Chapter 3: What if you get tired of this life?

Sophia's POV

Saturday afternoon finds me curled up on Marco's tiny couch, watching him hunched over the small dining table with a thick manual spread out in front of him. His dark hair falls across his forehead as he traces lines of text with his finger, lips moving silently as he reads.

"Check this out." He flips the book around to show me pages covered in engine diagrams. "Tommy at the garage says if I pass this certification test, I can get a real job. Not just washing cars and changing oil."

I slide off the couch and wrap my arms around him from behind, resting my chin on his shoulder. The pages are covered in his messy handwriting.

"Marco, this is incredible! You're really gonna do this?"

"Hell yeah." He leans back against me. "I wanna be someone you can be proud of. Give you a real life, not this crap."

My heart does this little flip. I kiss his temple, tasting salt on his skin.

"Tell me about your dream garage."

Marco's eyes light up as he turns to face me. "Small place, maybe in Southie. Just me and one other guy. Fix normal people's cars for fair prices." He reaches up to touch my cheek. "And you'll go to college. Maybe study teaching? You're good with people."

"Teaching sounds nice. I could help kids who got dealt a bad hand like us."

"Like we used to be," Marco corrects. "We're not lost anymore. We found each other."

We spend the afternoon with me quizzing him while he practices. He's nervous, stumbling over the technical stuff, but I can see how much this matters to him. How much we matter to him.

Around eight that night, loud banging on the door makes us both jump off the couch.

Marco goes stiff. He motions for me to stay quiet and moves toward the door.

"Go to the bedroom," he whispers. "Close the door."

My stomach drops. I know that tone. I hurry into the bedroom but leave the door cracked just enough to hear.

"Marco! Open up, we need to talk!"

The voice is young, thick Irish accent, and pissed off. Marco waits a long moment before unlocking the door.

"What the hell's wrong with you? Mickey wants to know why you missed tonight's job."

"I'm done with that bullshit, Connor."

"Done? You can't just be done! Don't let some Italian chick mess up your future!"

The word 'chick' hits me like a slap. My hands ball into fists.

"Don't call her that! And don't tell me how to live my life!"

"She's making you soft, man. You think you can just walk away? They own you!"

"Nobody owns me. Now get out before I do something we'll both regret."

"This ain't over, Marco. Mickey's not gonna let you just walk. And when this little girlfriend gets bored playing house with a street punk, where's that gonna leave you?"

The door slams hard enough to shake the whole apartment.

I'm Marco's problem. The thought hits me like ice water. I'm why he's fighting with his friends, turning his back on the only family he's ever known. What if Connor's right? What if I do get tired of this life?

Marco appears in the doorway, face pale.

"Sophia, I gotta tell you something. I'm quitting the crew."

"Is that smart? What if they won't let you?"

"Then we'll deal with it. Together."

But I can see the fear in his eyes, the way his hands shake when he reaches for me.

Monday at school, the whispers start during lunch. I'm picking at a crappy sandwich when I hear two girls at the next table talking quietly.

"Did you hear about the shooting in Southie last night?"

"Yeah, three guys from the Irish crew got killed. They're saying it was the Italians getting payback."

My sandwich turns to cardboard in my mouth. I can barely breathe.

My friend from history class sits down across from me. "Sophia, you look sick. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just... do you know who got killed?"

"Why do you care? Stay away from that gang stuff, Sophia. It's dangerous."

If only she knew.

The rest of the day drags by. All I can think about is getting home to make sure Marco's okay. If he was still fully in the crew, he could be dead right now. But if the Italians are really killing Irish guys, does my blood make Marco a target?

That night, I wake up around 3 AM to footsteps in the living room. Marco's side of the bed is empty and cold.

I slip out and find him checking the locks on the front door for what must be the third time tonight. He's in boxers and a t-shirt, hair messy from sleep, but his eyes are wide awake.

"Marco? What are you doing?"

He jumps like I shot him. "Jesus, you scared me. Go back to bed."

"You've been doing this every night for a week. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just wanna make sure we're safe."

I study his face in the dim streetlight. Dark circles under his eyes, hands shaking slightly. Every time footsteps echo in the hallway, his whole body tenses.

"Is this about Connor? About what he said?"

"Forget Connor. He doesn't get what we have."

"But you're scared. I can tell."

"I'm not scared. I'm just being careful."

The lie sits heavy between us. I've never seen Marco like this before, so jumpy and paranoid.

Thursday evening, Marco's at the table with his manual when his phone rings. He glances at the number and all the color drains from his face.

"Yeah?"

I can hear an angry male voice but can't make out words. Marco's grip on the phone gets so tight his knuckles go white.

"I told you, I'm out... No, that's not up for discussion... I don't give a shit what Mickey thinks."

His voice drops lower.

"You leave her out of this. She's got nothing to do with our business."

My heart pounds. They're talking about me.

When Marco hangs up, I'm already next to him.

"Who was that?"

"Nobody important."

"Don't lie to me. They mentioned me, didn't they?"

Marco stands and takes my hands. "Sophia, I can handle this. Just trust me."

"Handle what? Marco, if I'm putting you in danger..."

"You're not! You're the only good thing in my life. Without you, I'd still be just another street punk."

But I can see it in his face. The fear he's trying to hide. Every time the phone rings now, he jumps.

The night before my eighteenth birthday, I come home from school to find Marco messing around in the kitchen.

"Don't come in here! It's a surprise!"

"What are you doing?"

"Tomorrow's your birthday. Tonight, we celebrate."

When he finally lets me into the living room, I gasp. He's lit every candle we own, and the table is set with takeout containers from my favorite Chinese place.

"I know it's not much, but..." Marco pulls a small box from his pocket, hands shaking. "I wanted you to have this."

Inside is a simple silver ring with a delicate band. No diamond, but it catches the candlelight.

"Marco, it's beautiful. But we can't afford..."

"I've been saving up. Every extra dollar from the garage." He looks nervous, almost scared. "It's a promise ring. Until I can afford the real thing."

"You want to marry me?"

"When you turn eighteen tomorrow, I wanna do this right. Ask your mom for permission, get down on one knee, the whole deal." His voice gets soft. "I wanna spend my life with you. Protect you and love you and give you everything you deserve."

As he slides the ring onto my finger, his hands are gentle.

"This ring means you're mine, and I'm yours. No matter what happens, we belong to each other."

I look down at the ring, warmth spreading through my chest.

We spend the evening eating takeout and talking. Marco tells me stories about his childhood, the few good memories he has. I share my dreams about the future, about the life we'll build together.

"If we have kids, what would you wanna name them?"

Marco's face softens. "For a boy... maybe Antonio, after my grandfather. For a girl..." He smiles. "Sofia. Like you, but spelled the Italian way."

"That's beautiful."

Later, lying in bed in the dark, I think Marco's asleep when I feel him press a gentle kiss to my forehead.

"I love you, Sophia," he whispers, so quietly I almost miss it. "No matter what happens, remember that I love you more than life itself."

Something about the way he says it sends a chill down my spine. It sounds less like a birthday wish and more like a goodbye.

I feel like our happiness is a castle built on sand, and I can feel the waves getting closer. But I don't ask him what he means because I'm terrified of the answer.