Z

Luca reached me in eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds.

I know because I checked later.

At the time, I was too busy crawling across broken glass while bullets tore through an abandoned television studio.

Two shooters had entered from the east corridor.

Grant’s video feed vanished immediately.

Convenient.

Luca’s men returned fire from outside.

Someone grabbed my ankle.

I kicked hard.

A masked man fell beside me.

He reached for my coat.

Then Luca hit him.

Not shot.

Hit.

One brutal punch.

The man collapsed.

Luca pulled me behind a concrete wall.

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you shot?”

“No.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Glass.”

His hands moved over my shoulders, arms, face.

Checking.

“Luca.”

He stopped.

His breathing was wrong.

Too fast.

Too angry.

“You came early.”

“You’re welcome.”

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“Someone opened fire.”

“Before fifteen minutes.”

“I saw movement on the exterior cameras.”

“So you broke the rule.”

“Yes.”

There was no apology.

That made me angrier.

“You don’t get to decide agreements disappear because you’re scared.”

He stared at me.

“I thought you were going to die.”

“So did I.”

“That changes things.”

“No.”

Gunfire cracked down the hall.

Luca pulled me lower.

“This is not the conversation.”

“It will be.”

“Excellent.”

He fired once around the corner.

A man screamed.

“Looking forward to it.”

Police sirens approached.

The shooters fled.

One was captured.

The other escaped.

Grant, naturally, had never been in the building.

By three in the morning, we were back at my apartment.

I had six stitches in my left hand.

Luca had blood on his shirt that wasn’t his.

He stood in my living room.

I stood across from him.

Neither of us spoke.

Finally:

“You broke our agreement.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“I’m sorry you’re angry.”

“That’s politician language.”

“I’m sorry I broke it.”

“But you’d do it again.”

“Yes.”

I laughed once.

Not because it was funny.

“There it is.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

“That is the truth.”

“Then maybe this doesn’t work.”

His face changed.

“What?”

“This.”

I gestured between us.

For almost a year, we had avoided defining it.

Dinner.

Phone calls.

His hand occasionally finding mine.

One kiss three months ago that had started carefully and ended with both of us realizing careful was becoming impossible.

Still, no label.

Maybe because labels created expectations.

Maybe because I was afraid the moment I called Luca mine, he would start believing I was his.

“You’re ending something we never named?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

He looked genuinely hurt.

That made this worse.

“I cannot be with someone who believes fear gives him the right to overrule me.”

“I didn’t overrule you.”

“You entered early.”

“Because armed men arrived.”

“You didn’t know they were armed.”

“I knew they were moving into position.”

“And you decided.”

“Yes.”

“Exactly.”

Luca turned away.

For several seconds he said nothing.

Then:

“My sister called me the night she died.”

I stopped.

“What?”

“She was scared.”

He stared out at the city.

“I was in a meeting. I declined the call.”

My anger softened despite myself.

“She called twice.”

“Luca…”

“I texted her that I’d call later.”

His voice broke slightly.

Just enough.

“She died forty-three minutes later.”

I understood now.

Not agreement.

But fear.

The kind that didn’t belong to me.

“When you went into that studio,” he said, “I told myself I’d wait fifteen minutes.”

I stayed silent.

“Then I saw two men enter the alley.”

“So you acted.”

“Yes.”

“Because of Sofia.”

“Because I love you.”

The room went silent.

Neither of us moved.

Luca seemed almost surprised he had said it.

I definitely was.

“That’s not fair.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to drop that into an argument.”

“I didn’t plan it.”

“Very unlike you.”

“I’m having a bad night.”

Despite everything, I almost laughed.

Then I looked at him.

Really looked.

Love didn’t excuse control.

But understanding fear mattered.

“I need you to understand something.”

“I’m listening.”

“If you love me, that cannot become another reason I lose choices.”

He nodded slowly.

“I know.”

“No. You know intellectually.”

I stepped closer.

“I need you to know when it hurts.”

His eyes met mine.

“I do now.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“If I tell you to leave tonight, will you?”

Pain crossed his face.

“Yes.”

I hated that his answer relieved me.

“And if I tell you I don’t know what happens with us?”

“I wait until you decide.”

“No pressure?”

“I’ll probably be unbearable privately.”

“That’s acceptable.”

His mouth twitched.

“Anything else?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Grant told me Damian has the recording proving my father knew about Mom’s murder.”

Luca’s expression changed instantly.

“Damian has it?”

“Yes.”

“And Grant wants him released.”

“Yes.”

“Then Grant needs something from him.”

“The recording.”

“Or something else on it.”

Exactly.

We called Rachel Kim.

At four in the morning, the federal prosecutor arrived wearing sweatpants under a trench coat and looking furious enough to prosecute the entire city.

We told her everything.

She listened.

Then said:

“Damian isn’t getting released.”

“What if he cooperates?” I asked.

“With us?”

“With me.”

Luca turned sharply.

“No.”

Rachel looked at him.

He closed his eyes.

“Recommendation.”

She stared between us.

“I’m missing something.”

“Nothing relevant,” I said.

Rachel continued.

“If Damian has evidence implicating Grant, we can negotiate.”

“What does Damian get?”

“Potential sentencing consideration.”

“Not freedom.”

“No.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Yes.”

Luca immediately looked at me.

I raised one eyebrow.

He said nothing.

Progress.

The next afternoon, I sat across from Damian Vale behind reinforced glass.

He looked thinner.

Less polished.

Still dangerous.

When he saw me, he smiled.

“My almost-wife.”

“Still not funny.”

“I heard someone shot at you.”

“Disappointed?”

“Actually, no.”

That surprised me.

“Grant told me you have a recording.”

His smile disappeared.

“So Nathaniel finally got nervous.”

“Where is it?”

“Safe.”

“What’s on it?”

“My father. Victor. Grant.”

“And my mother?”

“Yes.”

My chest tightened.

“What does it prove?”

“That Victor knew exactly what Raymond intended.”

I swallowed.

“And Grant?”

Damian leaned closer.

“That he gave Raymond permission.”

I stopped breathing.

“Permission for what?”

“To solve the Caroline problem.”

My hands went cold.

“You’re lying.”

“Maybe.”

“Why would Grant do that?”

“Because your mother had records that would end his career.”

“Where’s the recording?”

Damian smiled.

“Bring me Luca Moretti.”

I stared at him.

“For what?”

“I want one conversation.”

“No.”

“Then no recording.”

“What do you want from Luca?”

“Something he took from me twelve years ago.”

“What?”

Damian’s smile became strange.

“Ask him about the girl in the blue dress.”