Sunlight cut through the curtains like it had something to prove.
Elena woke with her face pressed against Luca's chest, his shirt wrinkled from where she'd clutched it in her sleep. Her leg had somehow tangled with his during the night. She stayed still for a long minute, listening to his heartbeat—steady, a little faster than it should be for someone still asleep. Or maybe he wasn't asleep either.
She felt him stir before he spoke.
"Morning," he murmured, voice gravelly. His hand rested lightly on her back, not moving away. Not pulling her closer. Just… there.
"Morning," she whispered back. Her throat felt tight. The confessions from last night hung in the air between them like smoke that hadn't cleared. She didn't regret saying them. She just didn't know what came next.
Luca shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at her. His hair was messy, eyes soft with sleep and something heavier. "You okay?"
She nodded, then shook her head. A small, tired laugh slipped out. "I don't know. I slept better than I have since… everything. But my brain won't shut up."
He brushed his thumb across her cheek, catching a bit of dried tear track. The touch was so gentle it made her chest ache. "Mine neither. Kept thinking about that woman. Maria. Wondering if she had a kid who's been carrying this hate for thirty years."
A knock interrupted them—sharp, impatient.
Sofia's voice came through the door. "You two decent? We've got something. Dante pulled old files. You need to see this."
Luca sighed, forehead dropping to rest against Elena's for a brief second. "Duty calls."
They untangled slowly. Elena borrowed another one of his hoodies—oversized, smelling like him—and they headed to the living room.
The coffee table was covered in papers. Old newspaper clippings, faded photos, handwritten notes. Dante stood by the window, arms crossed. Sofia sat on the floor sorting through a box, dark circles under her eyes like she hadn't slept at all.
Gianni was nowhere in sight—probably still locked down somewhere in the building.
Sofia looked up as they entered. "Morning, lovebirds." Her tone tried for teasing but landed somewhere between exhausted and sad. "I stayed up digging into that nineties story. Found a name. Maria Rossi—no relation to your side, Elena. She was from a small Sicilian family that moved here in the eighties. Worked at a club both our fathers used for meetings."
Luca poured two coffees, handed one to Elena without asking how she took it. He remembered—black, one sugar. The small detail made her throat tight again.
Sofia kept going. "Maria got caught passing messages. Both sides thought she was playing them. There was a meeting gone wrong on the waterfront. Shots fired. She took two in the chest trying to run. Died in the ambulance. My dad always said Vincenzo ordered the hit to send a message. Your dad swore it was Moretti men who got trigger-happy."
Elena sat on the couch, cup warm between her palms. "And the child?"
Sofia pulled out a grainy photocopy of a birth certificate. "Maria had a son. Born 1991. Father listed as unknown. She named him Alessandro. After her grandfather. Kid disappeared from records after she died. Foster system, maybe. Or someone took him in quiet."
Luca leaned over the table, scanning the papers. His jaw worked. "Alessandro. If he's alive, he'd be around thirty-five now. Old enough to plan something like this. Keep a gun for years. Wait for the right moment."
Dante spoke up, voice low. "We're running the name through contacts. Hospitals, old social workers, prison records. Nothing solid yet. But one thing matches—someone matching his description was seen near the Rossi compound two days before the hit. Hood up. Talking to Gianni."
Elena's stomach twisted. Gianni again. Family. Blood. The word felt dirty now.
She set her coffee down too hard. "So this guy—Maria's son—thinks both our families killed his mother. He kept Luca's gun as some kind of twisted proof. Frames the Morettis for my father's death. Gets us to tear each other apart. Then what? He walks in and takes everything?"
Sofia nodded slowly. "Or he just wants revenge. Burn it all down. No winners."
Luca rubbed the back of his neck, pacing a few steps. "I remember my father talking about that night once. Drunk. Said he never meant for the girl to die. Said Vincenzo went too far. But he never mentioned a kid. Never admitted there was loose blood out there."
Elena watched him. The regret from last night was still there, etched deeper in the morning light. She stood and stepped close, not caring that Sofia and Dante were watching. She touched his arm lightly.
"This isn't on you," she said quietly. "Or me. We were kids when all that happened. But we're the ones left cleaning it up."
He looked down at her, eyes searching. For a second it felt like the room faded—just them, the same pull that had always been there, even when they were too young to name it.
Luca lifted his hand, cupped her cheek. His thumb brushed her lower lip, slow and careful. Not quite a kiss. Just the promise of one. His breath warmed her skin.
"I keep thinking," he murmured, so only she could hear, "if we'd run away like you planned… maybe none of this would've caught up to us. Or maybe it would've found us anyway. But at least I would've had more mornings like this with you."
Her heart stuttered. She rose on her toes just a little, their lips almost brushing—
Sofia cleared her throat loudly. "Okay, enough of the soap opera. We've got a possible name and a ghost from the nineties. What's the move?"
Luca pulled back, but not far. His hand stayed on Elena's waist for a second longer. "We find Alessandro. Quietly. No alerts to the other families yet. Dante—lean on your street guys. Sofia—keep digging foster records, any name changes. Elena and I will talk to Gianni again. See if he knows more than he's saying."
Elena nodded. The almost-kiss still tingled on her lips. Not rushed. Not forced. Just… building. Like everything else between them.
As the others moved to work, Luca leaned in once more, voice low against her ear.
"Later," he promised. "When the ghosts aren't so loud. I want to do this right. No deals. No revenge hanging over us. Just us."
She squeezed his hand. "Later sounds good."
But as they headed toward the room where Gianni waited, Elena couldn't shake the feeling that "later" might not come easy.
Maria's son was out there somewhere.
And old blood had a way of demanding new payment.