ELENA
After two weeks, the safe house stopped feeling safe and started feeling like a pressure cooker.
The silence between us was no longer comfortable; it was charged. We were too aware of each other. The brush of his hand when we reached for the same coffee pot. The way he'd watch me when he thought I wasn't looking. The way I'd find myself listening for the sound of his key in the door, my body tensing with a feeling that was half relief, half dread.
I felt like a ghost haunting his life, and he was the warden of my cage. I had to get out.
"I need to go to church," I said one morning.
He looked up from his laptop, his eyes narrowed. "No."
"It's the anniversary of my father's death," I lied. The lie came easily. I was getting better at it. "I go every year. I light a candle. It's important."
"It's not safe."
"Nowhere is safe, Matteo. I can't just sit here and disappear. I'm not one of your ghosts yet."
The words hit their mark. I saw him flinch, a tiny, almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. I was learning his weaknesses, the same way he was learning mine.
"Fine," he said, his voice tight. "But I'm going with you. And we don't go in the front door."
St. Anthony's. The same church where I'd watched them bury my brother. It felt like a lifetime ago.
Matteo didn't park out front. He parked three blocks away and led me through a series of narrow, winding alleyways I never knew existed. He moved with a quiet confidence, his hand resting on the small of my back, a gesture that was both protective and proprietary. Every time his fingers brushed my shirt, a jolt went through me.
"We'll go in the side door, through the sacristy," he whispered, his voice close to my ear. "Father Michael owes me a favor. He won't say anything."
Of course he wouldn't. The whole world seemed to owe Matteo Moretti a favor.
The church was nearly empty, cool and cavernous, smelling of old incense and melting wax. I walked to the banks of votive candles, my footsteps echoing in the silence. I lit a candle. Not for my father. For Antonio. For the man at the docks whose face I saw when I closed my eyes. For the boy Matteo used to be, before the scar and the gun.
I knelt in a pew, but I didn't pray. I just breathed. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could draw a full breath.
Matteo stood near the back, by the heavy oak doors, a sentinel in the house of God. He didn't belong here, but he stood his ground anyway.
When I was done, we left the way we came. Back into the labyrinth of alleys. The sun was low, casting long, distorted shadows.
And that's when we saw them.
Two men. They stepped out from behind a dumpster, blocking our path. They weren't Vincent's usual thugs. These men were different. Harder. Their suits were cheap, their eyes were dead, and they moved with the twitchy energy of men who were paid by the job, not by the hour.
"Moretti," one of them said. He had a knife. Not a switchblade. A long, thin filet knife. It looked obscene in the gray light of the alley.
Matteo's hand on my back tightened, pushing me behind him. "This doesn't have to be a problem," he said, his voice calm, reasonable. "Turn around. Walk away."
"Vincent sends his regards," the other one said, and he pulled a gun.
My blood ran cold. This was it. I thought of the way the man at the docks had fallen. The stupid, surprised look on his face.
"Elena," Matteo said, his voice dangerously low. "Run. Now. Go back to the church. Tell Father Michael."
But my feet were glued to the ground. I couldn't leave him. It wasn't a choice. It was a fact. I was anchored to him.
The man with the gun lunged. The man with the knife went for Matteo's side, the same side as his old scar.
Matteo moved. He was a blur of violence, all brutal efficiency. But it was two against one, and the alley was tight. He shoved the gunman back against the brick wall, the man's head hitting with a sickening crack. The gun clattered to the ground.
But the other man was on him, the knife flashing. Matteo twisted, and I heard him grunt in pain as the blade sliced through the fabric of his jacket.
I didn't think. I acted.
I saw the gun on the ground. And next to it, a loose brick from the crumbling wall.
I grabbed the brick. It was heavy in my hand.
The man with the knife had Matteo pinned, his arm raised for another strike. I ran forward and brought the brick down as hard as I could on the man's wrist.
There was a wet, crunching sound. The man screamed, a high, thin sound of pure agony, and the knife dropped from his nerveless fingers.
He stared at his hand, at the unnatural angle of his wrist, his face a mask of disbelief. He looked at me, his eyes wide with shock.
And then Matteo was on him, a knee in his chest, a fist to his jaw, and the man went limp.
The gunman was staggering to his feet, dazed. He saw his partner on the ground. He saw me, standing there with a brick in my hand. He saw Matteo turning toward him, his face a mask of cold fury.
The man ran. He scrambled away down the alley like a terrified rat.
Silence.
My ears were ringing. My whole body was trembling, a violent, uncontrollable shudder. I dropped the brick. It landed with a thud.
Matteo was breathing hard, leaning against the wall. There was a long tear in his jacket, and blood was beginning to seep through his white shirt underneath. He'd been cut.
He looked at me. His eyes were wild. "I told you to run," he said, his voice a raw rasp.
"I know."
"You could have been killed!" He pushed off the wall and came towards me, his face a storm of fury and something else I couldn't name. He grabbed my shoulders. "What the hell were you thinking?"
"I was thinking you were about to get stabbed!" I yelled back, the adrenaline finally breaking through in a wave of anger. "What was I supposed to do? Go tell the priest while they gutted you in an alley?"
"Yes!" he roared. "That was the plan! Your only job is to stay safe!"
"And your only job isn't to die for me!" I shoved him, hard. "You don't get to do that, Matteo! You don't get to be a martyr. I won't let you."
The fury in his eyes faltered, replaced by a stunned confusion. He stared at me, at the tears of rage and fear that were now streaming down my face.
And then he kissed me.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hard and desperate and angry. It was a collision. His hands tangled in my hair, pulling my face to his, and his mouth was bruising on mine. It tasted of adrenaline and iron and all the things we hadn't said for weeks.
I kissed him back with the same desperation. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, my fingers digging into his shoulders. It wasn't about love or romance. It was about life. It was about the horrific, beautiful, undeniable fact that we were both still alive.
We broke apart, breathing hard, our foreheads resting against each other.
"You're bleeding," I whispered, my hand coming up to touch the tear in his jacket. My fingers came away wet with his blood.
"It's nothing," he said, his voice thick.
I looked at the man lying unconscious on the ground. I looked at the brick I had dropped. I looked at the blood on my fingers.
"I hit him," I said, my voice full of a strange wonder. "I hit him with a brick."
Matteo's thumb brushed across my cheek, wiping away a tear. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes.
"I know," he said. "Remind me not to get on your bad side."
I started to laugh. It came out as a sob. And then I was crying for real, my body shaking with the force of it. For the fear, for the violence, for the terrifying, irreversible fact that I had chosen this. I had chosen him.
He didn't say anything. He just pulled me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me, holding me tight. I buried my face in his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him, and I listened to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.
He was alive. I was alive.
In the alley behind the church, surrounded by the wreckage of our lives, it was the only thing that mattered.