The penthouse was too quiet when they got back.
Elena kicked off her boots by the door, the leather still damp from the dock spray, and padded straight to the kitchen island. Her hands shook a little as she poured a glass of water. She drank it in three big gulps, like that could wash away the taste of gunpowder and betrayal still sitting on her tongue.
Luca locked the door behind them, then just stood there for a second, watching her. The city lights painted soft gold across his face, but his eyes stayed shadowed. He looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with the late hour.
"You should eat something," he said finally. Voice rough, like he'd been chewing on words he didn't want to say.
"I'm not hungry."
He didn't argue. Instead he walked over, opened the fridge, and pulled out a container of leftover pasta Sofia had ordered earlier. He heated it in silence, slid the plate in front of her, then sat on the stool across the island. Not pushing. Just… there.
Elena picked at the food with a fork. Every bite tasted like cardboard, but she forced it down because he was watching and she didn't want him to worry more than he already did.
After a minute he spoke again, quieter this time.
"I keep replaying that night at the dock in my head. Not tonight's dock. The one five years ago."
She looked up. His fingers were tracing the edge of his untouched whiskey glass, slow circles that gave away how restless he felt inside.
"I was supposed to meet you," he continued, eyes on the glass instead of her. "You texted me at eleven-thirty—said your father was asleep and you could sneak out for an hour. I was already in the car, halfway there, when my old man's guys grabbed me. Dragged me into the warehouse. Showed me the photos first. Then told me exactly what they'd do to you if I didn't disappear."
Elena set the fork down. Her chest felt tight, like someone was squeezing it from the inside.
"They had it all planned," Luca went on, voice cracking just a little. "A plane ticket. A story for the family that I'd gone to handle business in Sicily. And a warning—if I ever contacted you, they'd make sure you ended up in one of the clubs they ran. Not dead. Just… used up. Broken. So no one would want the Rossi princess anymore."
He laughed once, bitter and short. "I was twenty-three and stupid enough to believe that walking away was the only way to keep you safe. I sat on that plane hating myself so much I couldn't even cry. Every mile away from you felt like I was tearing my own skin off."
Elena reached across the island without thinking and covered his hand with hers. His fingers were cold. She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles, feeling the faint scars there.
"I waited for you that night," she whispered. "Under the oak tree by the river. For three hours. When you didn't show, I told myself you got caught up with family business. Then the next morning… nothing. No call. No text. Just radio silence. I thought maybe you'd finally listened to your father and decided I wasn't worth the risk."
Luca turned his hand over so their palms pressed together. His grip was gentle but desperate, like he was afraid she'd pull away.
"I wrote you a letter on the plane," he admitted. "Ten pages of every stupid thing I wanted to say. How much I loved you. How sorry I was. How I'd come back the second I was strong enough to protect you properly. I tore it up before we landed. Burned the pieces in a hotel ashtray in Rome. Told myself it was kinder if you hated me."
Tears slipped down Elena's cheeks before she could stop them. She didn't wipe them. "It wasn't kinder. It hurt like hell. But hearing this now… it hurts differently. Like maybe we both got broken by the same people."
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. And now those same people—or whoever kept my gun—are still playing games with our lives. Using us against each other again."
The note from her father's desk lay on the counter between them, unfolded under the pendant light. The handwriting was neat, almost careful. The wolf's tooth still bites. It felt like a taunt aimed straight at both of them.
Luca stared at it for a long moment, then looked back at her.
"I have so many regrets, Elena. Leaving you. Letting fear win. Not being there when your father—" His voice caught. He swallowed hard. "I should've come back sooner. Should've said fuck the consequences and taken you with me. But I can't change any of that. All I can do is be here now. Even if it's messy. Even if you still wake up some mornings hating the sight of me."
She squeezed his hand tighter. "I don't hate the sight of you. That's the problem. I look at you and I still see the boy who made me laugh until my stomach hurt. But I also see the man who can keep me alive long enough to get revenge. And that… that scares me more than anything."
For a while they just sat there, hands linked across the cold marble, the city humming far below. No big declarations. No dramatic kisses. Just the quiet weight of years finally spoken out loud.
Eventually Luca stood, still holding her hand, and tugged her gently toward the living room. They sank onto the big leather couch together. She curled into his side without overthinking it, head on his shoulder, his arm sliding around her like it belonged there.
"I'm not rushing anything," he murmured into her hair. "We take tonight, tomorrow, however long it needs. I just… I need you to know I'm all in. Regrets and all."
Elena closed her eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart under her ear. It wasn't perfect. Nothing about them was. But for the first time since her father's blood stained the study floor, she didn't feel completely alone in the dark.
Somewhere in the penthouse, a phone buzzed—probably Dante or Sofia with updates on Gianni. The real world was waiting. Betrayal, bullets, and blood were still out there.
But right now, in this small pocket of quiet, Elena let herself breathe.
And Luca held her like he'd been waiting five years to do exactly that.