The rain didn't stop that night.
It poured for hours hard, relentless, as if the sky itself was trying to wash the city clean of everything broken.
Adora didn't move for a long time after Marco left.
The bookstore was quiet, except for the sound of rain dripping from the roof and the faint hum of traffic outside. She leaned against the counter, breathing slowly, trying to gather the pieces of herself he had just scattered.
Every word he'd said replayed in her mind.
"You'll see the man behind the title. Even if it breaks what's left of me."
She wanted to believe him God, she did but the truth was heavier than hope.
Men like Marco DeLuca didn't change. They didn't shed their darkness; they wore it like a crown.
When she finally closed the door and turned the sign to Closed, the streets were nearly empty. The lamplight shimmered on the puddles, and her reflection in them looked like someone she barely recognized tired eyes, wet hair, heart still caught between fear and something that looked too much like love.
She wrapped her coat tighter and whispered to herself,
"Don't fall again, Adora."
But even as she said it, she knew it was already too late.
Marco
He didn't go home.
Instead, he drove through the city aimlessly through narrow streets lit by the glow of wet asphalt, through the pulse of a city that didn't sleep, didn't care, didn't forgive.
His hands gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding him together.
He thought of her the way she'd looked at him when she said, "You can't protect me from you."
He'd faced guns, betrayals, and death without blinking. But that sentence? That broke him in ways bullets never could.
He pulled into an underground garage beneath one of his older clubs The Glass House, a place that once buzzed with laughter and money. Now it was quiet, used only for meetings that required silence.
He sat in the car for a long time before finally killing the engine.
Inside, the lights were dim. His reflection flickered in the mirrored walls sharp suit, damp hair, eyes that looked too tired for their own power.
He poured himself a drink, the amber liquid catching the faint glow. But even whiskey couldn't drown her voice.
He turned to the window, watching the rain streak down the glass.
In his world, love wasn't a gift it was a weakness. The kind that got people killed.
And yet, every time she looked at him, he forgot that rule.
The phone on the counter buzzed.
A message from Lorenzo:
"Russo's moving shipments through the East Docks. You were right he's making a play."
Marco stared at the words, jaw tightening. Russo. Another vulture circling what belonged to him.
He typed back:
"Handle it quietly. No noise."
Then paused. Deleted the last two words.
He sent instead:
"No blood. Not yet."
That not yet was the part that surprised him. The old Marco would have ended it before sunrise. But now, restraint felt like an unfamiliar stranger sitting in his chest a stranger with Adora's eyes.
He set the glass down, pulled out his phone again, and opened their last message thread. Her name glowed against the black screen like a wound he couldn't close.
He started typing:
"You were right. I can't protect you from me. But I can protect you from everything else."
He didn't send it.
He never did.
Adora
Morning came gray and muted.
The air smelled of rain and old pages, and the bookstore felt colder than usual.
She helped Mr. Grayson, the owner, sort through a shipment of used novels anything to keep her mind busy. But every time the bell above the door chimed, her pulse jumped, half-expecting him to walk in again.
He didn't.
By noon, Naomi showed up, all red lipstick and righteous energy. "You didn't answer my calls," she said, storming in. "So I assumed you were either dead or drowning in regret."
"Just tired," Adora murmured.
Naomi crossed her arms. "You saw him again, didn't you?"
Adora froze, then sighed. "He found me."
Naomi groaned. "Of course he did. The man probably tracks satellites for a living."
Adora's lips twitched into a faint smile. "He said he wanted to show me who he really is."
Naomi blinked. "Oh, great. Is that mafia code for 'here's my gun collection and trauma'?"
"Naomi," Adora said softly.
But her friend's expression softened too. "I'm just scared for you, Dory. Men like him… they pull you in until you forget the way out. And when you finally remember, it's too late."
Adora looked down at her hands. "I think I already forgot."
Naomi reached out, squeezing her fingers. "Then remember this no matter how much you care about him, don't lose the parts of you that existed before him."
Adora nodded. "I'll try."
But she wasn't sure she could.
That night, when the city grew quiet again, Adora lay awake in her tiny rented room. Outside, sirens wailed in the distance New York's version of a lullaby.
She turned on her side, staring at the faint outline of the city lights on the ceiling.
She thought of Marco of his eyes when he said he'd show her the man behind the title. She didn't know whether to hope or to fear what that meant.
But she knew one thing: whatever he showed her, it would change everything.
As she drifted into uneasy sleep, rain began to fall again.
And somewhere across the city, in a dark penthouse overlooking the Hudson, Marco DeLuca stood at his window, staring into the same storm the same silence.
Two hearts, miles apart, bound by a thread too fragile to name.
And outside, the city kept breathing restless, alive, waiting for whatever came next.