The city didn't rest after the gunfire.
It whispered.
Rumors crawled through New York like veins of smoke talk of a betrayal, a shift in power, a name whispered in fear: DeLuca.
Adora woke to the sound of rain again. It had become a cruel rhythm the world outside drowning while she tried to keep breathing inside.
The penthouse Marco brought her to was silent and cold, too elegant to feel like home. She'd spent the night tossing, her mind replaying every word from the docks, every look that felt like a goodbye disguised as protection.
When she finally stepped into the living room, Marco was already awake.
He stood shirtless by the window, bruises coloring his ribs like spilled ink, his hands wrapped in white bandages. His gun rested on the table beside an untouched cup of coffee.
She froze in the doorway.
The man looked like a storm wearing skin.
He didn't turn as he spoke. "You should have stayed away."
Her voice was soft, cautious. "You would've come for me anyway."
He exhaled, a sound halfway between defeat and truth. "You're right."
When he finally turned, his eyes met hers and for a second, the mask slipped. She saw exhaustion, pain, and something rawer: longing.
"You're hurt," she whispered, moving closer before she could think better of it.
"It's nothing."
"It never is, with you." She reached out, but he stopped her hand midair, fingers brushing her wrist.
"Adora," he said quietly, "you don't want this blood on your hands."
"I already do," she murmured. "The day I didn't walk away that's when it started."
His grip tightened for a heartbeat, then fell away.
Marco
He'd faced enemies with guns at his throat and knives at his back, but none of it unnerved him like this woman standing there, refusing to be afraid of him.
Adora didn't know what kind of line she was crossing, or maybe she did. Maybe that's what terrified him most.
He moved to the table, pulling a folder from beneath the gun. "They hit us again last night," he said, flipping it open. "Two shipments gone. One man dead, two missing."
Adora frowned. "Who's behind it?"
"Still tracing the source," he replied. "But whoever it is, they're not after territory they're after chaos. They want me distracted."
"And it's working," she said softly.
He looked up sharply, but she didn't flinch.
"You're not invincible, Marco. No one is. You can't fight every war alone."
"I've been doing it my entire life."
"That's the problem."
The silence that followed wasn't comfortable it was full of things neither of them wanted to admit.
Finally, he said, "There's a meeting tonight. The council wants answers."
"Then give them the truth."
He gave a humorless laugh. "In my world, truth gets you killed faster than bullets."
Adora crossed her arms. "Maybe it's time someone changed that."
He stared at her the girl who should've run, the one he couldn't stop running toward.
Something about her voice made him want to believe there was still a way out.
Adora
By evening, she couldn't stay still.
The penthouse felt smaller by the hour, the view of Manhattan too far away to touch.
She found herself standing in front of the mirror, brushing her hair, replaying Marco's words in her mind. He'd left hours ago, wearing that same calm she'd learned to fear the kind that meant he was walking into danger.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Naomi:
You disappeared again. Please tell me you're safe.
Adora typed, then deleted, then finally sent:
I'm safe. Just… figuring things out.
Naomi replied instantly.
Figuring out a man who runs the city's underworld isn't "things," Dory. It's suicide.
Adora smiled faintly at the nickname. Dory.
It reminded her of who she used to be before she met Marco before danger started to feel like gravity.
But the truth was, she couldn't leave. Not yet. Not when the war outside had his name written all over it.
She turned on the TV, flipping through channels until she froze.
A live broadcast.
A luxury hotel in downtown Manhattan had just been hit explosions, sirens, chaos.
And in the corner of the screen, a name: DeLuca Holdings.
Her blood ran cold.
"Marco…"
Without thinking, she grabbed her coat and keys.
Marco
The meeting wasn't supposed to end in blood.
But it did.
It started civil enough the council gathered in the Rossi Hotel's top floor, every seat filled by men who ruled slices of the city. They spoke in careful tones, weighed words like weapons.
Until someone pulled the pin.
The explosion tore through the east wall, glass and fire swallowing the room. Screams followed chaos in slow motion. Marco hit the floor, pulling Luciana down with him as shrapnel tore through the table.
