The gunfire faded, but the words didn't.
Petrov's voice still lived in my bones, whispering like smoke: Your husband lit the match himself.
Adrian pulled me through the chaos, his hand iron around mine. The docks burned again behind us, bodies falling, engines roaring. But none of it mattered. Not the bullets. Not the blood.
What mattered was that I had seen his silence.
And silence was always a confession.
---
Back in the car, Rafe drove like the devil was chasing us. Adrian sat rigid beside me, his jaw locked, his hands bloodstained. He didn't look at me. Not once.
The city lights smeared across the windshield like tears. I pressed back against the leather seat, arms wrapped tight around myself. I was shaking, but not from fear.
From fury.
"You let him say it," I whispered finally.
Adrian's head turned, slow and sharp. "What?"
"You let him speak those words. You didn't deny them." My voice broke, but I forced it back together. "He said you lit the fire. That you killed them yourself. And you didn't—"
"Elena." His voice was raw steel. "Not now."
"Yes now!" I snapped, the dam breaking. "I am done being told when I'm allowed to know the truth. Do you hear me? I am done being silenced!"
Rafe's eyes flicked to the mirror, but he said nothing.
Adrian's jaw clenched. "We'll talk when it's safe."
"When it's safe?" I laughed bitterly. "It's never safe with you. Not with Petrov. Not with my brother. Not even in my own bed."
His silence hit harder than any slap.
---
The penthouse was suffocating when we returned. I paced, heart hammering, while Adrian stripped off his bloodied shirt and threw it aside. His chest was carved marble, marked with scars that looked older than me.
"You think I don't know what you're doing?" I spat. "You think if you keep me blind and wrapped in silk, I'll stop asking questions?"
Adrian turned, his eyes dark fire. "You're alive because of me. Because I make choices you wouldn't survive making."
My hands trembled, but I lifted my chin. "Then let me choke on the truth. Don't you dare starve me with lies."
For a moment, the mask cracked. Something human flickered in his eyes—guilt, regret, or something darker I couldn't name.
Then he crossed the room in three strides, his hand slamming against the wall beside my head. I flinched, but I didn't step back.
"You want to know what November Seventh really was?" he demanded, his voice a growl.
"Yes." My throat was tight, but the word came anyway. "I want everything."
---
His breath was hot against my ear when he spoke.
"My father was weak. Petrov's claws were already in him. That night wasn't an ambush. It was a test." His voice dropped lower, lethal. "And I passed it by doing what he never could. I cut Petrov's leash with fire and ash."
My heart pounded. "So Petrov was telling the truth."
His hand closed around my jaw, forcing my gaze up to his. His eyes were blazing, terrifyingly beautiful.
"Petrov never tells the whole truth. Yes, I lit the fire. Yes, men died. But they weren't innocents, Elena. They were traitors. They were already bought. And if I hadn't burned them, Petrov would've owned me the way he owns your brother."
My stomach twisted. "And you expect me to believe that? That every man who died deserved it?"
"No." His voice was ice. "I expect you to understand that survival doesn't care about deserving."
---
I shoved his hand away, breath ragged. "Do you even hear yourself? You talk like you're already dead. Like there's nothing left of you but smoke and blood."
His lips curved—not a smile, something darker. "Maybe there isn't."
Tears burned, but I refused to let them fall. "And what about me, Adrian? Do I burn too, when you decide I've become inconvenient?"
The question struck like a blade.
For the first time, he faltered. Just for a heartbeat.
Then his hands were on me—hard, desperate, pulling me against him like he could silence my fury with the heat of his body. His lips crushed mine, brutal, demanding.
I fought him at first, fists against his chest. But his kiss was wildfire, consuming, dragging me under until resistance blurred into need.
When he tore his mouth from mine, his forehead rested against mine, breath ragged.
"No," he said harshly. "You don't burn. Not you."
But I didn't believe him.
Not fully.
Because fire doesn't choose. It devours.
And I was already in the flames.
---
I woke the next morning to silence, but not the peaceful kind. The kind that pressed on my lungs like smoke. Adrian was gone.
On his pillow lay a note, scrawled in his hard hand: Don't leave. Don't open the door for anyone but me.
As if I were still his possession. As if my freedom could be contained by ink.
I ignored the note.
I searched instead.
---
The penthouse had always felt like a fortress, but that morning I discovered its heart. A hidden door behind the library shelves. Rafe hadn't noticed me slip away; he was guarding the main hall.
The door opened into a stairwell that led down to a room colder than ice.
The archives.
Boxes. Ledgers. Old files bound in leather. All stamped with the Moretti crest.
I shouldn't have touched them, but my hands moved anyway. Searching, pulling, desperate.
Until I found it.
A ledger marked Novembre Settimo.
---
The list was long. Names written in black ink, crossed with red lines. Men who died that night.
I scanned, breath quick, until my eyes snagged on one name that froze me solid.
Gianni Greco.
My uncle. My father's younger brother.
The man who used to bring me sweets when my father was too busy for me.
I dropped the book, my vision blurring.
He hadn't been a soldier. He hadn't been a traitor. He had been family.
And Adrian had burned him.
---
The door creaked behind me.
I spun, the ledger clutched to my chest. Adrian stood in the doorway, his face carved from stone.
"You weren't supposed to see that."
My throat closed. "My uncle. He was on that list."
He didn't deny it. Didn't flinch.
"Elena—"
"You killed him." My voice was raw. "You killed my blood. Don't tell me he was a traitor. Don't you dare."
Adrian's silence was the loudest answer of all.
I staggered back. "You've been lying since the day you put your hands on me. And I let you."
His eyes burned, desperate, but he didn't move. "I did what I had to do."
The ledger slipped from my hands.
"No," I whispered. "You did what you wanted to do. And you'll do it again. To anyone who stands in your way. Even me."
---
Before he could answer, Rafe burst in, breathless. "Boss. Petrov sent a message."
He held out a phone. The screen showed Luca—bound, gagged, blood running down his temple.
Petrov's voice played over the recording: The sins of November Seventh don't stay buried, Moretti. You want him alive? Bring her. Midnight. Alone.
The message ended.
My blood ran cold.
Petrov wanted me.
---
Adrian's hand clenched at his side. His voice was deadly calm. "He'll never touch you."
But I heard the unspoken truth in his tone: Petrov had already won by forcing Adrian to choose.
My brother or his bride.
And I didn't know which choice would burn worse.
---
That night, as the city bled neon outside, I stood at the window and watched Adrian prepare for war. His men checked weapons. Rafe gave orders. Adrian himself pulled on a black jacket, his knife sliding into its sheath.
I couldn't breathe.
Because I realized then what my choice had to be.
If I waited, I would always be caught between their fires. Adrian's obsession. Petrov's cruelty. Luca's weakness.
The only way out was to light my own match.
To choose who burned—before they chose me.