The gates of the De Luca estate creaked open like the jaws of a beast awaiting its prey. Iron-wrought and barbed at the top, they stretched high into the air, casting sharp shadows across the black cobblestone driveway. Isla sat stiffly in the back of the armored car, her wrists now unbound but her dignity still shackled. The silence between her and the man beside her, Luciano De Luca was thick enough to drown in.
He hadn't said a word since she had been handed over to him like a prized artifact. Only once did his dark eyes meet hers during the auction, but in that single glance, she felt both a warning and something else something more dangerous than fear.
Desire.
The car rolled to a halt in front of a towering mansion carved in Italian marble. Vines crawled up the stone walls like veins on skin, and warm amber lights flickered behind tall windows. It was a palace dressed in sin, beautiful and ominous all at once. A butler opened the door, bowing low. Luciano stepped out first, his long black coat sweeping behind him like smoke.
"Come," he said, finally addressing her.
Isla followed, her chin lifted, back straight. She wouldn't cower. Not for him. Not for anyone.
The inside was worse. Elegant. Immaculate. Cold.
Every corner smelled of polished wood and a hint of cigar smoke. Chandeliers glittered above, and velvet curtains lined the tall windows. Paintings of men with ruthless eyes hung along the staircase. They looked like ancestors , men who built empires of blood and bone.
A maid took her bag a small one, holding the only pieces of her past she had managed to grab.
Luciano turned toward her. "You'll stay in the East Wing. Third floor. Do not wander. This house is a labyrinth for strangers."
Isla met his gaze. "And am I a stranger to you, Mr. De Luca?"
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "For now."
The room was luxurious: canopy bed, silk sheets, a private fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. But it felt like a golden cage. Isla ran her hand across the velvet chaise by the window. Even in comfort, she was still captive.
A knock. Then the maid entered again, this time with a tray of food. "Mr. De Luca says you must eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Miss, with respect, he doesn't ask twice."
Isla hesitated, then took the tray. Chicken in wine sauce, roasted potatoes, grilled vegetables. It tasted like guilt.
Later that night, as the clock struck midnight, she stood at the window, watching the fog roll through the estate gardens. Her reflection in the glass looked foreign a girl wrapped in silk but armored in anger.
She remembered her mother's hands warm and calloused from years of gardening. The lullabies. The smell of jasmine. All gone. Sold. Erased.
A door opened behind her. She turned.
Luciano.
He stood there in a black shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up. No tie. No mask. Just him.
"I thought you didn't knock," she said.
His mouth twitched. "It's your room now."
"Is it really?"
He stepped forward. "You don't understand what I saved you from, Isla."
Her laugh was dry. "Saved? You bought me like a cow at market."
He moved closer, his presence filling the room like heat. "Do you want to see what would've happened if someone else had won that bid?"
Her heart pounded. "I can take care of myself."
"No," he said, voice low. "You can survive. That's different."
She swallowed hard. "And you? What do you want from me, Mr. De Luca?"
His eyes scanned her face. "Nothing you're not already willing to give."
The silence stretched. Then he turned and left.
Days passed. Isla stayed to her wing. She read books, wrote in the journal she found on the desk, and refused to cry. She studied the staff, the halls, the routines. And she waited.
One evening, she was summoned to dinner. Alone. Just him and her.
The dining hall was cavernous. One long table. Two plates at the center. Candlelight shimmered off silverware.
Luciano stood as she entered. "Sit."
She did.
"You look well," he said.
"And you look powerful."
He chuckled, sipping his wine. "Is that a compliment?"
"An observation."
They ate in silence for a while. Then he asked, "What did you want to be, before?"
"A pianist."
"Why didn't you?"
She looked at him. "Because my father thought it was foolish. That I needed to be useful. Marketable."
Luciano leaned forward. "You still play?"
"No. The music left when the love did."
He looked at her, long and deep. "Play tomorrow. We have a piano."
"I'm not here to entertain you."
"I know."
After dinner, he walked her back to her room. At the door, she turned to him. "Why me?"
He paused. "Because when I looked at you that night… I saw a flame that hadn't gone out."
She whispered, "Then you should've let it burn everything down."
His eyes flickered. Then he walked away.
That night, Isla dreamed of fire. Of hands on her skin. Of lips brushing her neck. She woke tangled in sweat and silk. The house was too quiet. Her heart too loud.
She padded barefoot to the hallway. A light glowed from the music room. She followed it.
Luciano sat at the grand piano, shirtless, a scotch in hand. He played something dark and haunting.
"You play?" she whispered.
He didn't stop. "I had a mother who taught me. Before she died."
She stepped closer. "Can I?"
He slid aside. She sat. Their thighs brushed. He said nothing.
Her fingers touched the keys. A gentle melody. Soft. Sad. Her body remembered what her heart tried to forget. She played like the world was listening.
When she finished, silence wrapped them.
He turned to her slowly. "That was beautiful."
"I don't need your approval."
He reached up, brushing a curl from her cheek. "I know."
The air thickened. She should've pulled back. She didn't.
He leaned in. Their lips met.
It wasn't gentle. It was hunger, aching and fierce. He kissed her like he was claiming something that never belonged to him. And she kissed back like she was taking something she had been denied too long.
They broke apart, breathless.
"I'm not your property," she whispered.
"And I'm not your savior," he answered.
"Good."
He smiled, slow and wicked. "Then maybe we'll be honest with each other."