Chapter 5 - The Unspoken Vow
Two months later, the scars on my body had faded from raw crimson to pale, silvery lines.
My right shoulder had regained ninety percent of its mobility, thanks to daily physical therapy sessions supervised by Dr. Evans. Danny was thriving in Zurich; he sent me video calls every Sunday, his face bright and healthy, showing off his ability to walk short distances using parallel bars.
The war was over.
The Moretti family had retired from the city, their territories peacefully absorbed into the DeLuca holdings. The docks were quiet, the streets were secure, and the DeLuca penthouse had returned to its grand, immaculate silence.
Except I was no longer living in the narrow staff room near the service entrance.
Marco had moved me into the master guest suite—a sweeping, sunlit corner room with velvet drapes, a private terrace, and a king-sized bed. I had tried to object, tried to insist on returning to my duties, but Isabella had shut down my protests with a single wave of her hand.
"You are not a servant in this house, Lena," Isabella had declared sternly over breakfast one morning. "You are the daughter of my heart. Eat your toast."
Yet, despite the peace, a quiet, lingering tension had grown between Marco and me.
Since the night he spared Julian Moretti, Marco had treated me with a gentle, almost reverent distance. He took me out for dinners at high-end restaurants, brought me rare books, and spent hours talking with me on the terrace as the sun set.
But he never touched me. He never crossed the line.
It was as if he believed that because he was a man of violence, because his world was painted in shades of blood and shadow, he needed to protect me from himself.
On a cool, clear Friday evening, I walked down the grand marble hallway toward Marco’s private study.
I wasn't wearing a housekeeper's uniform. I wore a simple, elegant emerald-green silk dress that Isabella had bought for me, my dark hair falling in soft waves over my shoulders, covering the pale scar on my right collarbone.
I knocked softly on the heavy oak door.
"Come in," Marco’s voice called out.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
The study was dark, lit only by the soft glow of a crackling fire in the stone fireplace. Marco was standing by the bar, pouring two fingers of amber scotch into a crystal tumbler. He was wearing a dark suit without a tie, his collar open, looking handsome, dark, and impossibly heavy with thought.
He turned around, and when his eyes landed on me, he froze.
The glass tumbler in his hand hovered halfway to his mouth. His dark eyes swept over me—from the emerald dress fitting softly against my curves, to the silver scar peeking above the neckline, to my eyes.
"Lena," he breathed softly, setting his glass down on the marble bar. "You look... breathtaking."
"Thank you," I smiled faintly, stepping further into the room, closing the heavy oak doors behind me.
I walked slowly across the Persian rug until I stood three feet away from him near the hearth of the fire. The warm light danced across the sharp, handsome planes of his face.
"I came to tell you that I'm leaving tomorrow, Marco," I said quietly.
Marco’s broad shoulders went instantly rigid.
The air in the room seemed to snap tight. His dark eyes flared with an acute, sudden agony that he tried desperately to conceal.
"Leaving?" he whispered, his voice dangerously tight. "Leaving where?"
"I rented an apartment near the university downtown," I said softly. "My physical therapy is finished. Danny is stable in Zurich. It’s time for me to start my own life."
Marco stared at me, his chest heaving under his dark dress shirt.
"Is the penthouse not comfortable?" he asked, his voice strained, desperate. "Is there something you need? I can buy the building downtown. I can buy the whole street! You don't need to live in some apartment—"
"Marco," I interrupted, stepping closer, taking his trembling hand in mine. "I don't want a building. I don't want a street."
He looked down at our joined hands, his long fingers tightening around mine as if he were holding onto a lifeline in a storm.
"Then why are you leaving me?" he choked out, the formidable Don disappearing, leaving behind only the man who had begged me not to die in the rain.
"Because I am tired of waiting for you to stop being afraid of me," I whispered.
Marco looked up, shocked. "Afraid of you? Lena, I would tear this city apart for you! I would die for you!"
"Then why won't you touch me?" I asked, my voice breaking with emotion as tears welled in my eyes. "Why do you look at me as if I'm made of fragile glass? Why do you treat me like a saint on a pedestal instead of a woman who loves you?"
Marco gasped.
The words hung between us in the warm, crackling silence of the room, vibrating through the dark wood and the glowing firelight.
"You... love me?" Marco whispered, as if he could barely bring himself to utter the incredible, impossible words.
"I fell in love with you when you dropped to your knees in the rain," I wept softly, stepping so close my chest brushed against his. "I fell in love with the man who cried for a nobody. I fell in love with the man who spared a boy’s life because he wanted to be better for me."
I reached up, wrapping my arms around his broad neck, burying my fingers in his dark, thick hair.
"I don't care about your past, Marco," I whispered against his lips. "I don't care about your dark world. I just want you."
With a low, gut-wrenching groan, Marco lost all restraint.
He wrapped his massive arms around my waist, lifting me completely off my feet, pulling me against his hard frame as his mouth crashed down on mine in a deep, desperate, possessive kiss.
The kiss tasted of amber scotch, fire, and months of suppressed, starving passion. I held onto him tight, deepening the kiss, feeling the heat of his body, the thunderous roar of his heartbeat against my chest.
He carried me across the room, setting me gently down on the leather sofa, his dark body hovering over mine, his eyes burning with a fierce, absolute devotion that made my soul soar.
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"You are never leaving this house, Lena Carter," Marco whispered against my throat, his lips trailing hot fire down to the pale silver scar on my collarbone, pressing a tender, lingering kiss against the mark where the bullet had struck. "Never."
"Good," I gasped, holding his face in my hands, bringing his lips back down to mine. "Because I’m never letting you go."
