Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Twilight characters or the rights to "Night Time" as performed by The XX, and I will not be earning income from using these materials. I do, however, own the storyline and any original characters. Thank you.

Translations:
soldati -
soldiers (In the Sicilian Mafia, the soldati are crews under the direction of the consigliere who complete assignments, sometimes given by the capofamiglia (boss) of the particular clan)


Chapter Seven:
Wolf, She Cries

Can I confess these things to you? Well, I don't know. Embedded in my chest and it hurts to hold. Night time, sympathize; I've been working on white lies. So I'll tell the truth.
I'll give it up to you.

"Night Time" – The XX

x0x0x0x0x0x

Then

She rolls over and pulls his arm around her, burying herself in his sheets and his scent. The sun is peaking over the horizon, streaking the floor and lightening the locks in his hair. He smiles, lazily, exhausted and outdone, but she's small and sprite-like on his chest, exuberant with energy and new found existence.

"Why are you here, in Miami?" Her chin is on her hands, folded over his stomach, hair draped around her eyes. Bliss radiates from her, an ever-present smile illuminating her eyes while the questions never seem to cease.

A week in and he's certain he never wants to find her any other way.

"Why do you care?" He grins, ruffles her hair. She clears the frayed strands from her face.

"Because I want to know. Why are you avoiding the question?"

"I'm in school. And I like the beach."

She frowns. Too vague, but she can't dig any further. She knows the questions need to end, but at every turn she craves more. She rolls onto her back, pulls up the sheets.

"Oh. Okay."

"Why are you here?"

She shifts, stills. His breath echoes with his heartbeat, discordant and perfect. She wants his, so she must give hers.

"I ran away."

Waves roll and crash, echoing through the crack in the window, the only sound in silence.

"Is that who you were running from?"

There is no answer. There are no words.

He's ripping in two, pieces falling away and decorating the floor. But he's already gone too far. He doesn't know if he can live without her now.

"Bella … you can't push them away. You can't stay here, trapped and hidden, forever."

"Why?" The word is slow to come, quiet and meek.

He's taken the smile, and he hates himself for it. Necessity wins.

"Don't you want your life to mean more?"

She doesn't know.

Days pass, pondering. Her smile isn't gone forever, but he sees his question in the moments she isn't watching. A twist of hair, a simple frown, thoughtful eyes.

He knows how to save her. But is it worth the loss of her?

x0x0x0x0x0x

She is standing on her balcony, wind stirring her hair, moving her sighs. She's not sure where it comes from or why she hears it, but the low rumble of an engine scatters her thoughts, moving her lethargic brain into overdrive. She is inside of her walls in an instant, contemplating secrecy when the engine stalls, stops. It's a long drive and a small, empty beach house, and she's forgotten the sounds of humanity.

She slips inside, doors slip into locks behind her, and she is against the wall, beside the entry, her heart pounding into her throat.

Three knocks, repetitive, eating into her breath, and she hiccups in fear of the storm. Nothing ever stays the same.

"Miss?"

It's a man's voice, tenor low, pleasant and firm around her ears. Not like one of his lackeys, his soldatidraped in a funeral dirge.

"Miss? We know you're there. Mr. Masen asked us to come by and have a chat with you."

Who asked what? She is confused, on the verge of believing but not sure where to guess or go. They knock again, this time with her name in their fists. They aren't going away. Three quiet strides take her to the knife, lying on the cold countertop. It is hard in her fist, sticky, swollen with sweat. The blade trembles, nervous anticipation.

The bolt twists. She tugs on the knob. The chain catches with a snap. Unfeeling metal, sharp through the open doorway, is barely hidden at her side.

"Yes?"

"Miss … Swan." Her name is nearly a curse on his lips. As if he knows. Eyes flicker, softly, up then down. Suits, firm pressed, bright and silk, hiding pleasant smiles and coercive looks. She does know. Not these, not the particulars, but the kind.

And the hurt begins, trickling from her brain, paralyzing her feet, her arms, the blade tucked neatly in her side. It's not a question, it's so many questions, all with no answers, not from the suits with polished buttons and horizontal stripes, bright, eye-consuming colors shooting from bleary black boxes.

They're all the same. And apparently, so is he.

x0x0x0x0x0x

He opens the door, longs for her scent, her presence, her joy. The leaping hugs, the swinging mass of shampoo-scented hair rolling across his face – it's why he presses through every day. Pretending.

There is no greeting for him today.

"Bella?" The locks snap shut, echoing behind him. Arms release, books, folders, papers slide to the floor, uncaring. He rounds the corner.

She is sitting, cold, fake plastic pressing into her thighs, pointed steel dangling, swinging from between her fingers, a pendulum to her calves. Her eyes are fixed on him.

Oh. Shit.

"Who are you?"

"Bella …"

He isn't afraid for himself, only for her, for the choice she'll make, the things she knows. She slides from her place, feet smacking against linoleum. The knife hangs at her side.

"Should I put it down, Anthony?" The point is at her fingertip, twisting, wicked and deadly. "Give me a reason. Tell me who you're with, and I'll tell you your fate."

The truth is out, and it's over, this fairytale life.

"I'm not with him. I'm here … for your father."

She watches him hard, hand twitching. He doesn't move, no backing down. He's made his choice.

And he still loves her.

"Okay." And the weapon leaves her hand. Then she is beside him, brushing by him, pulling twenties and fifties from underneath the couch. He notices, for the first time, her clothing; black and grey, old and new, tight jeans and lace top, silk camisole. She's taking herself with her.

"Isabella, please, no. Don't –"

"Don't you dare fucking tell me what to do." It's a hiss, her breath low.

"Just, please – just, let me explain. Please." He'll be on his hands and knees if she asks.

"Try." She's so still. He has a chance.

"Yes, I came here to find you for your father. He wanted you back. I wasn't told why; it wasn't my place to know, but the night I found you, they were trailing you, and I knew. They didn't have 'alive' in mind. So I brought you here. To wait, to find out what they wanted, where they went, till I could take you safely home. Then …" he pauses, swallows, unsure. She hasn't breathed. "… I found out why they wanted you. And I knew. I couldn't leave you. Isabella … you deserve more. I want out. With you. Please."

Stillness … so very still. Finally, she stirs, looking at him. Her eyes are broken, trails of tears iridescent in the fading sun.

"What's your name?"

He almost laughs. Three months. He wants to share so much with her.

"Edward." He pushes hair from his face, too long. "Edward Cullen, soldati."

She searches her feet, fingers the money in her palm.

"Edward." The name is foreign, fitting on her tongue. She plays with it, rolling it around a few times. She knows now what she's lost. "Buona fortuna, Edward Cullen."

She's leaving. She's leaving, and he's losing.

"Isabella, wait, what – where are you going to go?"

"I don't know yet. It doesn't matter." He taught her freedom, strength. Now, he's broken her. He's made her invincible. "I can't sell out my family. I won't give up my father. I won't run that way."

"Isabella, he hurts people – he hurts you. You want to be free? If you don't confess, you'll always be under his fingertips, his marionette."

"What?" she smiles, sadly. "Like I would be yours?"

"No, I –" He looks at her, staggered, bewildered. "Isabella … I love you. It's not the same –"

"Are you saying my father doesn't love me?" Her hand around the knob, her heart tied in her throat. She wants to believe him, but everything he is lies. She loves Anthony. She doesn't know Edward. And he has no reply.

"You love me." It's reassurance, self-inflicted pain. A futile attempt.

"I might have." She looks down. The words shade her lips, forcing hope down his throat before dragging it out with rotten nails. "But I can't love lies."