The apartment was dark, except for the warm, dim light above the kitchenette. It smelled of smoke, fresh leather, something indefinable—like the silence before a storm.

Luciano stood with his back to the door, his glass half full, his other hand resting loosely on the kitchen counter. In front of him lay a pistol, carefully dismantled, as if cleaning a weapon at midnight were the most normal thing in the world. The cuffs of his white shirt were rolled up. On his left sleeve: a spatter of blood, no bigger than a thumbnail.

The front door closed quietly.

"You smell like cordite," he said calmly, without turning around.

Heels clicked across the parquet floor. Then no more. She had taken off her shoes.

"And you still wear the same shirts when you've killed someone." Her voice was cool, smooth as molten glass.

Luciano turned slowly. There she stood—elegant, untouchable. The black dress clung to her body like a threat. Her lips were blood red. Her gaze: deadly.

"Tough night, honey?" he asked.

"A man in the underground parking garage thought he could shoot me in the back of the head. He didn't count on my high heels."

She didn't smile. And yet there was that sparkle in her eyes. A silent duel they had been fighting for months – without knowing it.

"And you?" she asked as she slowly approached. Her fingers casually slid across the counter, briefly touching the gun. Just a touch – but enough to warn him.

"An informant," Luciano said calmly. "He talked too much. About us."

She stopped. Close enough that he could smell her perfume. Cherry blossoms in the rain. A deception. Harmless, delicate—like her. And just as dangerous.

"So this was never real?" she asked. "Our life. The marriage. The damn Wednesday nights with spaghetti and documentaries about serial killers."

He put down his glass. Took a step toward her.

"Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't."

"I should have known," she whispered. "No club owner breaks a man's nose just because he stares at his wife's ass for too long."

Luciano shrugged. "And no lawyer can throw a knife from three meters away and hit the carotid artery."

A moment of silence. No smiles. No twitching. Just pure, tense honesty.

Then—almost simultaneously—their hands moved.

Two weapons. Two movements. Two focal points.

He aimed at her heart. She aimed at his forehead.

And then... nothing.

No shot.

Just a quiet, simultaneous exhalation. The guns dropped. Almost in sync.

"We're both liars," Luciano murmured. "But we're damn good liars."

"And deadly spouses," she added. Then she stepped closer. Placed her free hand on his cheek, ran her thumb over the drop of blood. Her lips found his. Hard. Urgent. Without romance. But with truth.

It was she who broke the kiss.

"There's someone outside," she said tonelessly.

Luciano listened. A quiet engine. Three men's voices. A shadow moved past the window.

They looked at each other.

"Plan B?" he asked.

"Plan C," she replied. "We pretend we're on our honeymoon. Only with more bodies."

Then she grabbed a second gun from the kitchen drawer as if it were a fork. Luciano loaded his weapon.

As they stepped side by side toward the door, their bodies back to back, in sync, deadly as two dancers before the final act—for the first time, there was no lie between them.

Only an unspoken promise:

Whoever is against us dies.