Elara (First Person POV)
The world felt quieter after a storm—too quiet. The kind that makes your instincts hum and your heart beat a little faster.
For days, Luciano hadn't said much to me beyond orders. Short, clipped commands. Meetings. Schedules. Updates. The silence between us was heavier than any of his words could be.
I'd seen this side of him before—when someone disappointed him, or worse, betrayed him.
I just hadn't expected to be the reason.
The morning sun slanted through the high windows of the DeLuca estate, casting long stripes of gold across the marble floors. I stood by the study window, pretending to read a report I couldn't focus on.
Behind me, his voice cut through the silence. "You've been distracted lately."
I turned, keeping my expression even. "It's been a long week."
He looked up from behind his desk, dark suit sharp as his stare. "That's not an answer."
"I didn't realize I needed to justify being tired."
"You don't," he said slowly, "unless your exhaustion comes from something I should know about."
There it was—the suspicion, barely veiled but unmistakable.
I closed the folder in my hands. "Are you accusing me of something?"
He didn't reply at once. Instead, he rose from the chair and circled the desk, his movements measured, predatory. "No," he murmured, stopping a few feet away. "But I've learned that trust is a fragile thing. It only takes one lie to break it."
The air between us pulsed with tension.
He was testing me again. Watching every flicker in my expression, every breath.
"Then maybe you should stop hiring people you can't trust," I said quietly.
Something in his gaze darkened—not anger, but something more dangerous. Interest. Challenge.
"Maybe I enjoy the risk," he replied.
I should have looked away. Instead, I held his stare, feeling the electricity in the space between us. The last thing I needed was for him to get closer, to notice how my pulse betrayed me.
But Luciano DeLuca wasn't the kind of man you could hide from.
He stepped nearer until the desk corner pressed against my hip. "You think I don't see it, Elara? The way you flinch when I mention certain names. The way you avoid certain rooms."
I forced a laugh that sounded too sharp. "Maybe I just don't like your décor."
He leaned in, his voice low, dangerous. "You're hiding something. And one day soon, I'll find out what it is."
The words slid under my skin like a knife made of silk.
"I'm not hiding anything," I said.
He smiled—slow, knowing. "Liar."
He moved away before I could respond, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and my lie hanging in the air like smoke.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Every creak in the walls, every distant footstep made my nerves jump. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the phone in my hand.
There was one number saved under a name that didn't exist—my contact in the network that helped me get this job. They'd told me to stay quiet until I found proof linking Luciano to my brother's death.
But what if there wasn't proof? What if everything I thought I knew was wrong?
No. I couldn't let myself think that.
Luciano DeLuca was dangerous, yes—but dangerous men didn't inspire pity, or warmth, or the confusing ache that started in my chest every time he said my name.
I hated that I even felt that way.
I put the phone down and reached under the mattress for the photograph—the one of my brother and Luciano. The corners were worn now from too many sleepless nights staring at it.
My brother's smile was still there, frozen in time. Luciano's hand was on his shoulder, both of them laughing at something out of frame.
It didn't make sense. How could the man in this picture—calm, smiling—be the same one I saw order a man's death without blinking?
A sound broke the silence.
A footstep.
My pulse shot up.
I moved quietly to the drawer and pulled out the small handgun I kept hidden there. My breath slowed as I crept toward the door.
Another sound—closer this time.
Then, a whisper. "It's me."
Luciano.
My grip on the gun loosened slightly, though my heart didn't stop racing.
I opened the door a fraction. He stood in the hallway, shirt undone at the collar, shadows carving his face into something almost unreal.
"Why are you here?" I asked, keeping my voice low.
His eyes searched mine. "Because someone tried to breach the estate an hour ago."
"What?"
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. "A car pulled up near the south gate. No insignia, no plates. They didn't make it past the fence."
"Who were they?"
"We're still looking into it." His voice lowered, rougher now. "But if they were looking for you—"
"They weren't," I said too quickly.
He frowned. "How would you know that?"
I froze, realizing I'd said too much.
Luciano took a slow step closer. "You see, that's the problem with lies. They don't like to stay quiet forever."
"I told you—"
"Enough." His tone wasn't harsh, but it was final. "If you're in trouble, you tell me. If you're not who you said you are, you tell me that too. But don't insult my intelligence by pretending you're clean."
His words hit like a blade finding its mark.
"I don't owe you my life story," I said.
"No," he said, voice low, "but you owe me your truth."
