The week stretched on like winter cold, endless, and heavy with everything unsaid.
New York pulsed outside Adora's window, a symphony of horns, sirens, and hurried lives. Inside, her world moved slower coffee cups left half-empty, books read halfway through, thoughts unfinished.
She hadn't seen Marco since that night in the bookstore.
And yet, every time the doorbell chimed, her heart betrayed her.
It had been seven days since she told him she couldn't love a man who ruled with fear.
Seven days since he walked away, drenched and silent.
Seven days since she started to wonder if maybe just maybe he meant it when he said he'd show her who he really was.
"Adora?"
Naomi's voice broke through her daze. She looked up to see her friend leaning against the doorway, holding two cups of hot chocolate.
"You're doing it again," Naomi said, handing her one.
"Doing what?"
"Staring at the rain like it's gonna tell you how he feels."
Adora smiled faintly. "Maybe it will."
Naomi sat beside her. "You really think he'll come back?"
Adora hesitated. "I don't know. But… he's not the kind of man who leaves loose ends."
"That's what scares me," Naomi whispered.
Adora's fingers tightened around the mug. "You think he's dangerous?"
Naomi gave her a look. "He's a DeLuca. His name is whispered, not spoken. You don't survive that world without being dangerous."
Adora knew that. She'd seen the flash of steel in his eyes when someone disrespected him, the way people moved out of his way in the city like shadows afraid of the light.
And yet, she'd also seen him bandage a wounded stray dog on his doorstep.
She'd seen him look at her like she was the only thing in the world that made sense.
How could both men exist inside the same body?
Naomi's phone buzzed. She glanced down and frowned.
"Adora, you might wanna see this."
Adora took the phone her stomach tightening as she read the headline:
"DeLuca Family Under Fire: Unknown Rival Targets Key Operations."
Her hands trembled. "This… this can't be real."
Naomi's voice softened. "Maybe it's better if you stay out of it."
But Adora couldn't.
She couldn't stop caring even when it hurt.
Marco
The DeLuca headquarters was chaos.
Phones rang. Men argued. Reports came in faster than they could be processed.
Someone had hit one of their supply routes in Brooklyn clean, precise, professional. Not the work of amateurs.
Marco stood at the center of it all, calm in the storm. His suit was immaculate, his expression unreadable, but his knuckles were white against the table.
"Who did this?" he demanded.
"We're not sure," Enzo said, glancing at the board covered in photos and notes. "Whoever it is, they know your system. They're not touching the big accounts just the ones that hurt enough to send a message."
Marco's jaw flexed. "Then consider the message received."
Luciana leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You think this has something to do with your little distraction?"
His gaze snapped to her. "Don't call her that."
Luciana smirked. "Then what is she, Marco? The reason you've been softer? Slower? The reason our enemies finally smell weakness?"
His voice was ice. "You overstep."
She held up her hands. "Just saying the timing's convenient. You fall for a girl, and suddenly someone wants your crown."
Marco didn't respond. He turned toward the window, watching the rain paint streaks down the glass.
Luciana wasn't wrong but it wasn't that simple.
He'd promised Adora she'd see the man behind the title.
Maybe this was his chance to prove he could be more than the monster people feared.
He picked up his phone.
"Get me Mateo," he said.
When the line connected, his voice dropped to something lethal.
"Find whoever's doing this. Quietly. No blood, not yet. I want to know who they are, where they sleep, and who sent them."
He hung up, then leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
For the first time in years, he wasn't sure if he was fighting for his empire or for the woman who made him want to leave it behind.
Adora
That night, sleep didn't come easily.
The city lights painted the ceiling in broken gold, and the wind carried the hum of New York's sleepless heart. She sat on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, debating.
She shouldn't call him.
She shouldn't even think about calling him.
But her heart was louder than her reason.
She typed: Are you okay?
Then deleted it.
She tried again: I saw the news. I hope you're safe.
Deleted.
Finally, she typed the truth short, raw, and helpless:
I miss you.
Her thumb hovered. Then, before she could stop herself, she hit send.
Seconds passed. Then a minute. Then five.
No reply.
She exhaled shakily, setting the phone aside. Maybe he wasn't going to answer. Maybe he was already gone lost to the chaos he'd always warned her about.
But just as she reached to turn off the light, her phone buzzed.
Her heart skipped.
Marco: You shouldn't worry about me, Adora.
She stared at the message for a long time, unsure if she wanted to cry or scream.
Her fingers trembled as she typed:
Too late.
There was a pause. Then another message came through.
Marco: Then don't wait up tonight.
Her pulse raced.
Why? Where are you going? she typed.
No reply.
But she already knew whatever storm was brewing in the streets of New York, Marco DeLuca was walking straight into it.
And somewhere deep in her bones, Adora felt the truth:
The distance between them wasn't safety anymore.
It was the prelude to war.