still feel it.
The knife sliding in. The resistance. The warmth.
The way the man's eyes looked at me, filled with shock and confusion.
One minute they were full of expression, the next… there was nothing.
My stomach lurches. "I killed him."
The words come out so quietly I don't think anyone else hears them. Alessio does. His thumb stills. "I know."
"I keep seeing his face." I swallow hard. "I didn't even think."
"You couldn't."
Silence settles again. The freeway rolls past outside the window. Finally, I whisper, "Dad always said..." My voice catches. Alessio turns toward me. "He always said taking a life changes you."
For the first time since I've known him, Alessio doesn't answer right away. He just watches me.
"He told me..." I stare out the window. "He told me that soldiers who said it got easier were lying." A tear slips free. "He said every face stays with you."
I laugh once. It's hollow. "I never understood what he meant." My fingers curl tighter around Alessio's. "I do now."
He reaches across the center console and gently turns my face toward him. "Look at me."
I do. Because I don't know what else to do. Guilt riddles me so hard, it's impossible to think straight. Or think, period. Dad lost his mind over killing people. So much so that he ended up erasing almost everyone who ever loved him.
"You know what I see?" Alessio asks in a strangely somber tone. I shake my head. "I see the woman who walked into hell to save me."
Another tear escapes.
"I see a woman who stabbed a man because he was about to murder someone she loves." He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. "You didn't kill him because you wanted to.
"You killed him because you chose my life over his."
"I still ended a life."
"Yes." He doesn't soften it. He doesn't lie. "You did."
The honesty hurts. Oddly... it also helps.
"Did you enjoy it?" His glacier-blue eyes never leave mine.
The question takes me aback. "What?"
"Did you enjoy killing him?"
"No, no… of course not," I sputter, having no idea how he can even ask that question.
"See, that means you're still there. If you were sitting here wondering what it would feel like to do it again... then I'd be worried." His hand cups my cheek. "Instead..." He wipes away another tear with his thumb. "You're grieving a man who would've murdered you without losing a second of sleep."
I close my eyes. "I don't feel like the same person."
"No."
His voice is barely above a whisper. "You’re not."
Another tear slips free. "I don't want this to become easy."
"It won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"How?"
A sad smile touches his mouth. "Because the fact that you're terrified it'll make you a monster...means it hasn't."
I frown. "I don't understand."
"You still have a conscience, babe."
He kisses my forehead. "The day killing becomes easy... that's the day I'll worry."
I lean into him, exhausted in a way sleep could never fix. "Do you ever think about them?" I ask. "The people you've killed?"
He looks out the windshield for a long moment. "Every one." The answer surprises me. "I remember every face."
"But unlike you..." The coldness in his eyes is absolute. "I'd do it all again."
I study his face. There's no pride. No excitement. No remorse either. Just certainty. For the first time since I met him, I think I understand. Alessio doesn't kill because he wants to. He kills because somewhere along the way, he accepted that if he doesn't... someone he loves might die instead.
And I've just proven that I'd make the same choice in a heartbeat too. I'm not sure what that makes me—or him—but I know we're not that different at all. He's just a hell of a lot more honest about it.
I look up at him.
"Because every one of them would've hurt someone I loved or tried to take something that was mine." He presses a kiss into my hair. "And today..." His arm tightens around my shoulders. "That someone was you."
The car slows beneath the porte cochère, and one of the valets jogs toward us before we've come to a complete stop. The moment he catches sight of Alessio, he freezes. "Mr. Vitali..."
Alessio doesn't even acknowledge him. He comes around the SUV, opens my door himself, and helps me out like I'm made of glass. I don't protest. I don't have the energy.
The walk through the casino feels like I'm drifting through a dream.
The usual sounds—the ringing slot machines, laughter, clinking glasses, the low murmur of hundreds of conversations—seem strangely muted, like they're happening underwater.
People stop talking as we pass. Employees.
Guests. Dealers. Security. Heads turn one after another. Whispers follow in our wake.
