HE COMES AT NIGHT

3

The tension in the room was so thick it was suffocating. Armando could feel his blood boiling, the mixture of guilt, rage, and helplessness making his head spin. As Dante inspected the scene, his face serious but calm, Armando could no longer hold back the words that had been burning in his throat since he walked in.

“Where the hell were you, Dante?” Armando’s voice was sharp, cutting through the room like a knife. His eyes locked onto his lieutenant, the man he had entrusted with the safety of his family. The man who, in Armando’s eyes, had just failed him.

Dante turned slowly, his face steady, though his eyes reflected a hint of the weight of what had just happened. He had been with the family for years, had seen the deepest and darkest corners of Armando’s world, but never had his responsibility felt this heavy.

“I was—” Dante began, his voice calm but respectful.

But before Dante could even get another word out, Jessica’s voice cut through the room, sharp and cold. “It’s not his duty to protect us,” she snapped, her eyes blazing with fury. “It’s your duty, Armando.”

Her words were like a punch to the gut. Armando’s jaw clenched, his muscles coiled tightly as the fire inside him flared. He turned his head slowly to look at her, eyes narrowing. The accusation in her voice, the biting anger—it was too much. He could feel his control slipping, his fists curling into tight balls at his sides.

But as his eyes met Jessica’s, something stopped him. She was already terrified, standing there like a cornered animal, her body rigid with fear, exhaustion, and anger. Her face, beautiful even in the dim light of the room, was pale, her eyes red-rimmed from stress, from the trauma of the night. And even though every fiber of him wanted to lash out, to defend himself, he held his tongue.

He took a breath, steadying himself. Now wasn’t the time. Not in front of everyone. Not when Jessica was already so fragile, so broken by what had just happened. His jaw worked silently, teeth grinding together as he swallowed the anger, forcing it down.

Jessica didn’t wait for his response. She turned away from him, her arms still wrapped protectively around her chest as if shielding herself from his presence, her resentment simmering just beneath the surface.

Armando watched her for a moment longer, the silence between them deafening, before he turned back to Dante. His gaze was hard, the fury he had held back now redirected toward the man who had let this happen.

“This is your one and only warning, Dante,” Armando said, his voice low and dangerous, every word laced with venom. “I swear on everything I have—if anything happens to them again, I’ll have your head.”

Dante’s expression remained unchanged, but Armando could see the weight of the threat sink in. The man nodded silently, accepting the blame. He knew better than to offer excuses, especially not now.

For the next hour, the penthouse was a blur of movement and quiet conversation as Dante, Alexander, and Arthur inspected every corner of the apartment. The body of the dead intruder was swiftly taken care of, leaving no trace of the chaos that had unfolded just a short while ago. But no matter how clean the space became, the tension still hung in the air like a storm cloud, dark and heavy.

Armando watched everything from the corner of the room, his mind split between his responsibilities as the leader of the Prime Syndicate and the gnawing guilt over Jessica and Alvaro’s safety. He hadn’t spoken to Jessica since her harsh words earlier, and she had disappeared from the living room, likely retreating to their bedroom, exhausted and emotionally spent.

By the time everything was secured, Jessica was long gone from sight. Armando’s men finished their inspection and cleared out quietly, leaving him alone with his thoughts and his family. The door clicked shut softly as the last of them left, and the apartment was eerily silent.

Alvaro stirred in his cot, the small sound breaking the quiet. Armando’s gaze softened as he looked at his son, the boy’s tiny frame shifting under the blankets, his breathing uneven. A few moments later, the soft sound of whimpering broke through, and Alvaro’s cries quickly followed.

Armando moved to the cot, his heart aching as he saw the distress on his son’s face. He gently picked the boy up, cradling him in his strong arms. Alvaro’s little hands reached out, gripping Armando’s shirt as his cries grew louder, the fear from earlier still lingering in the child’s mind.

“Shhh,” Armando murmured softly, rocking him gently. “I’m here, son. You’re safe.”

But Alvaro’s cries didn’t stop. He was hungry, and Armando could sense it. The boy’s small body trembled slightly, his little fists balling up as he whined, his face scrunched up in distress. Armando’s heart twisted. He had failed them tonight, and the weight of that failure was heavy in his chest.

Without another thought, Armando carried Alvaro toward their bedroom. The door was cracked open slightly, and as he stepped inside, the soft sound of running water could be heard from the bathroom.

He paused for a moment, his eyes taking in the familiar space of their room—soft lighting, the large bed they once shared filled with memories of better times. But the warmth that had once filled the room felt distant now, replaced by the cold reality of the life they were living.

The water stopped, and a moment later, Jessica emerged from the bathroom, a towel loosely wrapped around her hair. She was dressed in a nightgown, soft and flowing, but undeniably sultry. The thin fabric clung to her curves, the hem brushing against her thighs as she moved.

Armando froze, his breath catching in his throat as he looked at her. The sight of her, so beautiful, so striking in the dim light, left him speechless for a moment. Her skin glistened from the shower, and the nightgown did nothing to hide the allure of her body, a reminder of the woman he loved—the woman he had promised to protect.

Jessica hadn’t noticed him at first, too focused on unwinding after the trauma of the night. But when she saw him standing there, Alvaro cradled in his arms, her expression changed. She met his gaze briefly, and Armando saw the same resentment flicker in her eyes, though it was muted now by exhaustion.

She said nothing, just stood there, watching him.

“Alvaro’s hungry,” Armando said quietly, his voice softer than it had been all night. He shifted the boy gently in his arms, rocking him as the cries softened but didn’t stop.

Jessica’s eyes flicked to Alvaro, and for a moment, Armando saw the walls she had built around herself begin to crack. She stepped forward, reaching out to take their son from him. As her hands brushed against his, Armando felt the familiar warmth of her touch, the one thing that still anchored him to reality.

But Jessica didn’t say a word. She took Alvaro in her arms, turning away from Armando as she walked toward the bed. The distance between them felt insurmountable, even though they were only a few feet apart.

Armando stood there, watching her as she sat down on the edge of the bed, gently soothing Alvaro as she prepared to nurse him. Her body language screamed exhaustion—both physical and emotional. She was done with tonight, done with the chaos, done with him.

He wanted to say something, anything, to bridge the gap between them, but the words wouldn’t come. His guilt was too heavy, the silence too thick. So he stayed where he was, standing in the doorway, watching the woman he loved as she cared for their son, breastfeeding him into sleep. The one person who kept him tethered to this world.

And in that moment, as the room fell into an uneasy quiet once more, Armando realized just how far he had fallen. How much he had lost in his quest for power. And how much more he stood to lose if he didn’t find a way to fix it.