The bedroom felt smaller at four in the morning.
Elena lay on her back staring at the ceiling, the faint city glow leaking through the curtains painting everything in soft gray. Luca was beside her, fully dressed except for his shoes, one arm tucked under his head. He hadn't touched her since they lay down. Just breathed quietly, like he was afraid any movement might scare her off.
She couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she saw her father's blood on the green felt, Gianni's shaking hands in cuffs, Sofia's guilty face. And underneath it all, Luca's voice telling her about the eight-year-old boy who watched a man die and learned never to look away.
"You're thinking too loud," Luca muttered, voice thick with exhaustion.
Elena turned her head toward him. In the dark his profile was sharp—strong nose, the faint scar on his jaw she'd never asked about. "Sorry. Go back to sleep."
"Can't. Not when you're lying there like the whole world's sitting on your chest." He shifted onto his side, facing her. The mattress dipped. "Talk to me. Or don't. Just… let me be here."
She let out a shaky breath. "I keep wondering who the woman was. The one who died in the nineties. The one both our fathers fought over. Was she someone's mother? Someone's sister? Did she have a kid who grew up hating us for it?"
Luca was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his words came slow, like pulling them out hurt.
"My father never said her name out loud. But I heard the staff whispering once. Maria something. She was young. Twenty-two, maybe. Worked at one of the neutral clubs downtown. Both families wanted her to pass messages, play both sides. She got caught in the crossfire during a shootout. Died in the street. My old man blamed Vincenzo. Your father blamed him. After that, any chance of peace turned to blood."
Elena swallowed. "And the kid?"
"No one ever talked about a kid. But Sofia's right—someone could've kept that grudge alive. Raised on stories about how the Rossis and Morettis destroyed their mother. That kind of hate doesn't die easy."
She rolled onto her side too, so they were facing each other. Only a foot of space between them. Close enough to feel his warmth, far enough that it still felt safe.
"I used to dream about running away with you," she whispered. "Before you left. I had this whole stupid plan—steal one of my dad's cars, drive up the coast, get jobs waiting tables somewhere no one knew our names. I even packed a bag once. Hidden under my bed. Jeans, two hoodies, the locket you gave me for my birthday."
Luca's breath hitched. "The little silver one with the star inside?"
"Yeah." Her voice cracked. "I still have it. Buried in a drawer at the compound. Haven't looked at it in years. Too scared it would hurt too much."
He lifted his hand, hesitated, then gently brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. His fingers were warm, a little rough. The touch lingered, thumb tracing her temple like he was memorizing the shape of her face all over again.
"I kept the keychain you made me," he said quietly. "The one from that stupid fair. The little plastic heart that says 'Lucky.' It's in my wallet. Been there since the day I left. Every time I paid for something overseas I'd see it and feel like the biggest coward alive."
Tears slipped down her cheeks again. She didn't bother hiding them this time. "We were just kids, Luca. Stupid, hopeful kids who thought love could beat this life. And now look at us. Lying here trying to figure out who wants us both dead while the city sleeps."
He moved closer, slow enough that she could pull away if she wanted. She didn't. His arm slid around her waist, careful, loose. Not trapping. Just holding.
"I hate what this life took from us," he murmured against her hair. "The normal stuff. First dates without looking over our shoulders. College. Stupid fights about whose turn it was to pick the movie. Instead we got bullets and blood and five years of silence."
Elena pressed her face into his chest, breathing in the faint smell of his cologne mixed with the leather from the dock. "I don't want to lose more time. But I'm scared. Scared that when the revenge is done, we won't know how to be anything but enemies who happen to need each other."
His hand rubbed slow circles on her back. "Then we learn. One day at a time. I'll mess up. You'll get mad. We'll fight. But I'm not walking away again. Even if you tell me to."
She nodded against him, the fabric of his shirt growing damp from her tears. They stayed like that for a long while—breathing together, hearts beating out of sync but somehow still in rhythm.
Eventually she whispered, "Tell me something good from when you were little. Before the blood. Before the lessons."
Luca was quiet so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Then his voice came, soft and a little rough.
"My mom used to make pancakes on Sundays. Real ones, with chocolate chips. She'd let me stand on a chair and stir the batter. Dad was never around on Sundays—he said it was 'family time' but really he was out collecting. She'd play old Italian songs on the radio and dance with me in the kitchen. I was clumsy as hell. Stepped on her toes every time. But she laughed anyway. Told me one day I'd dance with a girl who didn't mind my two left feet."
His voice thickened. "She died when I was ten. Car accident. Or that's what they called it. I think it was a warning from one of the other families. After that… Dad stopped the pancakes. Stopped the music. Just lessons and guns."
Elena's arms tightened around him. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Just… stay here tonight. Let me hold you. Pretend for a few hours that we're normal."
She nodded.
They fell asleep like that—clothes on, lights off, tangled together in the middle of the big bed. Not lovers yet. Not quite. Just two broken people holding the pieces of each other the best they could.
Outside, the city kept moving. Somewhere, whoever kept Luca's gun was still planning. Gianni was locked down. Sofia was probably still awake, digging through old files.
But in that room, for those few quiet hours, the weight of old names felt a little lighter.