The Maldives sunlight poured in gently through the gauzy white curtains, painting golden stripes across the sheets. Rose lay there, her bare back to Silvio, one hand curled beneath her cheek, the other resting over her heart as if to steady it.
Silvio watched her.
There was no armor between them now — no silk gloves, no glass masks. Only skin. Only breath.
His fingers traced down her spine slowly, memorizing her again like she might disappear. "You're quiet this morning," he murmured.
"I'm thinking," she said.
He raised a brow. "Dangerous."
She smirked, but her voice was soft. "I'm thinking about what happens when we leave here. When we go back."
Silvio sat up in bed, muscles tense beneath the sheen of the sunlight. He looked like a painting — all smooth strength and sculpted stillness — but his eyes were stormclouds. "You're worried."
"I know it won't stay perfect." Rose turned toward him, dragging the sheets with her. "Eleanor Moore is still alive. And there are people watching us. Someone leaked our location. And don't tell me it was nothing."
Silvio didn't lie. Not to her. "Someone tried. They failed."
"But for how long?" she asked, sitting up too. "What if they try again when we're back in New York?"
"I'll handle it."
She looked at him, and in that moment, she wasn't the girl with secrets. She was the wife of a dangerous man. A man who kissed like he owned her soul and killed like he had none.
"Silvio," she whispered. "If anything happens to you, I'll never forgive myself."
His jaw flexed. He reached out, cupped her face gently, and pulled her to him. Their foreheads touched.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said, voice gravel and heat. "But I need you to promise something."
"What?"
"If you ever sense danger, you don't act brave. You call me. You hide. You survive." His hand gripped the nape of her neck. "You're mine now, Rose. That means you don't die alone."
A chill passed through her — not from fear, but from the certainty of his devotion. Twisted and possessive as it was, it felt like armor.
She nodded. "Okay."
They kissed then — not desperate like before, but deep and claiming. His mouth was fire and vow, and she let herself drown in it.
Later that morning, while Silvio took a call outside on the villa deck, Rose wandered inside, letting her curiosity stir.
His suitcase lay on the chair, half-zipped. She wasn't sure why her fingers reached for it — maybe a need to know more. To feel less like she was falling blind.
Inside, neatly folded, was a small velvet box. Her breath caught as she opened it.
Not a ring.
A pendant. Delicate gold. A small, bloody rose etched into it.
She stared. On the back, there was an engraving.
"La Fiora — mine, even in fire."
Her heart pounded. Not just from the message, but because something about the box felt... older. Worn. This hadn't been bought recently.
It had history.
She quickly tucked it back and closed the suitcase.
Silvio returned, brushing salt air from his blazer. "You've been nosy."
She smiled too quickly. "No more than usual."
He didn't press. But his eyes stayed on her a little longer than usual, like he already knew she'd touched something he hadn't meant for her to see.
Later that night, as the stars rose over the sea and the villa filled with soft music and flickering candlelight, they danced.
Not formally — not even in rhythm. Just swaying in bare feet on marble tile. Her head on his chest. His hand warm on the small of her back.
"Do you ever regret it?" she asked.
"What?"
"Loving someone like me."
He pulled back, looked her in the eyes.
"I've never been in love before you."
She froze.
He said it so simply. No fanfare. No drama.
Just truth.
Her throat tightened. "I thought you didn't believe in love."
"I didn't. Until you set everything on fire."
Rose pressed her forehead against his and whispered, "Then let it burn."
And they kissed again.
But in the dark, across the villa's edge, a red light blinked once from the cliffs beyond.
A lens.
A watcher.
And the fire was just beginning.