Five days.
Five days of staring at my phone like it personally wronged me. Five days of jumping every time it buzzes only to discover it's spam about extended car warranties or Dante asking if I've eaten anything besides coffee and regret.
The answer is no, by the way. No, I have not.
I'm staying at Dante's apartment because going back to my own place feels like admitting defeat, and also because my brother has developed an annoying habit of checking whether I'm still breathing every few hours.
He doesn't say anything about Alessandro. Doesn't ask. Just hovers with the intensity of a helicopter parent who's seen too many crime documentaries.
Which, fair. We literally just watched two people get executed. Hovering seems reasonable.
But mostly I'm trying not to obsess over whether Alessandro will actually call. Trying and failing spectacularly, because my brain has apparently decided that replaying every moment of our last conversation is more important than basic functions like sleep or sanity.
Then my phone rings.
Not buzzes. Rings. With an actual ringtone that I set specifically for his number because I'm pathetic and also a glutton for emotional punishment.
"Sophie." His voice is rough, tired, and hearing it makes my chest do complicated things. "Can you meet me? There's a café near Columbia. Corner of 116th and Amsterdam."
"When?"
"Now. If you can."
I'm already grabbing my jacket. "I'll be there in twenty."
The café is one of those hipster places with exposed brick and baristas who judge your coffee order. Alessandro is already there when I arrive, sitting at a corner table away from the other customers.
He looks like he hasn't slept in days—dark circles under his eyes, jaw shadowed with stubble, that perpetually disheveled hair even more chaotic than usual.
He looks terrible.
He looks beautiful.
Get it together, Sophie. This is a conversation, not a photoshoot.
I slide into the chair across from him, and we order coffee neither of us actually wants. The barista gives us a look that suggests she can sense the emotional turmoil radiating from our table and wants no part of it (except maybe to witness it from afar).
Long silence.
The kind that fills with all the words we're not saying, all the hurt we're both carrying, all the uncertainty about what happens next.
Finally, Alessandro speaks. "I've been thinking about what you said. That you fell in love with me."
My throat tightens. "I did. I do."
"I believe you." He meets my eyes, and there's something raw underneath the exhaustion. Something that looks like hope fighting against self-preservation.
"But we started wrong, Sophie. Everything was built on lies. Your identity. Your mission. Every moment we shared was happening while you were actively working to destroy my family."
"I know." The words come out rough, scraped from somewhere deep. "I know, Alessandro. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for all of it."
"Sorry doesn't fix it." His voice isn't harsh—just honest. "Sorry doesn't erase months of deception. Sorry doesn't give me back the version of us that existed before I found out everything was fake."
"It wasn't all fake." I lean forward, desperate for him to understand. "The mission was real. The identity was fake. But what I felt—what I feel—that was never part of the plan. You were never supposed to matter to me."
"And yet here we are."
"Here we are."
More silence. The coffee arrives, and we both ignore it.
Alessandro runs his hand through his hair. "If we do this," he says slowly, like he's choosing each word carefully, "we do it right this time. No games. No lies. Complete honesty even when it's hard. Even when it hurts. Even when telling the truth feels like handing someone a weapon to use against you."
"I can do that."
"Can you?" He leans forward, and the intensity in his grey-green eyes pins me in place.
"Because I need to know that if something happens, if you're in trouble, if you're scared—you come to me. Not your brother. Not some contact in a parking lot. Me. You don't lie to protect me or keep secrets because you think it's for the best. You tell me the truth and let me decide how to handle it."
"I will." My voice comes out stronger than I expected. "I promise, Alessandro. No more secrets. No more lies. Just us, figuring this out together."
He studies my face for a long moment, searching for something. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because his shoulders relax slightly—a tension I didn't even notice releasing.
"Okay." He nods slowly. "New rules then."
Despite everything—the heartbreak, the revelations, the bodies we left behind at that summit—I almost smile. "You and your rules."
"These are better rules." His hand reaches across the table, and when his fingers intertwine with mine, the contact sends warmth spreading through my chest. "Rule One: We're honest. Even when it's hard. Even when it hurts. No more convenient omissions or strategic silences."
I squeeze his hand, threading my fingers more firmly through his. "Rule Two: We're equals. Partners. Not owner and possession, not master and maid. Two people who chose each other because they want to, not because circumstances forced them together."
"Rule Three," Alessandro says, and his voice softens in a way that makes my heart stutter. "We choose each other. Every day. Not because we're trapped or because of some mission or some fucked up power dynamic. Because we want to. Because being together is better than being apart, even when it's complicated and messy and terrifying."
Tears are streaming down my face now, and I don't even care. "Those are much better rules."
"Can you follow them?"
"Yes." The word comes out fierce, certain. "Can you?"
"Yes."
"Then we try this." I'm standing before I consciously decide to move, rounding the table, needing to be closer. "For real this time. No characters. No covers. Just Sophie and Alessandro, building something from the ground up."
Alessandro pulls me down onto his lap right there in the café, his arms wrapping around me like he's afraid I'll disappear. The barista makes a sound of profound judgment, but I don't care. Nothing matters except the solid warmth of him, the familiar scent of his cologne, the way his hand cups the back of my head as he kisses me.
This kiss is different from all the others. Not desperate or angry or trying to prove something. Just tender and honest and full of promise.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless and crying and laughing all at once.
"People are staring," I murmur against his lips.
"Let them." His thumb brushes away my tears with devastating gentleness. "I spent months hiding what you meant to me. I'm done pretending."
For the first time in over a week, I feel like I can breathe again.
We're going to try. We're going to build something real this time—honest and messy and complicated and probably terrifying. There will be hard conversations and old wounds and trust that needs to be earned back slowly, carefully, one truth at a time.
But we're going to try.
And sitting here in this pretentious café with Alessandro's arms around me and his heart beating steady against mine, that feels like enough.
It feels like everything.