The night bled into morning without mercy.
New York didn't sleep it prowled, restless and alive, the kind of city that hid its sins behind glitter and glass.
Adora hadn't closed her eyes. Her phone lay beside her pillow, Marco's last message still glowing in the dark like a wound she couldn't stop touching.
Then don't wait up tonight.
The words echoed long after the screen dimmed.
She told herself not to care.
She told herself this was what she wanted distance, space, time to breathe.
But the truth pressed down on her chest like a weight she couldn't lift.
Because when Marco DeLuca said don't wait up, it never meant he was going home early.
It meant he was walking into something dangerous.
Something final.
The storm outside grew stronger, wind clawing at the windows. She wrapped herself in a blanket and sat by the sill, staring down at the city below the veins of light running through it like electricity and blood.
Somewhere in that labyrinth of noise and danger, he was out there.
And she hated that she missed him enough to feel it like pain.
Marco
The club smelled like smoke, money, and betrayal.
Inside La Sera, the air was heavy laughter too loud, music too sharp. Beneath the bass, secrets traded faster than drinks.
Marco moved through the room like a shadow in a tailored suit. Eyes followed him, some with respect, most with fear.
At his side, Enzo kept pace, his expression tight.
"Mateo tracked the attacks to the East Side," Enzo said quietly. "A small outfit working under the Rossi family. But there's more."
Marco's brow lifted slightly. "Go on."
"They've got a new benefactor. Someone funding them from outside the city. We traced the cash flow — offshore accounts, clean channels. Whoever's behind this knows how to disappear."
Marco stopped by the bar, his reflection fractured in the mirror behind it half man, half myth.
"Rossi wouldn't move without reason," he murmured. "He's testing how far he can go before I retaliate."
"And when you do?"
Marco's lips curved into something sharp. "Then I remind him why people whisper my name instead of saying it out loud."
But beneath the cold words, something flickered not anger, but exhaustion.
Every empire came with ghosts. His were just louder.
Luciana's voice echoed in his mind.
Love destroys empires.
He took a slow sip of whiskey, eyes scanning the crowd. Somewhere in the noise, his phone buzzed a message from Adora, unseen.
He didn't check it.
He couldn't.
Because if he did, he might not walk out of here tonight.
Adora
The next morning, the sun rose gray and uncertain.
Naomi had left early for work, leaving Adora alone with silence and too much coffee.
She opened her laptop, determined to distract herself, but the headlines found her first.
Gunfire in Brooklyn Warehouse Suspected Mafia Feud Escalates
Her heart dropped.
She didn't need to read the rest. She knew.
She grabbed her coat before reason could stop her.
The drive to Brooklyn was a blur of sirens and bad decisions.
By the time she reached the docks, the place was crawling with police and press. Flashing lights painted the rain-slick streets red and blue.
She parked far away, pulling her hood low, her pulse pounding like it wanted to escape her body.
Two black SUVs she recognized DeLuca vehicles.
The men who stood near them wore black suits and grim faces.
Adora scanned them desperately, her breath fogging the cold air.
"Please," she whispered. "Please be okay."
Her eyes landed on a figure stepping out of the shadows.
Tall. Controlled. Familiar.
Marco.
Her knees nearly gave out with relief. He looked tired, soaked, his knuckles bruised, but alive.
He spoke with Enzo for a few moments, then turned toward his car.
Before she could stop herself, she called out softly but enough for him to hear.
"Marco!"
He froze.
When he turned, the world narrowed to just them sirens fading, rain whispering between them.
He walked toward her slowly, the kind of slow that said he didn't know whether to hold her or send her away.
"What are you doing here?" His voice was low, rough with fatigue.
"I saw the news," she said. "I thought" Her voice cracked. "I thought you were"
"I told you not to worry," he interrupted, gentler this time.
"Do you even hear yourself?" she snapped. "You think you can just walk into wars and tell me not to care?"
He took a step closer. "That's the problem, Adora. You do care."
Her eyes shone. "And you don't?"
He hesitated, jaw tight. "I can't afford to."
"Then why are you here?"
He looked away. "Because every time I try to stay gone, I end up back where you are."
Silence stretched between them heavy, fragile, alive.
Adora swallowed. "You don't get to protect me by disappearing. You just make me afraid in the dark."
Marco exhaled, rain dripping from his hair. He reached up slowly, his fingers brushing her cheek.
"I told you I'd show you who I really am," he said quietly. "But I didn't mean for you to see this."
Her voice trembled. "Then show me something worth staying for."
For a heartbeat, he looked like he might. Then Enzo's voice cut through the storm:
"Boss. We've got a problem."
Marco turned the softness vanished, replaced by the man the city feared.
"Get in the car," he told her.
"Marco"
"Now."
She hesitated, but the look in his eyes left no room for argument.
Marco
Inside the car, silence stretched thin.
Enzo drove, eyes fixed on the road. The radio hissed with updates about the attack the Rossi family's retaliation had been brutal, and they were far from done.
Marco sat beside Adora, hands clasped, mind turning through strategies and sacrifices.
"Where are we going?" she asked quietly.
"Somewhere safe."
"I'm not running."
He turned to her, eyes dark. "It's not running if you're the reason I fight."
She blinked, stunned by the honesty in his voice.
"Then fight smart," she whispered. "Don't let them turn you into what they expect."
He almost smiled. "That's not how this world works."
"Then make it work differently."
He didn't respond. But for the first time in days, something inside him shifted not enough to heal, but enough to hurt less.
They reached a penthouse overlooking the East River.
It wasn't one of his usual safehouses — it was quieter, more personal.
As the door closed behind them, Adora turned to face him.
"Tell me the truth," she said softly. "Are you going to war?"
Marco poured himself a drink, his back to her. "It's already started."
"And if you lose?"
He looked over his shoulder, a hint of a smile ghosting his lips. "Then at least I lose for something that mattered."
Her voice dropped. "You mean me."
He didn't answer he didn't need to. The silence said everything.
Adora
Later, when the storm died and the city lights shimmered across the river, Adora found him by the window again always the window, always looking at the world he ruled and the one that was killing him.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
He didn't turn. "You can ask. I might not answer."
She walked closer. "Do you ever regret it? The life you chose?"
Marco's reflection in the glass looked older, lonelier.
"Every night," he said finally. "But regret doesn't erase blood."
Adora's chest ached. "Then what does?"
He looked at her really looked, like she was the only piece of the world that wasn't made of glass and knives.
"Maybe you."
The words hit her harder than any confession.
Because they didn't sound like a declaration.
They sounded like a prayer.