The city never truly slept. Not in places like this.
Leona didn't plan on going far. She had told Valerio she needed air, her voice even and casual, though the silence between them was thick enough to choke on. He hadn't stopped her. He hadn't even looked at her when she left.
That silence followed her down the cobbled streets, clinging like smoke.
She kept walking.
The moon was tucked behind clouds, casting a dull silver wash over the alleyways and lamplight. Her hands were buried in the pockets of her jacket, and she walked like someone who wasn't sure if they were running away or just stalling time.
It was muscle memory that brought her to the little pub at the corner—tucked between a rundown bookstore and a florist that had long given up. The sign above creaked in protest as wind brushed past, and the door moaned as she stepped inside.
Warmth hit her first. Then the sharp scent of old whiskey and cheap cologne.
No one noticed her. Or at least they didn't recognize her. Not as Leona Vale. Definitely not as what she used to be.
And tonight, that was exactly what she needed.
She slid into a booth at the back, away from the flickering lights and the drunk banter. The bartender came by, looked her over without a word, and she just nodded.
"Something strong," she murmured.
It came without questions. A glass of something amber, smooth, and dangerous. It burned going down, and she liked it that way.
Her thoughts swirled as the alcohol settled.
She should've run.
Every instinct told her so. She had survived all these years because she listened when the air shifted—when silence became a warning and not just peace. And now Valerio had shifted too.
He was pulling away, carefully, like someone trying not to wake a sleeping beast. The softness in his eyes had dulled. The gentleness in his voice had started to fade. He still hadn't told her what the letter said. And that silence spoke louder than anything else.
She rested her forehead against the cool glass.
This was what she deserved, wasn't it?
She had dragged her past into their lives like a curse stitched to her name. Even if she had tried—God, she had tried—to be Leona Vale with everything she had, Vesper always found a way to bleed through.
Her phone buzzed. She didn't check it.
Probably Valerio. Or Dante. Or maybe just another ghost from the life she thought she buried.
She took another drink. This one went down easier. That was the dangerous part of it.
The pub was a low hum around her. Some guy played cards with himself at the bar. A couple argued in hushed tones in the corner. No one looked at her twice. No one cared who she was or what she carried.
She almost liked it here.
Almost.
But even here, she couldn't stop thinking about him.
Valerio, with his stormy silences and unreadable eyes. The way he had looked at her the last few days—like he wanted to pull her closer but didn't know if she'd shatter in his hands. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn't have all the pieces to.
What if he found out?
Really found out?
Not the half-truths she gave. Not the quiet tremble she painted as trauma. But everything—Alessia. Vesper. The blade in his grandfather's heart.
Would he still look at her like that?
Would he still care?
She downed the last of her drink and waved for another.
The bartender hesitated, maybe noticing her eyes now—how tired they looked. How broken. But he poured anyway.
Somewhere, behind all the alcohol and guilt, she hated herself for how easy it was to want to disappear again. Just like before. She could dye her hair, change her name, vanish into a country that never asked questions. She was good at that. Disappearing.
But this time, it felt different.
This time, it felt like she'd be leaving something that mattered behind.
Valerio.
And Dante—God, sweet, unknowing Dante, who would never look at her the same if the truth ever surfaced.
And yet, she stayed.
Why?
Because for the first time, someone had made her feel like she could be more. Like maybe, just maybe, she didn't have to run.
But people like her didn't get things like that.
The next drink didn't burn anymore. It just numbed.
She leaned back in the booth, closing her eyes for a moment. Letting the noise drown her thoughts. Letting herself pretend, for one hollow second, that she was just a normal woman in a bar—drinking away the ache of a stupid fight with her boyfriend.
Not a ghost wearing someone else's name.
Not a killer walking on borrowed time.
Just Leona Vale.
Whoever that was anymore.
The night air had turned colder. Leona barely noticed.
She stumbled out of the pub with her coat unbuttoned, laughter caught in her throat like a hiccup she couldn't quite push out. Her boots scuffed against the pavement as she squinted down the street, trying to remember which way was home. Or which way led anywhere but the mess of her life.
And that's when she bumped into someone.
Quite literally.
"Easy there," a smooth, familiar voice said as strong hands caught her by the shoulders, steadying her before she could fall.
Leona blinked up, pupils slow, and froze.
Salvatore De Luca.
"Look what fate dragged into my night," he said with a smirk, brushing a strand of hair from her face like he had any right to. "You look… soft, Leona."
She tried to pull back, but her balance betrayed her, and her shoulder sagged into his arm. His grip didn't tighten, but it didn't loosen either.
He smelled like expensive cologne and violence.
"You should be careful out here," Salvatore murmured, his voice deceptively gentle. "Pretty things like you tend to vanish in the dark."
"You're not… supposed to be here," she mumbled, voice slurred but the tension in her spine betraying the fear she couldn't fully hide.
"And yet," he whispered, leaning a little closer, "here I am. And here you are. Doesn't that mean something?"
She didn't answer.
Her body tried to react, to resist, but her limbs were too slow, too fogged. Salvatore's presence wasn't a threat in the moment—it was something more dangerous. It was familiar.
And he liked how she fit against him. How powerless she was right now.
But what he didn't know—what neither of them knew—was that a pair of eyes had locked onto them from across the street.
Valerio.
He had followed her—couldn't help himself after seeing her walk out the door earlier. And now, from the shadows, he watched as De Luca held her like a lover might, close and too damn comfortably.
His heart twisted.
It wasn't just anger that surged—it was betrayal, jealousy, something primal. Something that made his hands curl into fists.
De Luca's expression, smug and amused. Leona's helpless sway. It struck like a blade to the gut.
He didn't storm across the street. Didn't call out.
He just turned.
And walked away.
Because for the first time since she came into his life… he wasn't sure if she was just in danger—
Or was the danger.
Salvatore hadn't planned on seeing her that night, but when she stumbled into him—liquid warmth and laughter on her breath—he felt something tighten in his chest. She was softer than he imagined, lighter too. Vulnerable, yet not weak. There was a fire beneath her drunken haze, and he could sense it, feel it pulse just beneath her skin.
He liked the way she didn't pull away immediately. The way her head rested briefly near his chest, like she belonged there. Like she wasn't afraid.
That part struck him hardest.
He had expected revulsion, panic maybe, but there was none. Only confusion and the ghost of a smile.
He could've taken advantage, said something cruel—but he didn't. Instead, he let the moment stretch, silently savoring it.
She didn't belong to him.
But for those few seconds, it felt like she could.
And that thought? It was dangerous. Even to him.
The next morning
Leona didn't feel scared. That was the first thing that struck her when she woke the next morning, the events of the previous night replaying in fragments. She remembered the bar, the blurred lights, the sharpness of whiskey on her tongue—and then, Salvatore. His arms around her.
What unsettled her wasn't fear or revulsion, but the lack of it.
She should've pulled away. She should've slapped him, screamed, run. But instead, she leaned—however drunkenly—into the touch. And that frightened her more than Salvatore ever could. He was dangerous, no doubt, but there had been something strangely warm in the way he held her, a gentleness behind his calculated charm that reminded her of the twisted comfort she used to find in chaos.
Was it just the alcohol? Or was it the part of her that had been raised in shadows and blood? She didn't know.
What she did know was that he hadn't hurt her. He didn't even threaten her.
And she had no idea Valerio had seen any of it.
No clue that in the quiet between their worlds, something had already begun to crack.
And it was going to hurt.