The steam still clung to their skin as Silvio wrapped a towel around Rose's trembling form. Her legs were weak. Her breath came in slow, exhausted pulls. He didn't say a word — just lifted her into his arms with quiet strength and carried her out of the bathroom.
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the glow of the city beyond the tall windows. The silk sheets rustled as he laid her down, careful, almost reverent.
She blinked up at him, chest rising and falling.
"You broke me," she whispered.
"No," he murmured, brushing wet strands of hair from her cheek. "I touched what was already breaking."
Her eyes fluttered shut.
She didn't expect what came next.
He returned moments later with a small glass bottle — something herbal, medicinal — and sat on the edge of the bed. Without asking, he poured a small amount into his hands and began to warm it between his palms.
"Turn over," he said gently.
She hesitated.
Then obeyed.
Her body ached — hips, thighs, back. Every muscle worn down by the way they had collided, desperate and raw. She didn't regret it. But she hadn't realized how deep the soreness went until his fingers found the first knot.
Rose winced.
"Too much?" he asked.
"No. Don't stop."
Silvio began to work the oil into her lower back with a kind of patience that felt foreign to him — slow, circular motions, thumbs pressing with exact pressure.
She expected control.
What she got was care.
And it undid her more than anything else.
His hands moved down the curve of her spine, to the backs of her legs. Her breath hitched when he reached the bruised edges of her hips. But still, he was gentle — almost painfully so.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked quietly.
"Because I never want you to mistake pain for love," he said.
Her throat tightened.
She turned her head to look at him.
"Then what was that?" she whispered.
Silvio met her eyes.
"It was the part of me I swore I buried," he said. "The part that wanted something for myself. That wanted you."
She couldn't respond.
Not with words.
Instead, she reached for him again — not to start something new, but to pull him down beside her. He lay beside her fully clothed, arm cradling her head, the scent of his skin grounding her.
For the first time in years, Rose felt still.
But peace never lasted long in their world.
Because just as her eyelids began to drift shut, Silvio's phone buzzed once on the nightstand.
He didn't move for a moment.
Then reached, glanced at the screen — and stiffened.
Rose sat up instantly. "What is it?"
He slid out of bed, his face unreadable again.
"Security picked up movement outside one of the safehouses."
"Whose?"
"Mine."
He walked to the closet, pulling on a black shirt, holster, then reaching for the drawer that held his gun.
Rose stood, still half-naked, sheets falling around her. "Tell me."
Silvio paused, then turned toward her.
"There was a tail on the priest," he said. "The one who married us."
Her stomach dropped. "Someone knows?"
"Someone suspects."
He grabbed his phone again and tapped something into a secured app.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"I'm going to make sure the body doesn't get found."
"You're not going alone."
Silvio stared at her — the fierce, defiant woman standing in nothing but her bruises and pride.
Then, with the faintest smile, he replied, "No. You're not coming. You're going to stay here. And rest."
"I'm not fragile."
"I know," he said. "But you're mine now. And no one breaks what's mine without consequence."
She didn't argue.
Because the way he said it — cold, final — didn't sound like possession.
It sounded like protection sharpened into a blade.
As he opened the door to leave, she called after him.
"Silvio."
He turned, silhouetted in the doorway.
Her voice softened. "Come back to me."
His eyes flickered with something dark and unspoken.
"I always do," he said, and vanished into the night.