Because if she ends it, she’s shattered.
The words chased Elena as Damiano’s men dragged the bloody body away, as the metallic scent of gunpowder still clung to the night air. She stood frozen on the cobblestone street, her heart hammering so violently she thought it might break through her ribs.
She had seen death before—funerals, accidents—but never like this. Never so casual. Damiano hadn’t even blinked. He had pulled the trigger, silenced a man’s existence, and slipped the gun back into his jacket like it was nothing. Like it was breathing.
Her throat burned. She wanted to scream, to cry, to claw at him for making her watch. But when his hand touched the small of her back, firm and unyielding, the sound died in her chest.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
Her eyes snapped to his. Danger