We stood there in silence, the distance between us shrinking with every breath.
I hated that part of me wanted to trust him.
That I wanted to believe the warmth in his voice wasn't an act.
But I couldn't afford that luxury.
Not when everything I'd built here—every lie—was one wrong word away from collapse.
He took one more step, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of smoke and cedar.
"Get some sleep," he murmured. "Tomorrow, we talk again. And this time, I expect honesty."
When he turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of something raw in his eyes.
Not suspicion. Not anger.
Something that looked a lot like regret.
Luciano (Second Person POV)
You didn't sleep that night either.
You told yourself it was because of the breach, because of the risk to your men and your property. But you knew better.
It was her.
Elara Moretti—too calm for an outsider, too skilled at hiding fear, too dangerous to ignore.
You'd built your empire on control, and yet somehow she kept pulling at threads you didn't know existed.
You poured a drink and stared out the window, the city glowing faintly in the distance.
"Find out everything about her," you'd told Matteo earlier. "I don't care what it costs."
The background checks you'd run before had turned up clean, too clean. No record, no debt, no past.
And that was the problem.
People who had nothing to hide didn't erase themselves from the world.
You thought of the way her voice trembled when she asked who breached the estate. The way her eyes flashed when she said they weren't looking for her.
She'd slipped once tonight. One word, one look—that was all it took.
You smiled faintly to yourself. She'd made a mistake. And you never let mistakes go unnoticed.
Still, as you stared out at the sleeping city, the thought crept in like smoke:
If she was your enemy, why did the idea of losing her feel like another kind of wound?
Elara (First Person POV)
Morning came slower than usual. The sunlight that spilled into the room felt too harsh, too exposing. Every ray of gold on the floorboards reminded me of what Luciano had said last night—of the word that still echoed in my mind.
Liar.
He'd said it softly, almost gently, and somehow that had made it worse.
I stood before the mirror, buttoning up the silk blouse I'd worn a hundred times before, but today my hands wouldn't stop shaking. The reflection that stared back at me wasn't calm or collected. It was haunted.
"You owe me your truth," he'd said.
But what if my truth destroyed both of us?
By the time I made it downstairs, the entire villa was awake. Men in suits moved through the corridors like shadows, murmuring updates and handing out files. I recognized a few faces from last night's breach—Matteo, Enzo, Raffaele. All of them tense, alert, armed.
And then there was him.
Luciano stood by the long dining table, one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a cup of black coffee. His suit was immaculate—of course it was—but there was a faint bruise near his temple that hadn't been there yesterday.
His eyes met mine across the room, and something in my chest shifted painfully.
"Morning," I said, keeping my voice even.
"Morning," he replied, but his gaze lingered too long. "You sleep?"
"Barely."
He nodded once, then gestured to the seat beside him. "Eat something. We're leaving soon."
"Leaving?" I echoed.
He set the coffee down and straightened. "There's a meeting in the city. And you're coming with me."
My pulse quickened. "Why me?"
"Because I want you where I can see you."
His words were simple, but the weight behind them made my stomach twist. It wasn't just suspicion—it was protection. Distrust laced with something dangerously close to care.
I wanted to hate him for it. I really did.
Instead, I followed.
The car ride to the city was quiet. Too quiet. The streets of Rome blurred past the tinted windows, sunlight catching on statues and old stone buildings that had seen more betrayals than either of us ever would.
Luciano sat beside me, scrolling through messages on his phone. His sleeve brushed against mine once, and I flinched at the contact.
He noticed.
"You're jumpy," he murmured without looking up.
"I'm cautious."
"Same thing, in my world."
"Maybe in your world," I said softly, "caution is the only thing keeping you alive."
That made him look up. For a brief, silent second, our eyes locked. There was something unguarded in his expression—like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.
Then, just as quickly, the mask slipped back into place.
"You're not wrong," he said.
The car slowed to a stop in front of a building that looked older than sin—white columns, black iron gates, the kind of structure that whispered money and blood in the same breath.
Luciano stepped out first, then turned back to offer his hand.
I hesitated. Then took it.
His fingers closed around mine—warm, firm, steady. It shouldn't have felt safe. But it did.
Inside, the air smelled of smoke, leather, and polished oak. Men in dark suits filled the room, some standing, some seated, all watching as Luciano entered.
He commanded the room without speaking.
"Gentlemen," one of them greeted, rising from his seat. "DeLuca. We heard about last night."
Luciano's jaw flexed. "Handled."
