POV: Sofia
---
The hours crawled by like years.
I tried to read. Couldn't focus. Tried to clean. Gave up after five minutes. Tried to call Sasha, but my hands were shaking too badly to dial.
So I sat on the couch, Antonio's book in my hands the Neruda he'd shown me weeks ago and I waited.
The apartment was too quiet. Too still. Every sound made me jump a car horn, a neighbor's door, the creak of the building settling. Each time, I'd look toward the door, expecting him to walk through.
He didn't.
At noon, my phone rang. I nearly dropped it grabbing it.
Sasha.
"Any news?" she asked.
"Nothing. You?"
"Marco checked in an hour ago. They're in position. Waiting for Viktor to move." A pause. "Antonio's with him. He's okay."
"Thank you for telling me."
"I figured you'd want to know." Another pause. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm sitting on the couch holding a book I'm not reading, jumping at every sound, and trying not to imagine every possible way this could go wrong."
"Sounds about right." Her voice softened. "The first time Marco went out on a big job, I sat in our apartment for three days straight. Didn't eat. Didn't sleep. Just stared at the wall and waited."
"Three days?"
"It gets easier. Not the waiting that never gets easier. But the knowing. The understanding that this is the life, and you can either let it destroy you or you can find a way to live with it." She paused. "You'll find your way."
"How?"
"However you need to. For me, it was learning to fight. Marco taught me. Gave me something to focus on, something to make me feel less helpless." She laughed softly. "Also gave me the skills to kill anyone who tried to hurt him. That helped."
I almost smiled. "You're really something, Sasha."
"So are you. Remember that."
We hung up. I looked at the book in my hands again.
Then I opened it and started to read.
---
The afternoon passed in a blur of Neruda's words.
I'd read poetry before, of course. English majors couldn't avoid it. But reading the poems Antonio loved the ones he'd marked with tiny pencil notes in the margins was different. It was like hearing him speak, even in his absence.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
That was the one he'd read me that first night. I traced the words with my finger, remembering the rough sound of his voice, the way he'd looked at me afterward like he'd just handed me something precious.
He had.
At 6 PM, my phone rang again. This time I didn't check the name before answering.
"Sofia."
Marco's voice. Not Antonio's.
My heart stopped.
"Marco? What happened?"
"Nothing. He's fine. We're both fine." A pause. "But I can't reach him right now. They're moving into position. I just wanted you to know he made me promise to call you. To tell you he loves you and he's coming home."
I pressed a hand to my mouth. "Thank you, Marco."
"Thank me when this is over. Keep the faith, Sofia. He'll come back."
He hung up.
I sat there, phone in hand, tears streaming down my face.
He'd thought of me. In the middle of everything the danger, the violence, the life-or-death stakes he'd thought to have Marco call me.
I loved him so much it hurt.
---
ANTONIO
The warehouse was cold and dark and smelled like rust and old blood.
Perfect.
We'd been in position for hours, waiting for Viktor's signal. Tomas had fed him the final piece of intelligence the location of a "major Matteo shipment" that didn't exist. Viktor had taken the bait. Now we waited for him to walk into our trap.
My men were silent, patient, professionals. Marco was across the building, leading the other team. Dominic was with me, his eyes scanning the darkness.
"He's late," Dominic murmured.
"He'll come. He's too arrogant not to."
"Your wife okay?"
The question caught me off guard. "Why do you ask?"
"Because you checked your phone three times in the last hour. And because Marco called someone earlier figured it was her."
I should have been annoyed. Instead, I felt something warm spread through my chest.
"She's waiting. That's what she does."
"Good woman."
"The best."
Movement at the warehouse entrance. Shadows slipping through the door.
I raised my hand. My men went still.
Viktor Petrov walked into the warehouse, flanked by a dozen soldiers. He was smiling actually smiling like he'd already won.
He hadn't.
I waited until he was fully inside. Until his men were spread out, vulnerable.
Then I gave the signal.
---
SOFIA
The explosion shook my apartment.
I was on my feet before I knew I'd moved, heart pounding, eyes fixed on the window. In the distance, toward Red Hook, orange flames lit the sky.
The warehouse.
Antonio was there.
I grabbed my phone, dialed. No answer. Tried Marco. Nothing. Tried again. And again. And again.
Nothing.
I paced. Cried. Prayed to gods I didn't believe in.
The fire burned for what felt like hours. Sirens wailed in the distance police, fire, all of them too late to matter.
And still, Antonio didn't call.
---
At midnight, the door opened.
I was on my feet, a knife in my hand Sasha's influence before I registered who it was.
Antonio stood in the doorway, covered in soot and blood, exhaustion carved into every line of his face.
But alive.
Alive.
The knife clattered to the floor. I flew across the room and into his arms.
"You're alive," I sobbed into his chest. "You're alive, you're alive, you're alive"
"I promised." His arms wrapped around me, tight enough to hurt. "I promised I'd come back."
I kissed him blood and soot and all and didn't care about anything except the fact that he was here, in my arms, breathing.
"I love you," I gasped between kisses. "I love you, I love you, I love you"
"I love you too." He was crying. I'd never seen him cry. "God, Sofia, I love you."
We held each other in the doorway, two people who'd survived the impossible, and for a long time, neither of us spoke.
Words weren't enough anyway.
---
ANTONIO
The battle had been brutal.
Viktor had fought like a cornered animal, taking three of my men with him before I finally put him down. The warehouse had caught fire during the fight gasoline and ammunition and bad luck. We'd barely escaped.
Three of my men dead. Six wounded. Marco had a bullet graze on his arm that he was already dismissing as nothing.
But Viktor was dead. His organization was shattered. The war was over.
And I was home.
Sofia held me like she'd never let go. I let her. Needed her to.
"I'm sorry," I whispered into her hair. "I'm sorry I scared you."
"Don't be sorry. Just... don't do it again."
"I can't promise that."
"I know." She pulled back, looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. "Just promise you'll keep coming back."
"Always." I kissed her forehead. "Always."
She led me to the bathroom, helped me wash off the blood and soot, tended the cuts I hadn't even noticed. Her hands were gentle, careful, full of love.
When we finally fell into bed, tangled together, exhausted beyond words, I felt something I hadn't felt in years.
Peace.