As we move through the clearing, I steal a glance at him. Moonlight grazes his face, casting shadows along his jaw, catching in his eyes, which stay fixed ahead. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say a word, but I feel him—every breath, every step, every careful adjustment of his hold. He could let go. He doesn’t. And I don’t want him to.
A car is waiting at the tree line, its headlights cutting through the darkness in hazy beams. As we approach, one of his men pulls open the back door. Marco stops just before we reach it, reaching for something inside the car. A second later, he drapes a thick blanket over my shoulders.
The soft weight of it startles me more than it should.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat. "Thank you."
He doesn’t respond right away. His fingers linger at the edge of the blanket for a beat too long, then he exhales and helps me inside. The leather seat is cool against my skin, the warmth of the inside barely cutting through the lingering chill clinging to my body.
Marco slides in beside me, shutting the door behind him.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence is stretched taut between us. The engine hums softly as the driver waits for Marco’s command. Outside, the forest looms, dark and endless.
Marco runs a hand down his face, the first real sign that he isn’t as unaffected as he wants me to believe. His other hand, though, is curled into a fist against his thigh. A slow breath leaves him.
Then he looks at me.
"We have Mancini," he says.
He's repeating this to himself.
"I know." I fidget with the ends of the blanket. "How did you find him?"
Marco’s gaze lingers on my mouth. "My men pulled him from a Lombardi safe house. He was meeting with one of their lieutenants when we got to him."
A slow chill creeps down my spine.
I know what this means for Mancini. He was the man who had the nerve to challenge Marco. The one who had been planting seeds of doubt, feeding the discontent that had been growing within the Salvatore ranks. The man Marco had nearly executed in cold blood back at the estate before I stopped him.
And now, Marco has him again.
I can see it in his face—that cold, lethal determination settling into place. The storm gathering behind his eyes.
He’s already decided how this ends.
I shift beneath the blanket, suddenly restless. "Marco?—"
"I won’t let them get to you again." His voice is quiet, but there’s nothing soft about it. "I won’t let them touch you, won’t let them use you against me."
I know what he means.
Mancini is a liability.
And liabilities don’t get to live.
The old Sofia would argue, tell him that there’s another way, that vengeance doesn’t always have to be his first solution. But my throat closes around the words. Because the truth is—I understand.
I understand why Marco has to do this.
The car hums softly beneath me, the scent of leather and faint traces of cologne wrapping around me like a second skin. My fingers curl into the thick blanket draped over my shoulders, the weight of it grounding me, though it does little to stop the trembling still clinging to my limbs.
Marco sits beside me, one elbow braced on his knee, fingers pressed against his temple like he’s willing himself to focus. But he’s not looking at me. Not looking at anything, really. His jaw is locked, his muscles tense beneath his shirt, his entire stiff with restraint.
He’s debating whether to leave.
I can see the conflict behind his eyes, the war between his need to make sure I’m safe and the obligation waiting for him at that warehouse. Marco doesn’t hesitate when it comes to vengeance. When it comes to settling debts, to sending a message.
But right now, heishesitating.
