Ezra's POV
Marco doesn't find the wire.
Dante pulls the security footage, sees me entering and leaving the library alone, and Marco drops his suspicions. For now.
But everything changes after that night.
Marco keeps his word about making things real. We stop pretending when we're alone, and I discover the man behind the killer is nothing like I expected.
You're doing it wrong, Marco says, watching me attempt to make carbonara for the third time this week. The egg cooks from the residual heat. If you add it while the pan's too hot, it scrambles.
Then why didn't you tell me that twenty minutes ago?
His laugh is warm and genuine. Because watching you figure it out is more entertaining.
I throw a dish towel at him. He catches it, grinning, and pulls me close by my waist. The wire records the moment his lips find mine—soft, playful, real.
God, it feels so real.
Come on, he murmurs against my mouth. I'll show you properly.
He guides my hands through the motions, his chest pressed against my back, chin resting on my shoulder. This is the third meal we've cooked together this week. The wire has hours of footage of us in the kitchen, laughing over burnt garlic and debating the proper ratio of cheese to pasta.
Victoria is going to hate it. No crimes, no confessions, just domestic moments that make Marco look human instead of monstrous.
Good.
The thought surprises me. When did I start wanting to protect Marco from the FBI instead of gathering evidence against him?
There, Marco says as we plate the pasta. Perfect.
We eat at the kitchen island instead of the formal dining table. Marco's foot hooks around my ankle under the counter—casual contact that makes my heart skip.
Tell me something about yourself, he says. Something I don't know.
Like what?
Anything. I want to know you, Ezra. The real you.
The wire records my hesitation. Records me choosing which truths are safe to share.
I'm the middle child, I finally say. My older sister is a doctor, younger brother is a lawyer. My parents barely remember I exist because I didn't choose an 'important' career path.
Economics isn't important?
Not compared to saving lives or defending justice. I shrug, trying to play it off like it doesn't hurt. I was always the invisible one. The one they forgot at school events, the one whose birthday they scheduled business trips during.
Marco's hand finds mine. I see you.
Three words. Simple. Devastating.
I know, I whisper. That's what scares me.
The days blur together in dangerous domesticity. Marco teaches me Italian curse words that make me laugh. I introduce him to terrible reality TV shows he pretends to hate but secretly loves. We stay up too late talking about everything except the violence that defines his world.
At night, he holds me close in his massive bed—because at some point we stopped sleeping in separate rooms without ever discussing it. His arms wrap around me like I'm something precious, something worth protecting.
Sei la mia luce nel buio, he whispers in Italian, lips against my temple.
What does that mean?
You're my light in the darkness.
The wire records the way my breath catches. Records how I turn in his arms to kiss him properly. Records the moment we cross another line neither of us planned to cross.
Afterwards, lying tangled together, Marco traces patterns on my skin.
I need to tell you something, he says quietly.
My heart stutters. Here it comes. The confession Victoria's been demanding. The wire is recording.
What?
I play piano. Have since I was six. He sounds almost embarrassed. My mother made me learn. Said music was important, that it made us human instead of just... what my father wanted us to be.
I didn't know you played.
Because I haven't touched a piano in years. Not since she died. Marco pulls back to look at me. But there's one in the penthouse. In the room I keep locked. And I want to show you.
He leads me to a door I've never seen opened. Inside is a music room with a grand piano that probably costs more than most people's houses.
Marco sits at the bench, hands hovering over the keys like he's forgotten how.
Then he plays.
It's beautiful—achingly, impossibly beautiful. Some classical piece I don't recognize, filled with longing and sadness and hope. His hands move with the same confidence he shows when holding a gun, but this violence is turned into art.
The wire records every note. Records the tears sliding down my cheeks. Records the moment I realize I'm falling in love with a man I'm supposed to betray.
When the music ends, Marco's hands tremble on the keys.
That was incredible, I breathe.
My mother's favorite piece. She used to say it reminded her that beautiful things still existed, even in our ugly world. He looks at me. I haven't been able to play it since she died. Until now. Until you.
I cross to him, sit beside him on the bench, and kiss him like he's oxygen.
The wire records everything. My FBI handler will hear this intimacy, this vulnerability, and tell me it's all manipulation.
But Marco's tears are real. His music is real. The way he holds me like I'm the only thing keeping him human—that's real too.
Three days later, my phone rings. Victoria.
We need to talk. Same place. One hour.
I tell Marco I'm going to the library for research. He kisses me goodbye, tells me to be safe, and I hate how natural the lie feels now.
Victoria is furious when I arrive at the safehouse.
Three weeks of recordings, she snaps, throwing a folder on the table. And you know what we have? Cooking lessons. Movie nights. Italian lullabies. What the hell are you doing, Ezra?
