The Moretti Obsession

Eight

*Vivienne*

The roof didn’t fall all at once.

It peeled.

One second I was holding Lucien’s hand, the next the gravel under us tilted like a bad dream. He yanked me back, hard. My bare feet scraped. His stitches tore — I heard it. Wet rip.

We didn’t fall through. Not yet.

The corner collapsed. Two feet from us. Flame shot up the hole, hungry. The heat hit my face like a slap.

Lucien let go of me. Shoved me toward the edge of the roof. “Jump!”

The next building was six feet away. Maybe seven. Three stories down was concrete and fire trucks that weren’t coming.

“I can’t—”

“You can!” He was already moving back, away from me, toward the center. Toward the hole. “Go!”

I understood.

He was heavier. Slower. Bleeding. If we both ran for the edge, the roof would give under him first. He was making sure I made it.

Ten years I waited to watch him die.

Not like this.

I didn’t jump.

I ran at him. Caught his good arm before he could step onto the bad section. He was stronger, but he wasn’t ready for me to pull _back_.

“What are you—”

The roof gave.

Not under me. Under him.

He dropped.

Not far. First floor of the safehouse was only ten feet down, but it was all fire now. Smoke and beams and orange.

He caught the edge. One-handed. Bad arm useless. His fingers were white on the crumbling concrete. Below him was nothing but flame.

I hit my knees. Grabbed his wrist.

He looked up at me. Shock. Real shock. For the first time since I met him, Lucien Moretti didn’t know what was happening.

“Let go,” he said. Smoke made his voice raw. “Vivienne. Let go.”

If I did, he’d fall. He’d burn. I could walk away. Tell the feds he died in the fire. Be free. No more cartel. No more blood. Ten years over.

My father was a traitor. My mother was collateral. My revenge was built on lies.

Letting him die wouldn’t bring them back.

It would just make me him.

I didn’t let go.

I braced my feet against the lip of the hole. Used my legs, my back, everything ten years of training gave me. And I pulled.

He was heavy. Dead weight, almost. His shoes scraped for purchase but there was only air and fire.

“Vivienne—”

“Shut up,” I snarled. Tears cut through the soot on my face. “And _help_.”

He did. Found a foothold on a beam. Pushed. Together we got his chest over the edge. Then his waist. Then he was out, collapsing on the gravel next to me, coughing, alive.

The fire roared up the hole like it was mad we escaped.

We lay there. Seconds. Breathing. Burning.

He rolled his head to look at me. Ash in his hair. Blood on his mouth. The ledger was still in his waistband. I could see the edge, charred now but whole.

“You should have let me go,” he said.

“You should have jumped first,” I said.

We both knew why we didn’t.

Sirens now. Real ones. Too late.

He sat up. Winced. Looked at the next roof. Still six feet away. Still possible.

He stood. Swayed. Held his hand out to me. Same hand. Same offer.

I took it.

We ran. Jumped. Made it.

Didn’t stop running until we hit the street three blocks away, in an alley that smelled like rain even though the sky was clear.

I leaned on the wall. He leaned on me. We were both shaking now. Adrenaline crash.

I looked down at my hands. Blisters from the roof. His blood under my nails. No gun.

I chose.

I chose him.

He knew it. I saw it in his face when he looked at me. Not victory. Not smug. Something worse. Responsibility.

“You’re mine now,” he said. Quiet. Not a claim. A statement of fact.

I didn’t argue.

Because he was right.

The moment I pulled him out of that fire, I stopped being the girl with a gun and a plan.

I became his.

And he became mine.

Down the alley, a car door opened.

Mateo.

“Jefe,” he said. Then he saw me. Saw us. Saw the way we were standing.

His eyes went wide.

Then he bowed his head.

Not to Lucien.

To me.