The early morning sun cast golden streaks across the Milanese countryside, filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Ambrose's secluded villa. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and the lingering embers from last night's fire. It was quiet—eerily so—as if the world itself was holding its breath after the storm they had weathered.
Azalea sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a silk robe, staring out at the vast lake beyond the terrace. The water was still, mirroring the sky's pastel hues, but her mind was anything but calm.
Osvaldo was gone. His threats, his manipulations—everything that had loomed over her like a specter—had been buried along with his power. And yet, the wounds he had inflicted remained, unseen but deeply embedded.
The bed dipped behind her. She didn't turn, but she felt Ambrose's presence before he even touched her. His warmth seeped through the space between them, comforting in a way she wasn't sure she deserved.
"Can't sleep?" he asked softly.
She shook her head. "Didn't try."
Ambrose exhaled, reaching forward to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "You don't have to keep carrying it all, Azalea."
She finally turned to face him, studying his features in the dim morning light. There was an exhaustion in his gaze that mirrored her own. He had been through just as much and endured just as many losses.
She reached out, running her fingers lightly over the scar on his collarbone. A relic of a life he rarely spoke about. "Neither do you."
He let out a chuckle, shaking his head. "I'm not sure I know how to stop."
She understood that better than anyone. For so long, survival had been her only purpose. What did life look like when there was no enemy to fight, and no mission to complete?
"Tell me about it," she murmured. "All of it."
Ambrose hesitated, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the sheets.
She had never pressed him about his past before. Even after discovering his secret, she had let him keep his walls up. But now, after everything, she needed to know. She needed to understand.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "It's not a pretty story, Azalea."
She gave him a wry smile. "Neither is mine."
A beat of silence stretched between them before he finally nodded. "Alright."
He shifted, leaning against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling as if searching for the right words. "I was sixteen the first time I killed someone."
Azalea's breath caught, but she said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
"It wasn't planned. Wasn't clean. Just… survival." His voice was distant as if he were speaking about someone else. "My father was a bastard—a ruthless businessman with ties to people he had no business being involved with. When a deal went bad, they didn't go after him. They came for me."
She reached for his hand, intertwining their fingers. He squeezed lightly but didn't stop.
"I did what I had to. After that, my father saw potential." He let out a bitter laugh. "He trained me, made me into something he could use. By the time I was eighteen, I was running contracts for men twice my age. I told myself it was just a job—just another business, like his textile empire. But it wasn't."
Azalea swallowed hard. "Did you ever try to leave?"
His jaw tensed. "Once. When I was twenty-two. I disappeared for a year. Changed my name, and built a life in Lisbon. Thought I could be normal." His voice turned grim. "They found me. And they made sure I never tried again."
Azalea knew what that meant. Knew that leaving a life like theirs wasn't as simple as walking away.
"What happened?" she asked gently.
Ambrose sighed, his thumb brushing absently over her knuckles. "They killed the one person who ever believed I could be more than this."
The weight of his words pressed against her chest. "Someone you loved?"
He nodded slowly. "Her name was Isabel. She was… kind. Too kind for someone like me. She knew what I was, but she still believed I could be different. And because of me, she paid the price."
Azalea closed her eyes for a moment, absorbing the pain in his voice. "I'm sorry, Ambrose."
His lips twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I used to tell myself I didn't deserve to mourn her. That I had been selfish to even try to have a life with her."
Azalea turned his face toward her, forcing him to meet her gaze. "That's not true."
Ambrose searched her eyes, as if looking for something—redemption, forgiveness, maybe both.
"It took me years to understand that," he admitted. "But meeting you… it made me realize that maybe, just maybe, I could still be something more."
Her breath hitched. "Ambrose…"
"I mean it, Azalea." He reached up, cupping her cheek, his thumb tracing along her jaw. "With you, I don't have to pretend. I don't have to be the assassin or the businessman. I can just be me."
She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes. "I've never had that before."
"Then let's have it," he murmured. "Let's build something different."
Azalea exhaled slowly, her heart hammering in her chest. "Do you think we can?"
Ambrose smiled faintly. "We've survived everything else. Why not this?"
A soft laugh escaped her lips. "It's funny. For so long, I thought I'd never escape my past. But now… I want to try."
He pulled her closer, pressing his forehead against hers. "Then we try. Together."
The warmth of his breath fanned across her lips, and before she could think twice, she closed the distance, kissing him softly.
It wasn't like their previous kisses—fueled by adrenaline and desperation. This was slow, deliberate. A promise.
When they finally pulled apart, Ambrose brushed a strand of hair from her face. "One day at a time?"
She nodded. "One day at a time."