"And the girl?"
Every head turned.
I felt the weight of their stares like needles.
Luciano's gaze flicked to me, then back to the man who had spoken. His voice was calm, but it carried that quiet threat that made even seasoned killers take a step back.
"She's under my protection."
That sentence landed like a verdict.
No one argued.
Not out loud, anyway.
For the next hour, the meeting unfolded in sharp words and sharper silences—talk of alliances, threats, a rival syndicate pushing into DeLuca territory. I kept my expression neutral, my ears open. Every piece of information was a thread, a clue.
And then—one name caught my attention.
Moretti.
My stomach turned to ice.
Luciano's tone changed subtly, his eyes narrowing. "The Moretti file is closed," he said.
"Apparently not," the other man replied. "Someone's been asking questions. About your operations. About the fire two years ago."
I stopped breathing.
Luciano's voice hardened. "Who?"
"We don't know yet. But whoever it is—they're getting close."
The room went still.
Luciano's gaze drifted toward me. Just for a second. Barely noticeable. But it was enough.
He felt it too—the crack in the wall we'd both built.
When the meeting ended, he dismissed his men and gestured for me to follow him out a side door that opened into a secluded hallway.
The second the door closed, he spoke.
"Why does that name make you flinch?"
My throat went dry. "What?"
"Moretti." His voice dropped. "You reacted when you heard it."
I forced a shaky laugh. "It's a common name."
"Not to you."
He took a slow step closer, and suddenly the corridor felt too narrow, too warm, too filled with everything I'd tried to avoid.
"Luciano—"
"Don't," he said quietly. "Don't lie again."
I met his gaze, but it was a mistake. Because the moment I did, all the anger in his eyes faded into something else—something that made my chest ache.
"You're hiding something," he whispered. "And it's killing you to keep it."
For a second, I thought I saw it—the flicker of humanity beneath all that power.
He reached up, fingers brushing against my jaw, gentle despite everything. "Whatever it is, Elara… I can protect you. But not if you keep running from me."
I swallowed hard, the truth clawing at my throat. I wanted to tell him. I almost did.
But then I saw it—the faint tattoo on his wrist, half hidden beneath his cuff.
A symbol.
The same one I'd seen in the photo with my brother.
The world tilted.
I stepped back like I'd been burned. "Don't touch me."
He froze. "What's wrong?"
I shook my head, voice trembling. "You don't get to act like you care."
"Elara—"
"You killed him." The words slipped out before I could stop them. "You were there that night. You knew him."
His expression shattered. For a heartbeat, he looked human again. Vulnerable. "Your brother," he said slowly. "Daniel Moretti."
My heart stopped. "You remember."
"I remember everything."
"Then tell me what happened," I demanded. "Tell me why he died."
Luciano's silence was heavier than any answer.
Finally, he said, "You don't want the truth."
"Yes," I said, my voice breaking. "I do."
He took a step forward, eyes dark and pained. "The truth won't bring him back, Elara. And it won't save you."
Tears burned behind my eyes, but I didn't let them fall. "Then at least let it destroy you."
For a long moment, we just stood there—two people bound by the same ghost, staring at each other across the wreckage of everything we'd pretended not to feel.
And when he finally turned and walked away, the echo of his footsteps felt like the end of something I couldn't name.
Luciano (Second Person POV)
You should have told her.
You'd wanted to—for months now. But saying the truth out loud meant watching her hatred bloom where something fragile had started to grow.
Daniel Moretti.
You remembered the name because it had haunted you.
The boy wasn't supposed to die. The fire wasn't supposed to spread.
It had been a message. A warning. And you'd been the hand that delivered it.
But when you'd found out later that the Moretti boy had nothing to do with the syndicate's betrayal, the guilt had eaten at you like poison. You'd buried it under business, under blood, under everything except peace.
Until she walked into your office with his eyes.
You pour another drink, but the burn doesn't help this time.
Matteo enters quietly, eyes cautious. "Boss. The files you asked for."
You nod without looking up.
He hesitates. "You're not going to tell her, are you?"
You close your eyes. "Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because once she knows, she'll stop looking at me like I'm human."
He says nothing. Just leaves the file on the desk and exits.
You stare at the folder. Daniel Moretti's case—photos, reports, witness accounts. Every detail of the night that changed both your lives.
And in the reflection of the glass window, you see her face.
The way she looked at you when she said, You killed him.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe the price of truth was blood.
And maybe—when it came to her—you'd already paid too much.