The cool night air carried the lingering scent of gunpowder and desperation. The confrontation with Osvaldo was over, his power dismantled, and his influence shattered. Yet, as Azalea and Ambrose walked away from the ruins of his empire, a strange emptiness settled in her chest.
Victory had never felt this hollow.
She kept her hand clasped in Ambrose's, his warmth grounding her in the moment. They had won. They had survived. But at what cost?
They arrived at one of Ambrose's private estates just outside of Milan, a sleek, modern villa perched on the edge of a secluded lake. The glass walls reflected the soft glow of moonlight, and the silence of the countryside was almost jarring after the chaos of the past few days.
Azalea sat on the edge of the outdoor terrace, her gaze fixed on the dark water. Her mind replayed everything—Osvaldo's threats, his desperation, the look in his eyes when he realized he had lost everything.
She barely noticed when Ambrose joined her, setting down two glasses of whiskey. He handed one to her without a word, waiting until she finally spoke.
"I thought I'd feel… relieved," she admitted, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. "Like I could finally breathe."
Ambrose leaned back, watching her carefully. "But you don't?"
She shook her head. "Osvaldo's gone, but the shadows he cast are still there. The things he did, the way he twisted everything—he made me into something I don't recognize anymore."
Ambrose took a slow sip of his drink, considering her words. "You've spent years surviving, Azalea. Fighting, adapting. That doesn't make you lost—it makes you strong."
She let out a dry chuckle. "Strong?" She turned to face him fully, her expression unguarded for once. "Ambrose, I've spent my life killing people in the dark. I built an empire of deception. And now, I don't know what I am without it."
He set his glass down and reached for her hand, tracing slow circles over her skin. "Maybe it's not about what you've been. Maybe it's about what you want to be."
Azalea inhaled deeply, the warmth of his touch grounding her. "What if I don't know?"
Ambrose's eyes softened. "Then you figure it out."
She searched his face, looking for the doubt, the hesitation, but there was none. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not," he admitted. "But you don't have to do it alone."
Something in her chest tightened. He had always been there—steadfast, unwavering—even when she hadn't realized she needed him.
She exhaled, staring at their intertwined fingers. "Do you ever regret this life?"
Ambrose was silent for a moment, then shook his head. "No. But I regret the moments it's stolen from me. The people it's taken."
Azalea understood that. She thought of all the lives she had ended, the faces that had faded into distant memories, the ones that still haunted her in the dead of night.
"But if I hadn't lived this life," he continued, his thumb brushing against her palm, "I wouldn't have met you."
She looked up, her breath catching slightly. His gaze held hers, steady and sincere.
"You're the best thing to come out of all of this, Azalea," he murmured. "If there's a future beyond the shadows, I want it with you."
Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. The idea of a future—one not built on deception and death—felt foreign. But with him, it didn't seem impossible.
"Ambrose…" she started, uncertainty lacing her voice.
He lifted his hand, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I know you're scared," he whispered. "I know change doesn't come easy for people like us."
She closed her eyes at his touch, leaning into him just slightly. "What if I don't know how to stop?"
He let out a chuckle. "Then we take it one day at a time."
Azalea opened her eyes, meeting his gaze once more. There was no demand in his expression, no expectation—only patience.
She had never had that before.
Slowly, she set her whiskey aside and shifted closer, closing the space between them. "One day at a time?" she repeated.
He nodded, his lips curving into a small smile. "One day at a time."
Her fingers trailed up his arm, over his shoulder, until they rested against the nape of his neck. "And if I'm terrible at it?"
Ambrose smirked, his voice a low murmur. "Then I'll just have to keep you distracted."
His lips brushed against hers, a ghost of a touch, testing. She closed the distance, her hands tangling in his hair as she pulled him deeper into the kiss.
The tension melted away, replaced by something warmer, something more real than anything she had felt in years.
For the first time in a long time, Azalea allowed herself to hope.