The city was asleep, but the darkness wasn't.
It moved like smoke — slow, restless, alive.
Elena couldn't stop watching him.
Lorenzo sat on the edge of the bed, the soft glow of the streetlight carving shadows across his face. The cigarette between his fingers burned low, the ember lighting the scars along his wrist. Every flicker of orange felt like a heartbeat — dying, reviving, dying again.
He looked carved from everything sharp and tragic in the world.
And yet she couldn't look away.
"You're staring," he said without turning.
"You're used to people staring."
"Not like that."
Her throat tightened. "Then stop looking like the end of the world."
That made him glance back at her. The corner of his mouth curved — not a smile, exactly, but something that almost remembered what one felt like. "You think I'm the end?"
"I think you want to be," she whispered. "Because endings don't have to live with what they've done."
The words hung in the air — fragile, dangerous.
He put the cigarette out, rose, and crossed the room until he stood in front of her. Barefoot. Silent. A storm wrapped in human skin.
"You think I wanted any of this?" he murmured.
Elena's voice shook. "I think you stopped wanting anything else."
He studied her for a long, unbearable moment — then reached out, tracing his thumb along her jaw, lifting her chin. The touch was light but it burned.
"You don't know what you're doing to me," he said quietly.
"Maybe I do."
He exhaled, the sound rough and broken. "You shouldn't."
"Why?"
His gaze darkened. "Because everything I touch eventually bleeds."
She didn't step back. "Then maybe I was meant to."
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then, slowly — deliberately — he leaned in, until his breath brushed her lips.
"You shouldn't want this," he said again.
"I don't," she whispered. "But I can't stop."
That was the moment the restraint broke.
He kissed her like a confession — rough, desperate, all the words they'd never dared to say. Her fingers tangled in his hair; his hands found her waist, pulling her closer until there was no air left between them. The world narrowed to the taste of rain and smoke and grief.
The walls outside could've fallen and she wouldn't have noticed.
For the first time in weeks, the silence didn't hurt.
After, the room was quiet again — except for the storm's soft hum against the glass.
Elena lay tangled in the sheets, skin warm where his touch still lingered. Lorenzo sat at the edge of the bed, head bowed, the muscles in his back tense, every breath too careful.
She reached out, brushing her fingers over the scar at his shoulder. "Tell me about this one."
He didn't move. "You don't want to know."
"I do."
He turned slightly, eyes catching hers — dark and unreadable. "My father gave it to me. The night I said no."
"To what?"
"To becoming him."
Her hand froze. "And now?"
"Now," he said softly, "I'm worse."
Elena sat up, the sheet falling around her. "Don't say that."
"It's true." He stood, pacing toward the window. "I killed my brother, Elena. It doesn't matter that he would've killed me first. The blood's still mine. It always will be."
"You didn't have a choice."
"There's always a choice." His reflection in the window looked like a ghost. "I just keep making the wrong one."
She slipped out of bed, walking toward him. Her voice was a whisper. "Then make the right one now."
He turned, and the look in his eyes stopped her heart.
"I did," he said. "That's the problem."
Before she could answer, his phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up with a single message — Matteo: We found something.
Lorenzo's jaw tightened. He grabbed the phone, scanned the message, and swore under his breath.
"What is it?" Elena asked.
He looked at her, expression unreadable. "Rafael wasn't working alone."
The words hit her like ice.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean this isn't over. There's another name. Another threat. Someone who knew where you were, where he'd find you." His voice hardened. "Someone inside my circle."
Elena felt the ground shift beneath her. "A traitor."
He nodded slowly. "And I intend to find them."
She stepped closer. "Then let me help."
Lorenzo laughed once, a sound without warmth. "Help? You almost died last night."
"I survived," she said, meeting his gaze. "And I won't survive again by hiding."
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he reached out and touched her chin, gentle but final. "No, Elena. You'll stay here until I end this."
"And if you don't come back?"
He hesitated. Just long enough for her to see the truth.
"I will," he said finally — but his eyes didn't match the promise
When he left, the apartment felt colder.
Elena stood by the window, watching his car disappear into the rain. The city stretched beneath her — vast, merciless. Somewhere out there, someone was still moving against him.
And for the first time, she wondered if love could be as dangerous as loyalty.
She looked down at her hands, at the faint mark from the gun's recoil. Her first kill. Her first secret. Her first real piece of the darkness he'd been trying to keep from her.
Maybe that was why he couldn't stay.
Because she wasn't innocent anymore.
Across town, Lorenzo pulled up to an abandoned warehouse near the docks. Matteo was waiting — soaked to the bone, face pale under the streetlight.
"They found this in Rafael's pocket," Matteo said, handing him a folded note. "Recognize the name?"
Lorenzo unfolded it — three words in neat handwriting.
"For the girl — A.G."
He stared at it for a long, heavy second before muttering, "Adrian Greco."
Matteo's face darkened. "Greco's back?"
Lorenzo's grip tightened around the paper. "Apparently, he never left."
Matteo hesitated. "What do we do?"
Lorenzo looked up at the skyline — rain cutting through the dark like blades of glass.
"We finish what Rafael started. But this time, on my terms."
And just like that, the man who'd almost found redemption was gone again.
Back in the apartment, Elena curled up on the couch, sleepless. The city's lights blinked through the rain like distant warnings. She tried not to imagine where he was, what he was doing, what kind of violence he'd become again in her name.
The sound of thunder rolled through the room — deep, distant.
And somewhere beneath it, she thought she heard something else.
Footsteps.
In the hallway.
Slow. Careful. Coming closer.
She froze.
"Lorenzo?" she called out.
No answer.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she grabbed the small gun he'd left behind. She moved toward the door, barefoot, breath shallow. Every creak in the floor sounded like a threat.
The knob turned — once.
She raised the gun.
The door opened.
And she froze.
Because it wasn't Lorenzo standing there.
It was a woman.
Tall. Elegant. Dressed in black.
A small silver locket glinted at her throat.
Elena lowered the gun slightly. "Who—who are you?"
The woman smiled faintly — the kind of smile that never reached the eyes.
"Someone who warned Rafael not to play with fire."
Elena's blood ran cold. "You knew him?"
"Knew him?" The woman stepped closer, heels silent against the wood. "I raised him."
Elena's breath caught. "You're—"
"—his mother." The woman's gaze swept over the room, stopping on the faint bloodstains near the wall. "And you, my dear, have just inherited his sins."
The night held its breath.
Outside, the storm began again — quiet at first, then building, the kind that promised nothing but ruin.
And somewhere out there, Lorenzo was about to learn that not every ghost stays buried.
Because the Moretti war wasn't over.
It had just found its queen.