The rain hadn't stopped.
By morning, it had washed the city in silver and ash, drumming endlessly against the glass walls of the penthouse. New York looked distant a blurred painting of power, pain, and smoke.
Adora stood by the window, wrapped in one of Marco's shirts. It hung loose on her shoulders, smelling faintly of gunpowder and cologne. She could still hear the echo of last night the sirens, the shouting, the moment he almost broke when she said she'd thought she'd lost him.
But now, he was quiet again. Too quiet.
Marco sat at the kitchen counter, a laptop open before him, his jaw tight. Enzo stood near the door, speaking in low tones over the phone.
"Two of Rossi's men are missing," Enzo said. "The ones stationed near Pier 9. No trace, no calls. Like they vanished."
Marco didn't look up. "Check the East River. If they're not answering, that's where they'll end up."
Adora flinched, but didn't speak. She was beginning to understand what it meant to live in Marco's world where every decision cost blood, and silence was just another form of survival.
When Enzo left, the apartment fell into a heavy stillness.
Marco finally shut the laptop and leaned back, rubbing his temples.
"You should eat," he said.
"I'm not hungry."
"You didn't sleep either."
"Neither did you."
He looked up at her then really looked. Her eyes were tired but bright, full of worry she tried to hide. She looked like warmth standing in the middle of his ruin.
"You shouldn't be here," he said again, softer this time. "Every minute you stay… it puts you in deeper."
Adora folded her arms. "You said last night things are about to get worse. So if I leave now, what difference does it make?"
He stood, walking toward her slowly. "The difference is that if you stay, they'll use you against me."
Her voice trembled, but her gaze didn't waver. "Then teach me how not to be used."
That stopped him cold.
"Adora"
"I'm serious," she said. "If I'm already part of this… if I'm already in danger because of you, then I want to know how to survive it."
He stepped closer until she could feel his breath against her skin. "You don't belong in this world."
"Maybe not," she whispered. "But neither do you."
Something flickered in his eyes a flash of recognition, of pain. Because she was right. Somewhere between the violence and the loyalty, Marco DeLuca had forgotten what belonging felt like.
He turned away, pacing. "I don't train civilians."
She gave a small, defiant smile. "Then don't. Train the woman who keeps saving your life."
His lips curved slightly the faintest ghost of amusement. "You think you're saving me?"
She took a step closer. "No. I think I'm reminding you what you're fighting for."
He stared at her, torn between anger and something dangerously close to affection. For the first time in years, he felt the sharp edge of fear not of death, but of losing someone who made him feel alive again.
Finally, he said, "Fine. But you listen, and you don't argue."
"I'll try."
"That's not comforting."
She smiled. "Then you're already learning how this works."
The lessons started that afternoon.
Marco cleared the living room, setting up makeshift obstacles using chairs and wine crates. Adora watched him in disbelief. "You're serious about this."
"I said I would teach you," he said simply, tossing her a small knife. "Start by holding this properly."
She caught it clumsily, nearly dropping it. He sighed.
"Not like that. Grip it firm, but loose enough to move."
He moved behind her, his hands wrapping around hers. His touch was steady, guiding. She felt his breath near her ear, the heat of his chest against her back.
"Like this," he murmured.
Her pulse jumped. "You're enjoying this."
He smirked slightly. "If teaching you how not to die counts as enjoyment, then yes."
They practiced for hours balance, footwork, how to read movement. He taught her how to stay calm, how to listen before acting. Every time she stumbled, he caught her. Every time she got it right, his eyes softened with quiet pride.
By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, Adora's hands were shaking. Not from fear from exhaustion and adrenaline.
Marco handed her a glass of water. "You did good."
She smiled faintly. "Good enough to survive?"
He met her gaze. "Good enough to make me nervous."
"Why?"
"Because the last thing I need is you realizing you don't need me."
Her laughter was soft, unexpected. "That's not going to happen."
He watched her laugh really laugh for the first time since he met her. It did something to him. Something dangerous.
Later that night, Marco stood by the balcony, watching the city lights flicker like restless stars. He had a cigar between his fingers but didn't light it.
Enzo's words still echoed in his mind:
Someone's feeding them your routes, boss. Someone inside.
He had a list short, trusted names but even trust was currency that didn't last long in New York.
Adora joined him quietly, wrapping herself in a blanket. "You always look at the city like it's yours," she said.
He gave a humorless smile. "It was. Until it started trying to kill me."
"Maybe it's not trying to kill you," she said softly. "Maybe it's trying to see if you still care."
He turned to her. "You talk like you believe the city has a heart."
"Maybe it does," she said. "Maybe it beats through people like you and that's why it hurts so much."
He stared at her, unsure what to say. No one had ever looked at him and seen that a man who hurt because he cared too much.
"Do you ever regret it?" she asked. "All of this?"
He hesitated. "Every day."
"So why not walk away?"
"Because walking away doesn't erase what's already been done."
"Then what are you still trying to prove?"
He took a slow breath. "That I can still control the chaos I created."
Adora stepped closer, her voice soft but unyielding. "Or maybe you're trying to control something that was never yours to begin with."
He looked down at her, the corners of his mouth tightening. "You're not afraid to tell me the truth, are you?"
"Would it matter if I was?"
"No," he said quietly. "It would just make me respect you less."
They stood there in silence, rain whispering against the glass, the city breathing around them. For a moment, it almost felt like peace fragile, borrowed peace.
Then Marco's phone buzzed.
He frowned, checking the screen.
A message. No name. Just a single line:
"You're looking in the wrong direction."
Marco's pulse tightened. He opened the message and froze.
Attached was a picture.
The inside of his penthouse.
Taken from outside the window.
Adora. Standing by the couch.
He didn't think. He moved fast.
"Marco?" Adora barely had time to speak before he grabbed her wrist, pulling her down behind the counter.
"Stay down!" he hissed.
The glass shattered a second later a clean, sharp sound that sliced the air. A bullet buried itself into the wall above where she'd been standing.
Her breath caught. "Oh my God
"Don't move."
He drew his gun, eyes scanning the skyline beyond the balcony. Nothing but rain and city lights. But he knew. Someone had eyes on them.
"Pack a bag," he said roughly. "Now."
"What
"Now, Adora!"
His tone left no room for argument. She scrambled to her feet, grabbing the essentials while he called Enzo.
"Someone just took a shot at us," he said, voice low and lethal. "Penthouse window. I want every exit covered, every camera pulled. Find me who sent that message and find them fast."
When he hung up, Adora stood by the door, shaking slightly. "Marco… who would do this?"
"Someone who wants me to watch what they take from me."
Her voice cracked. "You think they're coming for me?"
He looked at her, his expression unreadable. "They already did."
The escape was quiet, precise. Marco's men met them in the garage two black SUVs, tinted windows, engines running. Rain poured over the windshield as they sped through the night.
Adora sat in silence, clutching the blanket around her shoulders. Marco's hand rested on his gun, eyes scanning every shadow they passed.
Finally, she whispered, "You said it's someone close."
He nodded.
"Then who do you trust?"
He hesitated before answering. "I don't know anymore."
She reached for his hand tentative, gentle. "Then trust me."
He looked at her, the city lights reflecting in his dark eyes.
"I already do," he said.
For the first time that night, something like hope flickered between them small, trembling, but alive.