(Leonardo POV)
He shouldn't have brought her here.
The garden had been his for twenty-seven years. Private. Untouched by the rot that infected everything else he owned. The one place in this goddamn fortress where he could breathe without tasting blood.
And now she stood in it, her fingers hovering over a dark red bloom like she was afraid to break something sacred.
Smart girl.
"You tend them yourself."
Not a question. An observation. Leonardo watched her profile in the half-light, the way shadows caught in the hollow of her throat. She'd figured him out faster than anyone had a right to. Faster than was safe for either of them.
He didn't answer. Let the silence stretch while he calculated how much truth he could afford to give her. Too much and she'd have leverage. Too little and she'd dig deeper. Isabella Rossi didn't know how to leave well enough alone.
The breeze shifted, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth and roses. His mother had called it profumo di casa—the perfume of home. He'd stopped using that word years ago. Home was a weakness. A liability.
But here, surrounded by thorns and petals his mother had planted with her own hands, the lie felt thinner.
Isabella moved deeper into the garden without asking permission. He followed because the alternative was letting her wander unguarded, and some instinct he didn't want to name wouldn't allow that.
She stopped at the oldest bush, the one that bloomed in shades of bruised pink and deep crimson. His mother's favorite. The thorns on this one were vicious—curved hooks that drew blood if you weren't careful. Isabella reached out, then hesitated.
"Go ahead."
She glanced back at him, surprise flickering across her face before she hid it. Good. Let her wonder why he was being generous. Let her stay off-balance.
Her fingers brushed a petal. Barely a touch, reverent. Something in his chest tightened.
"My mother planted the first ones." The words came out rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat, hating the rasp of vulnerability. "Before everything went to hell. She said roses were honest. They gave you beauty but made you bleed for it."
Isabella's hand stilled. "How long have you been keeping this place?"
"Twenty-seven years."
The number landed between them like a confession. Same as the locket. Same as the weight he'd carried since his mother stopped breathing and his father's blood soaked into cheap carpet three weeks later.
"This is where you come when you can't sleep."
He almost smiled. Almost. "What makes you say that?"
"Because every powerful man needs somewhere to go where power doesn't matter. Where he can be something other than what everyone expects."
Leonardo studied her. Really looked. The set of her shoulders, the way she held herself like she expected a blow but refused to flinch from it. She'd grown up watching her father crumble under debts and addiction, learned young that the world didn't give a damn about fairness.
They had that in common, at least.
"You think you know me."
"I think you let me see more than you meant to. Last night. With the locket."
His jaw tightened. She was right, and he hated that she was right. He'd shown weakness. Sentimentality. The kind of soft underbelly that got men like him killed.
"I didn't tell you anything."
"You didn't have to. The way you looked at it said everything." She stepped closer. Close enough that he could smell her—soap and something else, something warm that made his hands flex at his sides. "You called it a trophy. But trophies are things you're proud of. That locket looked like it hurt you to even touch."
"Careful, Isabella."
"Why? Because I'm getting too close to something real?"
"Because curiosity killed more than cats in my world."
"Then maybe your world needs to change."
The words hung there, bold and stupid and brave. He should shut her down. Remind her exactly how little power she had, how easily he could snuff out that defiance. But something in him—some damaged, half-dead part that still remembered what hope tasted like—wanted to hear more.
He turned away instead, moved to the small iron table where Elena had left glasses of water hours ago. The dew had collected on the rims, running down in slow rivulets. He picked one up, felt the cold against his palm.
Control. He just needed to regain control.
"You asked why I keep the locket. I'll tell you. But not because you deserve to know. Because I'm tired of carrying it alone."
The admission cost him. He could feel it, the way speaking the truth always felt like peeling back skin.
Isabella said nothing. Waited. Smart enough to know silence was an invitation.
"She was dying for six months. Cancer. Slow. The kind that gives you time to say goodbye but makes you watch them disappear piece by piece." He set down the glass. Stared at the roses instead of her face. "My father wanted to sell the locket. Said we needed money for the war that was coming. The families circling. I stole it the night before he planned to pawn it."
