Nothing

Nothing

“We knew it was temporary. But we loved like it wasn’t.”

\--

“Does it still itch?” I asked, brushing my knuckle against his freshly buzzed hair.

Silas gave me a flat look. “No.”

“You look like a convict,” I said, trying not to smile. “Like one of those angry ex-marines from old action movies.”

“Then it’s working.”

He glanced at me from under his new cap — faded brown, stiff brim. The collar of his thrifted fisherman’s jacket was pulled up high, hiding the scar near his jaw. He walked differently now — shoulders more relaxed, steps less precise. He didn’t look like a killer anymore.

Just a man trying to disappear.

And me?

I looked nothing like Aria De Luca.

Gone was the sleek black hair. I’d chopped it to my shoulders in a motel bathroom and dyed it honey brown. My once-fitted dresses were replaced by oversized linen shirts and drawstring skirts that moved with the wind. I wore sandals. No heels. No makeup. I even had a freckle pencil — a stupid detail that made me laugh every time I used it.

We were different people now. Or trying to be.

“Stop staring at me,” he muttered.

“You’re not used to me smiling at you in daylight,” I said.

His mouth twitched like he almost wanted to smile back. Almost.

“Anyway. Bread,” I said, pointing at the stall ahead. “And maybe those weird dried figs.”

“You mean the ones that look like they’ve been stepped on?”

I rolled my eyes. “They’re good.”

The local market was barely waking up — a sleepy row of makeshift stalls, shaded by old canvas tarps and tangled vines. Locals moved slow here, barefoot kids running between crates, stray dogs napping under tables. The sea breeze carried that faint scent of salt and dust.

Silas stood close, his hand brushing the small of my back every now and then. Casual. Natural. Protective in a way he didn’t overthink anymore. He was scanning — always scanning — but even I could tell his guard was just a little lower today.

“You really like it here, huh?” I asked.

His eyes didn’t leave the street. “It’s quiet.”

“You want tomatoes or peaches?” I asked, glancing toward the stall.

Silas didn’t look up from the basket of dried herbs he was inspecting. “Both.”

“The peaches are for you anyway,” I added. “You eat them like they’re going extinct.”

He smirked — barely — and for a moment, we were just two people in a sleepy coastal town where no one asked names and no one whispered. We were just… safe.

The market was busier than usual — late morning sun pouring over weathered rooftops, the salt in the air mixing with cinnamon and fish and something fried. I wore a loose navy sundress and an oversized straw hat, hair dyed chestnut and tied low. Silas had grown the faintest scruff. No more long coats, no guns in full view. Just a dark collared shirt, rolled sleeves, and old jeans — like any man who fixed boats for a living and loved quietly.

Crack.

A sound like a dropped crate, only sharper.

Silas stiffened. So did I.

Then another. Closer.

The air changed — that shift you feel in your bones before anything actually happens.

Silas turned to me fast. “Inside. Now.”

But I was already moving. Or trying to.

A flash in the corner of my eye — a man in a butcher’s apron raised something shiny.

A gun.

Bang.

I ducked too slow — but Silas didn’t. He slammed me to the side, behind an overturned fruit cart. Oranges spilled everywhere. People screamed.

Then it started.

Masks. Boots. Four men. Tactical gear. Black balaclavas. Moving in formation. Not amateurs. Not Navarro’s soldiers. Not Vittorio’s usual men either.

These were clean. Professional. Mercenary-grade.

Silas was already up. He grabbed a broom handle from the ground — it cracked across the first man’s face so hard I heard teeth snap. He didn’t wait for the man to drop. Twisted. Elbow into another throat. Pivoted low. Swept a leg. Bone crunched on concrete.

I scrambled back, chest heaving, searching for cover. A stall overturned. A crate exploded beside me — wood splinters sliced into my arm. I pressed my palm over the blood but didn’t look away.

He was terrifying.

Efficient. Brutal. Not the man who kissed my shoulders in bed this morning.

This was someone else.

One of them reached for me.

Silas saw.

