~ Niamh ~
I stood by the window of the dimly lit room, my forehead pressed against the cool glass as I watched the taillights of the Escalade vanish into the night.
Massimo was gone.
He was heading into the heart of a city that wanted him dead, his ribs taped up and his whole body bruised, all because he was too stubborn to back down.
A hollow, cold ache settled in the center of my chest, a vast emptiness that felt like a physical weight.
It was the kind of feeling you get when you're standing at the edge of a cliff and the wind is trying to pull you over.
I hated him—I reminded myself of that with every breath—but the thought of him not coming back didn't feel like the victory I expected.
It felt like a void.
I shook the thought away, shivering despite the warmth of the house, and forced myself to turn from the window.
I couldn't stand here like a mourning widow. I wasn't his wife.
Not yet.
