The world after the gunfire felt too quiet.
Too still.
Too heavy.
Adora sat in the backseat of Marco's car as the city blurred past in streaks of rain and broken light. She could still taste the smoke, still hear the echo of the last gunshot. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking no matter how tightly she tried to hide them in her lap.
Marco drove without a word. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his face unreadable, eyes fixed on the road like it was the only thing keeping him from shattering.
Neither of them spoke until the car stopped in front of the penthouse.
"Get inside," he said quietly.
Adora hesitated. "You're not coming?"
"I will," he replied. "Later."
Something about the way he said it made her heart ache that careful calm, that distance he wore whenever he was about to disappear again.
"Marco," she whispered, "don't do this."
He finally turned to look at her. His eyes were dark, glassy, full of all the things he couldn't say.
"This isn't a life for you, Adora."
"I decide what's for me."
"You don't understand"
"I understand enough!" she cut in, her voice trembling. "I saw what you did tonight. I saw what it cost you."
He didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened. "You shouldn't have."
"Then stop keeping me in the dark," she pleaded. "Stop treating me like a mistake you're trying to undo."
He was silent for a long time. Then, softly: "You're not a mistake. You're the only thing that ever felt… real."
The confession hung between them like smoke.
Before she could respond, he leaned in not to kiss her, but to rest his forehead against hers. His breath trembled against her lips.
"Go upstairs," he murmured. "Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone."
And before she could say another word, he was gone swallowed by the storm outside.
Marco
The night stretched long and unforgiving.
He didn't go back to the penthouse. Instead, he drove to the old docks the place where everything had started years ago. Where his father taught him what power meant, and what it cost.
Now, the docks were empty.
Only ghosts remained.
Enzo found him leaning against a crate, cigarette between his fingers, eyes lost in the darkness.
"She followed you again, didn't she?" Enzo asked.
Marco didn't answer.
Enzo sighed. "You can't keep her safe like this. You can't fight wars and love someone who keeps standing in the crossfire."
"I'm not trying to love her," Marco said coldly.
Enzo snorted. "Then you're doing a terrible job at pretending."
The silence stretched. Rain began to fall slow, steady, cold.
Finally, Marco spoke. "Rossi wasn't the one pulling the strings."
Enzo frowned. "What do you mean?"
"There's someone else. Someone who knew where we'd be. Knew about the council meet, the shipment routes… everything."
"An inside leak?"
Marco nodded slowly. "And I think I know who."
Adora
Hours passed. The clock ticked loud in the empty penthouse, each second gnawing at her patience. She couldn't sit still.
The TV played muted news reports flashes of the explosion, the smoke, and the name DeLuca crawling across the screen in bold red letters.
Her chest tightened. Every time his name appeared, she felt both proud and terrified proud that he was powerful enough to command the city's attention, terrified that one day it would be his face beneath those headlines.
Finally, she grabbed her coat. Again.
She didn't care about his rules anymore. If he wouldn't let her in his world, she would walk into it herself.
She opened the drawer where he kept his spare gun the one she'd seen him use only once. She didn't touch it. She just stared at it. The metal looked cold, heavy, final.
Then she closed the drawer and whispered, "You're not leaving me behind again, Marco."
Marco
By the time he reached the safehouse, he was sure of it.
The betrayal had come from within. Someone close. Someone trusted.
And when the door opened revealing Luciana standing in the dim light, her face calm but her eyes too sharp he felt the truth hit like a bullet.
"You set me up," he said.
Luciana's smile was slow, almost sad. "I warned you, Marco. You can't build an empire on loyalty. It's always temporary."
"Why?" His voice was low, deadly.
"Because you forgot what it took to survive. You let her in."
He didn't have to ask who she meant.
Adora.
Luciana stepped closer. "You let a woman who sells fruit on the streets walk into your world. You made her your weakness."
Marco's hands curled into fists. "You think love makes me weak?"
"No," she whispered, stepping even closer. "It makes you predictable."
The click of a gun echoed behind him.
Marco didn't turn. "Enzo," he said quietly.
But the silence that followed told him everything.
Luciana smiled faintly. "You were never meant to walk away from this clean."
Adora
The storm hadn't stopped. She followed the directions Enzo had once let slip about a warehouse Marco sometimes used for "quiet meetings."
When she reached the place, her heart nearly stopped.
Lights. Shadows moving inside.
She slipped through the side door, heart pounding, every instinct screaming don't.
And then she heard it Marco's voice, cold and low.
Luciana's laugh.
A gun being cocked.
"Luciana!" Marco growled. "You don't want to do this."
"I already have."
Adora didn't think. She moved fast, quiet, desperate.
And just as Luciana raised the gun to fire, Adora shouted, "Marco!"
The shot rang out.
The sound was deafening.