He doesn't talk about crimes around me.
Then make him! That's your job—
I can't force him to confess to murders while we're making pasta!
You're getting too close. Her eyes narrow. You're falling for him. I can hear it in the recordings. The way you laugh at his jokes, the way you kiss him back. This isn't an act anymore, is it?
My silence answers for me.
Jesus Christ. Victoria stands, pacing. Do you understand what he is? He's killed seven people that we know of. Probably more. He's a monster, Ezra. And you're falling in love with him.
He's not a monster, I hear myself say. He's a victim. His father raised him to be—
Oh my God, you're defending him. She laughs, bitter and sharp. This is Stockholm syndrome. Classic trauma bonding. You need to remember why you're doing this.
Why am I doing this?
Because he's a murderer who witnessed you at a crime scene and decided to trap you in his life! Victoria slams her hand on the table. Or did you forget that? Did you forget Tony Giordano dying on that warehouse floor?
The image flashes through my mind—blood pooling black, Marco's cold efficiency, the gun smoke in the air.
I haven't forgotten.
Then start doing your job. Push harder. Get us real evidence or we can't protect you when this falls apart. She leans in close. And it will fall apart, Ezra. Giovanni Vitale will find out you're lying, or Marco will figure out the wire, and when that happens, you'll need us. So stop falling for your target and remember which side you're on.
I leave the safehouse feeling sick. The wire is back on my wrist, heavier than ever.
That night, I try to follow Victoria's orders. Try to push for information.
Can I ask you something about your work? I say while we're watching TV.
Marco's arm tightens around my shoulders. What about it?
You said you handle problems for your father. What kind of problems?
The silence stretches too long.
The kind we don't discuss at home, Marco finally says, voice careful. My work is my work. This—us—is separate. I want to keep it that way.
Why?
Because you're the only good thing in my life, Ezra. The only part that isn't stained with blood and violence and my father's poison. He turns to look at me. I need this space to be clean. To be ours. Please don't bring my work into it.
The wire records his plea. Records my guilt as I back off.
Victoria will be furious. But I can't push Marco when he's looking at me like that—vulnerable, desperate, trying so hard to protect what we have.
Later, in bed, Marco pulls me close.
Ti amo, he whispers against my hair.
I don't speak Italian well, but I know those words.
I love you.
The wire records my sharp inhale. Records how I don't say it back because I can't, because if I say those words out loud they become real and I can't betray someone I love.
Can I?
Marco doesn't seem to expect a response. He just holds me tighter, his heartbeat steady against my back.
I lie awake long after he falls asleep, staring at the wire on my wrist in the darkness.
Three weeks of recordings. Three weeks of falling deeper into something that started as survival and became something I can't name.
Victoria is right. I'm getting too close. Losing objectivity. Forgetting Marco is dangerous.
But she's also wrong. Marco isn't just a monster. He's someone trapped in a life he never chose, trying desperately to find something real in a world of lies.
He's just like me.
My phone buzzes with a text. Unknown number.
I open it, and my blood turns to ice.
It's a photo of me entering the FBI safehouse three hours ago.
Below it, one line: Does Marco know where you've really been going?
I bolt upright, heart hammering. Marco stirs beside me.
What's wrong? His voice is sleep-rough.
Nothing. Just a nightmare. I delete the text with shaking hands.
Come here. He pulls me back down, arms wrapping around me protectively. You're safe. I've got you.
But I'm not safe. Someone knows about the FBI. Someone is watching me. Someone just threatened to expose everything to Marco.
The wire records my racing heartbeat. Records Marco whispering comfort in Italian. Records the moment I realize I'm trapped between two worlds, and either choice leads to death.
If I tell Marco about the wire, he'll kill me for betraying him.
If I tell Victoria about the threat, she'll extract me and Marco will think I abandoned him.
If I do nothing, whoever sent that photo will tell Marco themselves.
No matter what I choose, I lose.
Marco's breathing evens out as he falls back asleep, still holding me close.
I stare at my phone in the darkness, at the deleted message that proves someone is hunting me.
And I have no idea which side they're on—or if there even are sides anymore.
Just predators in the dark, waiting to see which one of us breaks first.
My phone buzzes again. Another photo.
This time it's Marco and me, kissing on his balcony two nights ago.
The message below: 24 hours to tell him the truth, or I will. Choose wisely.
The wire records my silent scream.
Records the moment my carefully constructed lies begin to crumble.
Records the countdown to the explosion that will destroy everything.
Twenty-four hours.
Then Marco learns I've been betraying him from the beginning.
And God help me, I don't know if I'll survive what comes next.