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She stared at me. “Why would you do that?”

“Because—” I stopped, my words catching in my throat. I couldn’t explain it. Couldn’t explain why this woman I barely knew had become the center of my universe. Couldn’t explain the pull I felt toward her, the certainty that I was supposed to protect her, to help her, to be whatever she needed me to be. Couldn’t explain that the thought of her suffering made me want to burn the world down.

“Because you deserve it,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “And because I want to. Because I need to.”

The main courses arrived then, and I reluctantly released her hand. The waiter set down the plates with a flourish, refilled our wineglasses, and disappeared again, but I barely noticed.

All I could see was her.

Madigan looked down at her pasta, then up at me. “This looks amazing.”

“Try it.” I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t think about food when she was sitting across from me, so close and yet not close enough.

She did, twirling the pasta on her fork and taking a bite. Her eyes closed, and she made a small sound of pleasure that sent heat straight through me, pooling low in my stomach. I gripped my fork tighter, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

“Oh my God,” she said. “This is incredible.”

“Told you.” My voice came out strained.

We ate, and we talked, and with every passing moment, I felt myself slipping further. Further from control. Further from the careful, calculated man I had always been. Further into something I didn’t recognize but couldn’t resist.

She told me about her childhood, about the mother who had read to her every night and the father who had barely noticed she existed until she was old enough to be useful. About the loneliness of growing up in a house full of people who treated her like a possession instead of a person.

I told her about my brothers, about the weight of being the second son, the one who did the dirty work so Giovanni could stay clean and the others could stay innocent. About the first time I had killed someone, how it had felt like stepping through a door I could never walk back through.

And I listened as if my life depended on it. Memorized every word. Every inflection. The way her voice softened when she talked about her mother. The way it hardened when she mentioned her father.

“Do you regret it?” she asked quietly.

“Which part?”

“Any of it. All of it.”

I thought about that. About the blood on my hands, and the bodies I had left behind, and the choices I had made that could never be unmade. About the man I had become and whether there was any part of me left that was worth saving.

“No,” I said finally. “I don’t regret it. It’s who I am. It’s what I was made for.”

“That’s sad.”

“Maybe. But it’s true.”

She reached across the table then, her hand covering mine, and I stopped breathing. The touch was electric, sending shocks through my entire body. Like a circuit completing. Like coming home. Like every cliché I had ever mocked, and I didn’t care because it was real and it was her and I was drowning in it.

“You’re more than that,” she said, her voice soft but certain. “You’re more than what your father made you.”

I looked down at her hand on mine, small and pale against my scarred knuckles, and something in my chest cracked wide open. “How do you know?”

“Because I can see it. The same way you can see that I’m more than my father’s daughter.”

She was right. I could see it. Could see the strength in her, the intelligence, the quiet defiance that refused to be crushed no matter how hard her father tried. Could see everything beautiful and brave, and worth protecting.

“We’re quite a pair,” I said, my voice rough with emotion I couldn’t hide anymore.

“We are.” She smiled, and it transformed her face, making her look younger, lighter, and I felt like I had been punched in the chest. “Two people trying to be more than what we were born into.”

After a brief moment of comfortable silence, she asked, “Do you think we’ll succeed?”

“I don’t know. But I think we have a better chance together than apart.”