"And your father?"
"Dead two weeks later. Three bullets. Never found out who ordered it. Could've been anyone. He'd made enough enemies." His voice flattened, the way it always did when he talked about the old man. No grief. Just facts. "I kept the locket because it was the last thing she wore. The last piece of her that wasn't corrupted. By this life. By what we are."
He felt her move closer. Didn't look. If he looked, he'd see pity, and he'd have to do something about it.
"You're not your father."
"No. I'm worse." Now he did look. Met those dark eyes that saw too much. "My father at least loved something more than power. I learned not to."
"Except you still keep this garden. Still tend those roses. Still carry that locket like a weight you can't put down."
"Because I'm weak."
"No." She stepped into his space, close enough that he could count her heartbeats if he wanted. "Because you're human."
The word hit like a gut punch. Human. As if that was something he was still allowed to claim. As if two decades of blood and betrayal hadn't burned it out of him.
The wind picked up, carrying petals across the gravel. One landed on her shoulder. Red as fresh blood.
He reached out before he could stop himself. Plucked it away. His fingers brushed her collarbone, and the contact sent electricity down his spine. Dangerous. This whole situation was dangerous.
She didn't pull back.
"Last night," she said quietly, "you told me it was a trophy. A reminder that everything has a cost. You were right. But the cost isn't what you think."
"And what is it?"
"The cost is becoming so afraid of losing something that you forget how to hold onto anything."
Silence. Just the murmur of the fountain and the rustle of leaves.
Leonardo stared at her. This woman who should be terrified, who should be counting the days until she could escape. Instead she stood in his secret garden and told him truths he'd spent years avoiding.
"Why are you here, Isabella?" His voice came out low. Rough. "Really here. In my garden. Testing my guards. Asking questions no one else dares to ask."
"Because someone has to."
"That's not a reason."
"Because I'm tired of being afraid. Because being collateral means I'm going to die here or leave here, and either way, I want to know who I'm bound to. The real you. Not the monster everyone else sees."
Monster. The word should have pleased him. Monsters were respected. Feared. Monsters didn't get betrayed because no one got close enough.
But the way she said it—like she was looking for something else underneath—made his pulse kick.
He closed the distance. Close enough to smell her skin, to see the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat. Close enough that the heat between them became its own entity.
"You want to know the real me?" The words came out barely above a whisper. "The real me would've killed your father and forgotten about it by morning. The real me doesn't keep rose gardens or carry dead women's jewelry. The real me is exactly the monster they say I am."
"Then why haven't you sent me back? Why keep me here? Why show me this place?"
Good question. Excellent question. He'd been asking himself the same thing for days.
His hand rose. Stopped just short of her face. Close enough to feel her warmth. Close enough that if either of them moved—
"Because," he said, "I'm starting to forget which version is the lie."
Her breath caught. He heard it. Felt it. The admission hung between them like drawn steel.
For a moment they just stood there. Two people trapped in cages of their own making, staring at each other through the bars.
Then Isabella did something he didn't expect.
She smiled. Small. Sad. Real.
"Good," she said. "Maybe that means there's hope for both of us."
The words did something to him. Cracked something open that he'd welded shut years ago. Hope. Christ. Hope was the most dangerous thing she could offer him.
He dropped his hand. Stepped back. Needed distance before he did something stupid like close the gap entirely.
"It's late. Elena will worry."
A dismissal. Cowardly, but necessary.
Isabella nodded slowly. She understood. She always seemed to understand too much.
But as she turned to leave, she paused by the nearest rose bush. Ran her fingers along a stem, careful of the thorns.
"They're beautiful," she said. "Your mother would be proud you kept them alive."
Then she walked away, gravel crunching under her feet.
Leonardo stood alone in the garden. Surrounded by roses and ghosts and the unfamiliar feeling of something that might have been longing.
He looked at the bush she'd touched. At the way moonlight caught on the petals, turning them silver.
For the first time in years, the garden didn't feel like a cemetery.
It felt like possibility.
And that terrified him more than any enemy ever had.