He roared — a sound I’d never heard from him before — and crossed the space in seconds. Tackled the man hard. They crashed into a table. Knives scattered.

The attacker grabbed one.

Silas saw too late.

Slice.

A low sound tore from his throat — not quite a grunt, not quite a scream.

Blood bloomed along his side, dark and fast.

He stumbled.

But he didn’t stop.

He grabbed a broken table leg and drove it into the man’s chest. Fast. Brutal. Silent.

Three bodies down. One left.

The last man hesitated — just long enough for Silas to grab his wrist mid-swing, snap it, and drive a knee into his solar plexus. The guy crumpled.

Just like that, it was over.

I ran to him.

“Silas—Silas, you’re bleeding.”

He didn’t answer. Just pressed a hand to the wound and exhaled shakily. His mouth was tight. Pale.

“It’s deep,” I said, panicked. “We need—fuck—we need something—”

“Your scarf,” he rasped.

I ripped it off and pressed it against his side, trying not to cry. His hand covered mine — grounding me.

“We’re okay,” he whispered.

“No. We’re not. You’re stabbed.”

He looked around, still sharp through the haze of pain. “More will come.”

“Let them,” I snapped. “Let them come. You’re not dying on me.”

He gave the faintest ghost of a smile. “Bossy.”

I gripped his shirt. “You idiot. You complete, stubborn—”

He pulled me close with one bloodied arm, forehead to mine.

“I love you,” he said quietly. “Just in case I don’t get to say it again.”

My chest cracked.

“You don’t get to make it sound like a goodbye.”

He closed his eyes. “It’s not.”

But it was.

From behind me, a shadow moved.

Another attacker. Fast. Silent.

I didn’t even hear him coming.

Something slammed into the back of my skull — hard.

My vision split sideways.

“ARIA!” Silas shouted.

I gasped. Reached out. My body hit the ground before I could say his name.

Darkness.

\[SILAS—3RD POV\]

He woke up in pain.

Bone-deep. Nerve-deep.

Every breath scraped his ribs raw. Every twitch of muscle lit up like exposed wire.

The alley stank of seawater and iron. Something rotten. Something burning. He heard screaming — maybe close, maybe blocks away. Spanish voices. Running feet. A cart tumbling.

None of it mattered.

Only her.

His vision was foggy, the world tilting in sharp jerks. He turned his head and immediately regretted it — the side of his face dragged across grit and something wet. Blood. His.

His breath came in short, stuttering pulls as he clawed forward, one arm at a time. Palms scraping over broken shells, shattered crates, smashed fruit. The trail behind him was thick and red.

“Aria,” he whispered, barely more than breath.

No answer.

He crawled another foot. Found her basket — overturned. Tomatoes crushed. Peaches bruised and leaking juice into the stone. Her straw hat lay half-flattened beneath a bootprint, torn at the brim.

He blinked. Looked around.

No sign of her.

No body.

No scream.

No blood that wasn’t his.

Just… gone.

He tried to get up. Managed to push halfway before his arms buckled again. A raw grunt tore from his chest as he collapsed hard onto his side. Pain flared white-hot in his ribs.

“Aria…” he said again, louder this time. Still nothing.

His hand landed on something soft.

Her scarf.

Soaked. Tangled in a ripped piece of netting. He grabbed it and pulled it to his chest. His jaw clenched. Muscles shaking, breath shallow.

He closed his eyes for a second — too long.

“No,” he muttered, voice cracking. “No. Not again. Not like this.”

His body gave out. Knees hit stone. Then his shoulder. His cheek.

The alley spun. A rib shifted wrong.

Still, he didn’t drop the scarf. His fingers stayed wrapped around it like it was the only thing tethering him to this plane. Blood seeped from him steadily, soaking into the fabric.

He whispered her name again. Then again.

Not sobbing. Not breaking. Just… refusing.

Refusing to accept that she was gone.

Not this time.

Not when he’d promised.

The last thing he saw was the sky above him. Clear blue. Soft clouds drifting. So calm. Too calm.

And then — nothing.