The Moretti estate didn't sleep that night.
It pulsed.
Every hallway throbbed with footsteps and murmured commands. Armed guards swept corners like wolves testing the wind. Doors slammed, security consoles blinked, comms crackled with clipped updates.
But none of that sound touched the private elevator Dante pulled Aria into.
Inside, silence.
Thick, held, humming with everything he wasn't saying.
The doors slid shut, sealing them away from the chaos of the east wing, and only then did Aria realize Dante hadn't let go of her hand since the security deck. His grip was iron, warm, tense, unbreakable.
As if any space between them was a risk he refused to take.
She watched him now, the harsh overhead light carving lines into his face, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes. He looked like a man carved out of midnight and fury, but beneath that…
Something trembled.
A fracture he was fighting to keep from splitting open.
"Dante," Aria whispered, "you're shaking."
