I don't know what this is anymore.
Not the deal.
Not the engagement.
Not whatever exists between me and Luna.
At the beginning, it was simple.
Strategic.
Two families. Two powers. One calculated alliance.
Clean.
Controlled.
Predictable.
That's how I prefer things.
But now—
nothing about this feels predictable.
Luna is recovering.
I made sure of that.
The best doctors money can buy. Private security layered so tightly even a ghost wouldn't slip through. Every visitor checked, every movement watched.
No mistakes.
Not again.
And yet—
I've kept my distance.
Not completely.
Never completely.
I know everything.
Every update.
Every shift in her condition.
Every time she wakes up, every time she pushes herself too far, every time she pretends she's fine when she's not.
I just don't hear it from her.
I send Zade.
My younger brother walks into that hospital like he owns the place, joking with nurses, annoying her just enough to make her react. He comes back with updates I never ask for directly.
"She's better," he said yesterday.
"She tried to get out of bed. Got yelled at."
A faint smirk had followed that.
"She asked about you."
A pause.
"But like… indirectly. You know how she is."
I didn't respond.
Didn't ask anything further.
Because I didn't know what to do with that information.
So I did what I always do.
I buried it.
Under work.
Under numbers.
Under shipments, routes, contracts, problems that make sense.
Things I can control.
Because I learned something the night she got shot.
Something I won't allow to happen again.
No one gets to see her as my weakness.
No one gets to connect her to me in a way that makes her a target.
Not my enemies.
Not my allies.
Not even her.
If distance keeps her safe—
then distance is what she gets.
Even if something about that feels… wrong.
My fingers tap lightly against the desk as I stare at the laptop screen in front of me.
Reports from the German line.
Numbers that don't quite add up.
Subtle discrepancies.
Small enough to ignore.
Big enough to notice.
Someone is still moving pieces behind the scenes.
And I will find them.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Completely.
But my focus slips.
Again.
Back to her.
That room.
White walls.
The sound of machines.
Her voice—weak, but still sharp enough to push back.
"Don't lose yourself over this."
My jaw tightens slightly.
I remember what I said.
"I found a reason."
I didn't plan those words.
Didn't calculate them.
They just… happened.
And that's the problem.
Because I don't operate like that.
I don't act without thinking.
I don't speak without purpose.
But with her—
things don't follow the same rules.
And I don't like that.
A soft sound cuts through my thoughts.
The door opening.
I don't look up.
"Leave it," I say, voice calm, eyes still on the screen.
No response.
That's what makes me pause.
Slowly, I lift my gaze.
And there they are.
My father.
And my grandfather.
Standing inside my office like they've been watching longer than I realized.
I straighten slightly, closing the laptop halfway.
"Didn't hear you come in."
My tone is controlled.
Always controlled.
My grandfather, Ronald Genovese, studies me with that same sharp, unreadable gaze he's always had.
"Clearly," he replies.
One word.
Enough.
My father, Henry, walks further into the room, hands clasped behind his back.
"You've been distracted."
Not a question.
A statement.
I lean back slightly in my chair.
"I'm handling everything."
Because I am.
Business is stable.
Operations are intact.
Nothing has slipped.
But that's not what they're asking.
My grandfather steps closer, resting his hand on the back of the chair across from me.
"Handling," he repeats slowly, "is not the same as thinking clearly."
My jaw tightens.
There it is.
I meet his gaze directly.
"Say what you came to say."
Silence stretches.
Then—
"Luna Gambino."
Of course.
It always leads back to her.
My father adds, quieter but sharper, "You've changed your approach since the incident."
Carefully said.
But deliberate.
I don't look away.
"And?"
My grandfather's eyes narrow slightly.
"You're keeping distance," he says. "But increasing protection."
A pause.
"Contradiction."
It's not.
It's strategy.
It's control.
It's the only way this works now.
"No one connects her to me, she stays safe," I say.
Simple.
Logical.
Correct.
My father watches me closely.
"And what does she think of that?"
That question—
I don't like it.
Because I don't know the answer.
Because I haven't asked.
Because I chose not to.
"That's irrelevant," I say.
Too fast.
My grandfather notices.
Of course he does.
"Nothing about this is irrelevant anymore," he says quietly.
The air in the room shifts.
Tighter.
Sharper.
He straightens slightly, voice dropping just enough to carry weight.
"You were the target."
"Yes."
"She was hit instead."
"Yes."
"And now," he continues, "you're reacting like a man protecting something he refuses to name."
That lands.
Too close.
"I'm protecting an asset," I say.
The word feels wrong.
Even as it leaves my mouth.
My father tilts his head slightly.
"Is that what she is?"
Silence.
Longer this time.
He doesn't push.
He doesn't need to.
Because the answer isn't simple.
And for the first time—
I don't have one ready.
My grandfather nods slightly, like he's reached his own conclusion.
"Control is not distance," he says. "Control is understanding."
His gaze sharpens.
"And right now, you don't understand what she is to you."
The words stay.
Even after he turns.
My father lingers a moment longer.
"Just make sure," he says quietly, "you're not creating a different kind of weakness."
Then they leave.
The door closes.
Silence returns.
I sit there for a moment.
Still.
The laptop screen glows in front of me, numbers waiting, problems I can solve.
But my mind isn't there anymore.
It's somewhere else.
A hospital room.
A quiet voice.
A pair of eyes that didn't look at me like I was danger—
but like I was something else entirely.
My fingers still against the desk.
For the first time in a long time—
I don't move.
Because one question stays in my head.
Unanswered.
Uncomfortable.
Uncontrolled.
What is she to me?
And for once—
I don't like that I don't know.