When the smoke cleared, three men were dead. Two more bleeding out.
Luciana coughed, her voice ragged. "This was no accident."
Marco rose slowly, blood running down his temple. "No," he said coldly. "It was a message."
She looked at him. "You think it's Rossi?"
"Not just him," Marco replied. "He doesn't have the brains for this kind of play."
"Then who?"
He didn't answer. He already knew. The pattern, the timing, the precision it all pointed to someone who knew the DeLuca network inside out. Someone close.
Enzo burst through the debris, gun in hand. "Boss, we need to move!"
Marco nodded, eyes hardening. "Get everyone out. Lock down every port, every shipment. No one moves until I say so."
As they made their way through the ruined corridor, Marco's phone buzzed.
Adora.
For one second, he wanted to answer.
For one second, he wanted to tell her he was alive.
But then another explosion shook the floor below them, and the choice vanished.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket. "Move!"
Adora
She reached the scene minutes after the second blast.
Police had already cordoned off the area, news vans flashing lights against the smoke-filled skyline.
Her chest tightened as she scanned the chaos firefighters shouting, glass everywhere, people running.
She slipped past the barricade when no one was watching, her breath ragged in the smoke.
"Marco!" she shouted. "Marco!"
A hand caught her arm.
She spun around and froze.
Luciana.
The woman's face was smeared with ash, her dark eyes sharp even through the exhaustion. "You shouldn't be here."
Adora stared at her. "Where is he?"
Luciana's lips curved slightly. "Alive. For now."
Adora's heart raced. "Take me to him."
Luciana's smile faded. "You think he wants you here? You think he fights better when he's worried about whether you're breathing?"
"I'm not leaving until I see him."
For a moment, the two women just stared the queen and the civilian, fire reflecting in their eyes.
Then Luciana sighed. "You're either the bravest woman I've ever met… or the stupidest."
"Maybe both," Adora said.
Luciana almost smiled. "Follow me."
They found him outside the ruined wing of the hotel, his shirt torn, smoke streaking his face. He looked like he'd walked through hell and survived just to see who was left standing.
When he saw Adora, his expression shifted from shock to fury.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he snapped, striding toward her.
She flinched, but didn't back down. "You didn't answer your phone. I thought
"You thought what?" His voice broke. "That I needed saving? That you could just walk into a war zone and
"I thought I'd already lost you!" she shouted.
The words cracked something in the air between them.
The sirens faded, the smoke curled, and for a heartbeat, they were the only two people in the city.
Marco's shoulders dropped, the rage bleeding into something softer something real.
He reached out, fingers brushing her cheek, leaving streaks of soot behind. "You can't keep doing this," he whispered. "If something happened to you
"It's not just your fight anymore," she interrupted. "Whoever's coming after you, they've already put me in it. Whether I like it or not."
He stared at her this woman who didn't belong in his world and yet somehow owned the last piece of him he couldn't surrender.
"Then stay close," he said finally. "Because things are about to get worse."
Later That Night
They didn't speak much after returning to the penthouse. The air between them buzzed with adrenaline and things unsaid.
Marco cleaned the blood from his hands, silent. Adora sat on the couch, watching the skyline burn faintly red in the distance.
Finally, she said, "You never told me what you're fighting for."
He paused, towel halfway to the sink. "Survival."
"That's not enough."
He turned to face her. "It has to be."
"Then you'll die for nothing," she said quietly. "And I'll be left loving a ghost."
Something in him cracked.
In two steps, he was in front of her close enough for her to feel the tremor in his breath.
"You think love fixes men like me?" he whispered.
"No," she said. "But maybe it reminds them what they were before the world turned them cold."
He stared at her and for a moment, the king of New York's underworld looked like a man who didn't know how to be touched without breaking.
He leaned in, forehead against hers, voice barely a whisper.
"I don't deserve you."
"Maybe not," she said softly. "But I'm here anyway."
Outside, thunder rolled over the skyline the sound of war preparing to begin again.