Dawn crept over the De Luca estate like a reluctant confession. The storm had broken sometime before sunrise, leaving the gardens slick and silver. Inside, servants moved quietly, as though the house itself feared to disturb whatever had happened in the night.
Isabella woke in a bed larger than the entire room she had shared with her mother. The sheets were white, the air faintly perfumed with cedar. For a moment she thought she had dreamed the theater, the bidding, the cold eyes of the men who had watched her like merchandise. Then she saw the faint bruise at her wrist and remembered everything.
A knock sounded. Before she could answer, a woman in black entered with a tray.
"Breakfast, Signorina. Mr. Lorenzo said you should eat."
The servant's tone was neither kind nor cruel—only cautious. Isabella forced a thank-you and ate little; every bite turned to dust in her mouth. Through the window she saw the wide lawns and fountains, guards pacing the walls. She was free, yet she wasn't.
---
Lorenzo stood on the balcony outside his study, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. Below him the city shimmered beyond the cliffs: a mixture of ancient spires and modern glass. It was his kingdom, inherited through fear and loyalty. Yet the girl asleep in his house had unsettled something he didn't know he still possessed.
He had spent the night thinking of her face beneath the theater lights—the refusal to beg, the silent endurance. Strength like that did not come from innocence; it came from surviving monsters. He knew because he had spent his life among them.
Marco entered without knocking. "You look troubled, cugino. Buyer's remorse?"
Lorenzo exhaled smoke. "You should mind your own trades."
"I do. That's why the family stays rich. You, on the other hand, paid a fortune for a stranger."
"I paid to stop a crime."
Marco smiled, the expression thin as paper. "Morality is an expensive hobby in our business."
Their eyes met—two storms circling the same sea. "You forget yourself," Lorenzo said quietly. "Without me, half your men would have turned on you long ago."
"And without me," Marco returned, "you'd still be a ghost with a gun and no empire to haunt."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Lorenzo stubbed out the cigarette and walked past him. "Stay away from the girl."
Marco's laughter followed him down the corridor. "You can't protect what the world already owns, cousin."
---
Later that morning, Isabella wandered through the gallery lined with portraits of men whose eyes seemed to follow her. She stopped before a painting of two boys—one serious, one smiling. The brass plaque read: Lorenzo and Marco De Luca, heirs apparent.
Footsteps echoed. She turned to find Marco himself watching her. In daylight his charm looked polished, his danger concealed beneath a gentleman's ease.
"You must be the reason my cousin forgets his meetings," he said. "Welcome to our home."
"Thank you, sir."
"No need for 'sir.' Call me Marco." He moved closer, studying her face. "You remind me of someone… perhaps of what this house lost a long time ago."
Isabella stepped back, nerves prickling. "Mr. Lorenzo said I should rest."
Marco's smile sharpened. "Of course he did. My cousin likes to keep what he saves." His hand brushed the edge of her sleeve. "He forgets that nothing here truly belongs to him."
Before she could retreat further, a shadow filled the doorway.
Lorenzo.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. "Out."
Marco looked amused. "I was merely greeting our guest."
Lorenzo's eyes were glacial. "Another second and you would have needed a doctor instead of a greeting."
The cousins faced each other in silence until Marco finally shrugged. "Temper, temper. Remember who carries the De Luca name first."
He left, perfume and menace trailing behind him.
Isabella stood trembling. Lorenzo turned toward her, and for the first time she saw something human beneath his steel exterior—anger, yes, but also fear for her.
"I told you he wouldn't hurt me," she whispered.
"He would have tried," Lorenzo said. "And I would have killed him for it."
She flinched at the cold certainty in his tone.
He realized it, looked away. "You shouldn't have to hear such things."
"Then why do you live among them?"
He almost smiled, weary. "Because someone has to hold the leash on the beasts. If I leave, they'll tear this city apart."
---
That night the mansion was quiet again. Lorenzo stood by the fireplace in the small salon where Isabella waited. A single lamp lit the room; rain whispered against the windows.
"I spoke with your father," he said at last.
Her body stiffened. "You— why?"
"To ensure he never comes near you again. He has money now. Enough to drown himself in whatever vice he prefers. You're free from him."
Tears welled in her eyes. "You didn't have to— "
"I did." His tone softened. "No one should pay for another man's debts with her body."
For a long moment they said nothing. The distance between them felt fragile, like glass. She wanted to thank him, but words seemed too small. Instead she asked, "What will happen to me now?"
"You'll stay here until you choose otherwise. There are schools, new names, passports—whatever you need."
"And you?"
"I have enemies to manage, a cousin to restrain, a city to keep from eating itself alive."
Her gaze met his. "And yet you still found time to save me."
He looked away first. "Don't mistake conscience for kindness."
"Maybe they're the same thing," she said.
Something in him cracked at that—a soundless fracture he didn't understand. He reached for his glass, then stopped, as though making a decision.
"Isabella," he said quietly. "Whatever happens in this house, whatever rumors you hear—remember this. No one will touch you while I breathe. That's my promise."
The words hung between them like an oath sealed in blood. She felt the weight of them settle over her, heavy and oddly comforting.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because someone should have protected you long ago. And because I'm tired of watching the world break what it cannot own."
He turned toward the fire. The light caught the scars along his knuckles, the faint tremor of a man who had fought too long.
When he looked back, her tears had dried. She nodded once. "Then I'll hold you to that promise."
A hint of a smile crossed his face—fleeting, human, almost gentle.
Outside, thunder rumbled again across the sea. In that sound was the echo of wars yet to come: the feud between brothers, the vengeance that would span generations. But for this single night, the house was still. The beast slept, the girl breathed freely, and somewhere deep inside the man who had saved her, mercy flickered like a dangerous new flame.