I don't understand why until the polished brass doors of the private elevator slide open. The mirrored walls catch our reflections. I suck in a breath. God. We look like survivors of a massacre.
My jeans are stiff with dried blood that isn't entirely mine.
My shirt is torn, one sleeve nearly ripped off, and dark stains cover the front where I held the knife.
My hair hangs in tangled knots around my face; dust and grime streak my skin.
Beside me... Alessio looks even worse. One eye is swollen nearly shut.
His lower lip is split open. Dark bruises are blooming across his jaw and ribs beneath the shredded white dress shirt.
Blood has dried in rusty streaks from his wrists where he'd fought the zip ties until they'd cut him raw. He catches me staring. "What?"
I shake my head. "You look terrible."
A tired smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "So do you."
For some reason... that makes me smile. Only for a second. Then the elevator doors close, shutting out the curious stares, leaving only the two of us in the quiet. For the first time all day... it feels like we can finally breathe.
The elevator ride feels endless. The second the penthouse doors slide open, Alessio doesn't hesitate. He takes my hand again, threading our fingers together as if afraid I'll disappear the second he lets go.
"Rossi." He phones his second.
"Boss?" Rossi’s voice floats from the speaker.
"Lock the place down."
"Done."
"No visitors."
"You got it."
Alessio doesn't wait for anything else. He simply leads me down the hallway. Our hallway. That thought almost undoes me. I almost lost this. I almost lost him. The bedroom door clicks shut behind us. The silence wraps around us like a blanket. For a long moment neither of us moves.
Then Alessio reaches up and cups my face. His thumbs brush beneath my eyes. "I need to make sure you're okay."
I almost laugh. "I'm not."
"I know."
He kisses my forehead. "Neither am I."
He starts unbuttoning my bloodstained shirt with hands far gentler than I've ever seen them. Not hurried. Still possessive. But also... careful.
"I can do it."
"I know." He keeps going anyway. "I need to."
The words settle somewhere deep inside me.
When my shirt slips from my shoulders, his fingers pause over a bruise blooming across my upper arm. His body stiffens.
"You've got one too," I whisper.
"So?"
"So..." My fingers brush the purple mark darkening beneath his ribs where the guard kicked him. "You look like shit."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "So do you."
He disappears into the bathroom for a moment. I hear water running. Cabinet doors opening. When he comes back, he simply holds out his hand. "Come on."
I take it. Steam fills the room by the time we step beneath the spray. The hot water hits my shoulders. At first, I think it's too hot. Then I realize... I was cold. So cold. Alessio steps in behind me. No urgency. No hunger. He reaches around me, taking the shampoo from the shelf.
"Close your eyes."
I do. His fingers work gently through my hair. Massaging my scalp. Rinsing away dried blood. Dust. Concrete. The smell of that warehouse.
Neither of us speaks. There isn't anything left to say. When he's finished, he turns me toward him. Warm water runs down his face, washing away the dried blood around his split lip. I reach up without thinking. My fingertips trace the cut. The bruise beneath his eye. The scrape along his jaw.
"You scared me," I whisper.
His good eye closes for just a second. "You weren't supposed to be there."
"I know."
"I thought..." His voice catches. He shakes his head once. "I saw that guard raise his gun."
His forehead comes to rest against mine. "I've never been that afraid."
My arms slide around his waist. Carefully. Mindful of the bruises. "I couldn't leave you."
"I know."
"I tried."
"I know."
Another long silence. The water keeps falling around us. Steady. Warm. Safe. "I don't know what I'd have done if I'd been too late."
I feel his breath hitch. "Don't."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
He pulls me closer until there's no space left between us. Not because he wants anything. Because he needs to feel me breathe. Needs to know I'm real. I press my cheek against his chest. I need the same reassurance. His heartbeat is slow now. Strong. Alive.
I close my eyes and listen to it. The steady rhythm fills every crack inside me. For the first time since Flea dragged him into that van... I let myself believe he's really here. Really alive. And for just a little while... the rest of the world can wait.
I run my fingers carefully beneath his left eye. He winces. "Busted."
"I noticed."