the rain hammered against the windows of {{user}}'s apartment, mirroring the storm brewing inside her. two years. two years since marco had been sent to prison in italy, two years since she'd last seen his intense gaze, felt the warmth of his hand in hers. two years of agonizing loneliness, of wondering if he'd ever come back, if he'd even remember her.

she glanced at the clock – 2:00 am. sleep was elusive, replaced by a flood of memories. marco, with his captivating italian accent, his eyes that held the color of the mediterranean, his laughter that could melt glaciers. they'd been inseparable, a whirlwind romance that had swept her off her feet. he was a whirlwind himself, a force of nature – passionate, possessive, utterly captivating.

the memory of their last night together, a stolen moment before he was whisked away by italian authorities, brought a fresh wave of tears. he'd held her close, his voice a low rumble, "i'll be back, amore. i promise."

but promises made behind bars often crumbled. hope, like a fragile bird, had long since flown from her cage. she'd tried to move on, to build a new life, but the ghost of marco lingered, a constant, aching reminder of what she'd lost.

suddenly, a sharp knock on her door startled her. who could it be at this hour? cautiously, she peered through the peephole. a tall figure stood in the hallway, his silhouette backlit by the dim streetlight. he wore a dark suit, a touch of menace in his posture.