Night returned to the De Luca mansion like a memory that refused to fade. The rain had stopped, but mist clung to the gardens, softening the lights until they looked like dying stars. Inside, silence ruled—yet it was the kind of silence that hides movement.
Lorenzo felt it before he saw it: the pulse of unrest that meant Marco was plotting again. He sat alone in his study, the ledger before him forgotten, the fire burning low. Each crackle sounded like a warning. In the reflection of the window, he could see his own face—tired, guarded, a man forced to fight the very blood that bound him.
A knock came. "Enter," he said.
Rico, his oldest lieutenant, stepped inside. "Marco met with the Moretti man again. Private club by the harbor."
Lorenzo's jaw hardened. "I told him to stay away from that drunk."
Rico hesitated. "There was talk of… business concerning the girl."
Lorenzo closed the ledger. "I see." The calm in his voice was more frightening than anger. "Double the guards at the east wing. No one sees her unless I approve."
"Yes, boss."
When the door shut again, Lorenzo leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Every time he tried to keep the world away from her, it found another door to crawl through. Power had always been simple: control or be controlled. But she had changed the equation.
---
In another part of the mansion, Isabella sat at the piano in the long gallery. The servants had taught her to move freely within certain halls, but she could feel the invisible lines drawn around her. Still, she found the piano—a relic with ivory keys yellowed by time—and touched it like something sacred.
A single note broke the stillness. Then another. Music began to fill the space, hesitant but pure, as if light itself had found voice.
From the corridor, Lorenzo paused, unseen. He hadn't heard music in this house since his mother's funeral. The sound reached him like something forgotten—fragile, impossible.
When the melody ended, he stepped forward. "You play well."
Isabella startled, then lowered her hands. "I used to, when my mother could afford lessons."
He came closer. "It suits you."
"Music?"
"Peace."
She gave a small, uncertain smile. "Do men like you believe in peace?"
He looked at her, and for a moment the hard mask cracked. "Not anymore. But I still recognize it when I hear it."
---
Elsewhere, in his private wing, Marco poured wine into a crystal glass and stared at the storm-torn horizon. Antonio Moretti slouched opposite him, nursing a drink stronger than his dignity.
"You said you could control your cousin," Antonio sneered. "Instead he humiliates you, buys the girl, gives me crumbs."
Marco swirled his wine. "Patience, my friend. Even kings bleed when the blade is quiet."
"What do you mean?"
Marco smiled faintly. "Lorenzo has a weakness now. A face he protects. When the time is right, I'll remind him that mercy costs more than life."
He lifted his glass to the light; the red shimmered like blood.
"Soon," he murmured, "the house will remember who truly leads it."
---
That night, Isabella dreamed she was standing in the auction hall again, the voices shouting numbers until they became thunder. When she woke, the sound remained—the faint echo of boots in the corridor. She slipped from bed and peered through the gap in the door. Two guards passed, whispering.
"…orders from Mr. Marco. He wants the east wing cleared in the morning."
Her pulse quickened. If Marco planned to move her, Lorenzo might not know. She pressed the door shut, then turned toward the window. Beyond the mist, the sea glimmered darkly. She whispered to herself, I won't be sold again.
Morning came slowly, as if the mansion itself dreaded the light. The rain had gone, but fog still hugged the terraces, turning every sound into a whisper. In the kitchen, servants worked in silence; in the east wing, guards pretended not to notice the new orders that had arrived before dawn.
By mid-morning Isabella felt the tension. The maids avoided her eyes, and even the guards who usually greeted her with stiff nods kept their hands on their weapons. She stood by the window, tracing the outline of the iron bars that laced the balcony rail.
A knock came—three sharp raps.
"Miss Isabella," a voice said. "Mr. Marco requests you pack your things. He'll see to your transfer himself."
Her chest tightened. "Transfer where?"
"No questions, miss. Orders."
The door shut before she could answer. Her hands trembled as she turned back to the bed. The night's promise echoed in her mind—Lorenzo's voice: You're safe here. If he didn't know about this, she had one chance to reach him before Marco made good on his threats.
She slipped from the room, barefoot and silent, moving through the side corridor that connected the east wing to the upper stairs. Every few steps she paused, listening for guards. The smell of oil and steel hung in the air; somewhere below, men were loading cars.
At the landing she heard two voices—Marco's and Rico's.
"She leaves before noon," Marco was saying. "I'll handle my cousin when he returns."
Rico's voice was cautious. "He gave orders she wasn't to be touched."
"And I give you new ones," Marco snapped. "Do as you're told."
Footsteps receded. Isabella exhaled shakily and darted into the library. The room was empty, books lining the walls like silent witnesses. On the desk lay a telephone. She had seen Lorenzo use it once to summon his men. If she could find the right button—
"Looking for me?"
She froze. Marco stood in the doorway, smile sharp as a knife. "You move quietly for someone who doesn't belong here."
He stepped closer, closing the door behind him. "You should have obeyed. My cousin forgets his place; perhaps you do too."
"I was told to stay here," she said, forcing her voice steady.
"And I'm telling you to come with me." His tone turned soft, almost coaxing. "You'll be safe, little dove. Just somewhere I can keep an eye on you."
Her fingers brushed the edge of the desk, searching for anything heavy. "Lorenzo will—"
"Lorenzo isn't here," Marco cut in. "He's never here when it matters."
He reached for her arm.
The door burst open before his hand made contact. The sound that followed was the click of a pistol being drawn.
Lorenzo stood framed in the doorway, expression unreadable, a dark raincoat still dripping from the storm outside. "Touch her," he said quietly, "and you won't live to regret it."
Marco's hand froze mid-air. "She's a guest in our house," he said lightly, "not your possession."
"She's under my protection," Lorenzo replied. "That makes her mine to safeguard."
For a moment the brothers stared at each other—two wolves from the same bloodline, circling the same kill. Then Marco's smile cracked. "Careful, brother. So much mercy might be mistaken for weakness."
"I'd rather be weak than vile," Lorenzo said.
Marco's eyes glittered. "We'll see how long that virtue lasts."
He brushed past Lorenzo and left the room, his laughter trailing behind him like smoke.
---
When the door closed, Isabella realized she had been holding her breath. Lorenzo holstered his weapon, then turned toward her. "Did he hurt you?"
She shook her head. "No. But he was going to take me somewhere. He said—he said you weren't here."
His jaw tightened. "He's testing me. Testing how far I'll go to keep you safe."
"You don't owe me anything," she said. "I've caused you trouble since the night we met."
He looked at her then—really looked—and something shifted in his expression, the hard lines softening for just a heartbeat. "Trouble," he said quietly, "is a small price for doing what's right."
He crossed the room, opened a cabinet, and took out a small silver key. "This locks your door from inside. Use it tonight. No one comes in without my permission. Do you understand?"
She nodded.
As he handed her the key, their fingers brushed. The contact was brief but electric, a pulse of warmth in the cold air. She felt her throat tighten; he looked away first.
---
That night the mansion seemed to breathe differently. Every corridor hummed with the tension of unspoken war. In his chamber, Marco smashed his glass against the wall and called for his men.
"Gather everyone loyal to me," he ordered. "If Lorenzo wants a civil war, I'll give him one."
In the east wing, Isabella sat on her bed, the key resting in her palm. She could hear distant footsteps, voices rising, doors slamming. The storm had moved inside the house.
She whispered into the darkness, "Mama, if you can hear me… give me courage."
And somewhere down the hall, Lorenzo loaded his weapon again, knowing that blood was the only language his family truly understood.