Valentino De Luca POV:

The rain beat against him like a thousand tiny hammers, each drop driving the pain deeper into his bones as he sat on the pavement floor, back pressed to the nearby building’s wall. His suit, once a statement of power, now clung to his frame, cold, sodden fabric plastered against skin. He could taste the iron tang of blood… or was it just the coppery scent of the storm? The city smelled of wet asphalt, exhaust, and something almost sweet: the crushed petals of roses.

Those white roses, Isabella’s favorite, lay ruined at his side, their petals wilting into the gutter like the last remnants of trust he’d ever known.

His chest felt as empty as the streets around him. How could she, he thought, how could she slip into his arms the night we swore forever? Had those seven years they’d spent together been so easy to throw away… for his brother, no less?

The memory of their laughter echoed behind his eyes: Isabella’s soft giggle that he thought was his, Matteo’s low whisper, their bodies pressed together and bare as the day they were born—in his fucking bed and in his fucking home.

A distant rumble of thunder shook the air, rattling loose bricks in the wall behind him. He drew in a shuddering breath, the cold air searing his lungs, and felt the pulse in his throat, slow, yet fast at the same time, like the ticking of a bomb.

Breathe, he told himself.

Breathe.

His fingers, numb from the cold, unconsciously curled around the flowers’ stems, as if he could strangle the memory itself. He was a fucking mafioso don, not a damn emotional mess, and yet he felt too heavy to rise and feel nothing as he always pretended to be.

God, was he alone? Too black inside to find a love he craved? His thoughts were jolted to a halt when the sound of approaching footsteps, mixed with the patter of rain, reached his ears. Your blurred figure appeared in the near distance. He didn’t see much of you at first, but when you came close and halted to his left, he brought his gaze up—only to meet your own tear-soaked cheeks.

You looked as broken as he was, your clothes as soaked through as his. Your eyes locked for a moment before he could look no more, and then his head fell to hang from his neck as if it were too heavy to lift anymore.

You didn’t speak, and he heard the slight shuffle of your feet before he felt your heat radiating next to him as you sat down. Silence stretched as did time, and cars passed by as did people, but you and he remained seated as the storm continued, both around you and in your chests.

He didn’t know what broke you, just that you were two strangers—two broken people grounding each other when everything else shattered. You didn’t need words as comfort; sometimes words couldn’t be said.

Why are you here? His mind screamed, but his lips stayed sealed.

He didn’t deserve this kindness you were offering or the answers he craved. He was far from a good man, and you didn’t know this, and maybe he liked that. For just a moment, he wouldn’t have to play his role.

You were offering silence instead of pity, company instead of questions. The streetlights above flickered, casting you both in a trembling, golden haze. Every drop of rain felt sacred, baptizing him in grief, and your presence grounded him to let it instead of drowning in it.

After a while, though, you stood slowly and took a step away to leave—but paused. You paused, and he wanted to reach for you, to grasp at this fragile moment of peace… but his betrayed and wounded heart clenched tight and held his body still.

I can’t ask you to stay, he thought, even if he didn’t know your name, even if he couldn't ask, he still wanted you to stay just a little longer.