Smoke before fire

Amara woke to the scent of coffee and quiet.

Roman's penthouse was still, lit only by the soft morning light spilling through the massive windows. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then her eyes landed on the black shirt draped over a chair, the bulletproof vest on the counter, and the man himself—standing at the far end of the kitchen, phone to his ear.

He was speaking in Italian. Sharp. Controlled. She couldn't catch much, but she heard the edge in his voice. He was angry.

He hung up, turned, and noticed her watching.

"You're up."

"You're tense."

"I'm always tense," he said, grabbing two mugs. "But today more than usual."

He handed her the coffee. Their fingers brushed. The moment stretched.

"I can go," she said softly.

Roman frowned. "You think I'd let you walk out now?"

"I think you're trying to protect me by keeping me close."

"And I think you're too smart not to know why."

She sipped her coffee. "Tell me."

Roman exhaled. "Enzo's moving pieces."

"Your father's old friend?"

Roman nodded. "He's been quiet for too long. He never liked that I took over the family. He's from the old ways—blood first, fear second, love never."

"And you?"

"I've learned that fear doesn't hold people. But love… that's more dangerous."

His eyes held hers.

"You're changing the way I fight, Amara."

She set the mug down, heart thudding. "That's a lot of pressure."

"It's not pressure," he said. "It's the truth."

---

Later that day, Roman took her to his private property upstate—he called it "The Quiet House." It sat in the woods, away from city chaos, guarded by cameras and two men named Luca and Tino who barely blinked.

"I don't bring anyone here," he told her.

"You say that a lot," she teased.

"I mean it every time."

Inside, it was cozy—stone fireplace, dark wood floors, open windows. The kind of place that didn't belong to a mafia boss. The kind of place someone built for peace.

"You come here when you need to disappear?" she asked.

"I come here when I need to think. Or bleed."

Amara looked at him sharply. "Roman—"

"Not literally," he added, with a faint smirk. "But close enough."

He didn't talk much after that. He just watched her—like she grounded him.

That night, they didn't kiss. They *slept.*

In the same bed, wrapped in warmth and silence. And for once, Roman Casso slept through the night.

---

But peace never lasts in the world he came from.

The next morning, Roman got the call.

Enzo had made a move.

A shipment route in Jersey—one of Roman's most secure—had been intercepted. Not stolen. *Burned.* Trucks destroyed. Messages left.

Roman read the words scratched onto the steel of the destroyed truck himself.

*"The girl will break you."*

Victor stood beside him, arms crossed, jaw tight. "He's not bluffing."

"He never does."

"What's the play?"

Roman stared at the wreckage. "We move her again."

"She won't like it."

"She doesn't have to."

---

Back at the penthouse, Amara was packing a few things when Roman came in.

"You're leaving," she said, not asking.

"So are you," he replied.

Amara froze. "What?"

"You're going to the safehouse in Connecticut. Victor will stay with you. No one gets in or out."

"You mean I don't get a say?"

Roman walked to her, slow, like he was fighting his own instinct not to just *hold her*. "This isn't about control, Amara. It's about survival. They've made their move."

"And I'm just a pawn now?" she snapped. "You said I had a choice—"

"This *is* the choice!" he cut in. "You stay alive. That's the choice."

Her throat tightened. "And you?"

"I end this."

She touched his arm. "Roman…"

He didn't pull away. But his eyes—those fierce, fire-filled eyes—looked different now. Not just determined. *Haunted.*

"If something happens to me," he said, "Victor has orders."

"Don't talk like that."

"You need to be ready."

"I'll only be ready if you come back."

A long silence.

Then he kissed her.

Hard. Final. Like a promise and a goodbye tangled into one.

"I'll burn this city down before I let them touch you."

---