EIGHTEEN

Roy pulled his jacket back on and clipped his weapon into place. “I’m going to do a sweep,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Check the damage, see who’s still standing. I’ll be quick.”

Wesley just gave him a nod.

I looked between the two of them. “You sure it’s safe out there?”

Roy’s mouth pulled into a tight line. “No. But I’ll find out.”

Then he was gone, the thick steel door groaning shut behind him. The lock clicked back into place, and the bunker felt smaller all over again.

The lights flickered once overhead. A brief stutter, then a low buzz. The shadows stretched and curled along the walls.

Wesley didn’t say anything. He sat where I’d left him after treating his wounds, his body relaxed but eyes still wired. I stayed seated too, across from him, legs curled under me, arms around my knees.

The silence stretched, not awkward—just heavy. Neither of us rushed to fill it.

Then his voice broke through the quiet.

“She called me six times that morning.”

I looked up.

“Brooklyn,” he said, eyes still fixed ahead. “My sister.”

I stayed quiet.

“She said her husband had gotten in with someone bad. Owed money. Said he was desperate. Needed a name. Someone who could… handle it.”

His jaw clenched slightly, but his voice stayed even. “I was already dealing with three fires that week—two hits, one arrest. I told her I’d call back. Didn’t. She called again. I finally answered and said—”

He paused, then met my eyes. “I told her to go fuck herself.”

My breath caught.

Wesley looked away again. “That night, he was shot. Brooklyn said he was waiting for a name. The guy was getting desperate. He made a bad call. Paid someone else instead. Didn’t end well.”

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words hitting low in my chest.

“She hasn’t forgiven me,” he said simply. “And I don’t think she ever will.”

The room stayed quiet after that.

Just flickering lights, a hum in the wall, and the first crack I’d seen in Wesley Morano’s armor.

I didn’t know what to say at first. His story—it sat with me. Heavy. Raw. Like something I wasn’t supposed to hear but somehow needed to. It made everything feel more real. More complicated.

“I used to think Marco was the safest place in the world,” I said quietly, picking at a loose thread on the hem of my nightgown. “I built everything around that. Around him.”

Wesley didn’t speak, just kept his gaze steady on me, letting me talk.

“I was young. Stupid. Desperate to feel like I belonged to something. I didn’t come from much. My mom died when I was thirteen. My dad checked out emotionally right after. I had no idea what love looked like. So when Marco showed up—confident, protective, charming—I let myself believe it. All of it.”

I shook my head and laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“I based my entire belief system on him. His rules. His needs. What made him happy. And I thought that made me loyal. That it made me strong.” I glanced up at Wesley. “Turns out, it just made me easy to break.”

He said nothing, but I could feel his focus on me like heat.

“And now look at me,” I went on. “I’m in a fake marriage with his rival. For protection. So you can get one up over him.”

Wesley didn’t flinch. “It’s working.”

That made me blink. “What?”

He leaned forward just slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “He fired some of his staff today. Word’s already spreading. He’s losing control.”

I frowned. “So?”

“So,” Wesley said calmly, “it’s only the beginning. He’s unraveling.”

He looked at me, still unreadable, but something behind his eyes had shifted. “If we’re going to make him fall harder… we need to keep working together.”

Something about the way he said we made my stomach twist.

Because even if it started as survival, there was a strange comfort in this bunker, in the silence, in him—not as the mafia lord everyone feared, but as someone who carried regrets like mine.

Someone who, in the right lighting, almost felt real.

The lights in the bunker buzzed faintly above us, casting everything in this soft, muted glow. It made the room look less harsh, like the edges had been softened just a little. Maybe it was just the quiet—real quiet this time. No explosions. No boots stomping overhead. No tension waiting to break.

Just him and me.

I was still sitting on the floor, knees bent, arms loosely draped around them. Wesley hadn’t moved much either, still perched on the edge of the chair, elbows on his thighs. But something in his posture had shifted. The sharpness had dulled. The usual steel in his face, the way he carried himself like a man always preparing for war—it was still there, but quieter now.

He looked at me.

And kept looking.

Not in that calculating way he did when he was about to say something strategic, or throw out a line designed to unsettle. This look was different. Still. A little too long.

I felt it all over me.

His eyes moved slowly, like they were memorizing something. My skin, my mouth, my hair—whatever it was, it made the air shift between us.

Then his hand moved.

Lifted slowly, fingers hovering just inches from my face. Toward my cheek.

My breath caught.

But then he stopped. Just short.

His hand dropped back to his lap, and whatever moment had been sitting between us—holding its breath—it passed.

We didn’t talk about it. We didn’t have to.

Before I could decide what I was even feeling, the door behind us groaned again. Roy stepped through, face tense but not panicked.

“It’s clear,” he said. “Some damage to the east wing. Power’s still down in a few parts, but it’s safe to come up.”

Wesley nodded once and stood. I followed, my legs a little shaky from sitting too long—or maybe something else entirely.

The hallway beyond the bunker felt colder somehow, like it had missed everything we’d just lived through down there. I kept my eyes ahead, following Roy’s lead, but just before we turned the corner, I glanced at Wesley.

His face was back to unreadable.

Like the softness had never existed.

But I had seen it. Felt it. And now it was lodged somewhere in my chest.

Maybe, just maybe… there was more to him than he ever let anyone see.