Mary froze, still breathless, her skin warm beneath the thin robe clinging to her body. Will stirred beneath her, his lips still parted from the kiss that hadn’t finished.
At first, it looked ordinary.
Felicity stood there, delicate and composed, a tray balanced in her hands — porcelain dishes clinking softly, steam curling from the tea. Her expression was blank. Polite. The perfect servant again.
Maybe, for a heartbeat, Mary believed she was still pretending.
But then Felicity stepped inside.
She saw them — Will propped against the pillows, shirt open and bandages bleeding through, Mary breathless and half-undressed beside him — and her whole body changed.
Not a flinch. Not a gasp. Just the slow, cold collapse of a mask.
Will’s eyes sharpened.
“You’ve been trying to kill me this whole time.”
The tray slipped from her hands and shattered.
And in the same motion, she reached beneath her apron and pulled out a gun.
“You stupid, pathetic little bitch,” she spat. “You couldn’t even keep your legs closed long enough to kill him.”
Mary scrambled backward as Felicity raised the gun.
“You think with your cunt,” she hissed, stepping further into the room. “Just like all the others. But this one—he always gets what he wants, doesn’t he?”
The barrel pointed straight at Will.
Mary couldn’t breathe.
But then—Felicity hesitated. Just for a second.
Her eyes flicked to Will’s, and for the smallest beat of time, something soft flickered there. A history. A memory. An echo of the girl she used to be.
That second was all he needed.
Will’s hand moved like lightning—grabbing the silver knife from the nightstand where it lay forgotten, then hurling it with the precision of someone who didn’t hope it would hit…
…he knew.
The blade spun through the air, silver catching the light—
—and buried itself in Felicity’s throat.
She staggered once. Dropped the gun. Hands flew to her neck as blood poured hot and fast between her fingers. No scream came—just a garbled, wet gasp as she crumpled to the floor.
Mary couldn’t move, couldn’t blink, couldn’t unsee it.
Will crossed the space in two long strides and pulled her into his arms, holding her tight, as if trying to press the moment out of existence.
But the blood was already seeping across the carpet.
She was shaking.
“We can’t stay,” he said into her hair. “It’s not safe here anymore. They’ve gotten too close.”
Minutes later, he was behind the wheel of one of their cars, moving through the estate’s back exit. Mary barely spoke. The night was thick around them, headlights cutting through a world that suddenly felt thinner, more fragile.
Will didn’t stop until they reached the Don’s estate.
The gates opened like they’d been waiting.
Carmela was already on the steps, wrapped in a shawl, her eyes widening as Will stepped out and lifted Mary—still trembling, barely speaking—into her arms.
“Take care of her,” he said.
Mary turned sharply. “Wait—what are you doing?”
He didn’t answer right away.
She gripped his wrist, panic rising. “No. Don’t leave me again. Please—”
He leaned down, kissed her forehead, then her mouth. Slow. Steady. Final.
“I have to end this,” he murmured. “I let them in once. I won’t do it again.”
“Then I’ll come with you. Like before—”
“Not this time,” he said, brushing a tear from her cheek. “Not when they’re hunting you now too. You stay with Carmela. With the Don. In our clan, there’s nowhere safer.”
Her fingers clutched at his shirt, desperate. “Will—”
“I’ll kill them all,” he said softly. “And then I’ll come back to you.”
Then he turned, got in the car, and drove into the night without looking back.
And Mary, held in the arms of a stranger, could only watch the red glow of his taillights until it vanished into dark.