Leonardo ran a hand through his dark hair, watching Jonathan from across the desk like a man sizing up an old enemy — or an old flame.
"She's pretty, isn't she?"
The words hit Jonathan like a slap.
Casual. Cruel. Calculated.
And yet—
They weren't new.
Because once upon a time, he had said them too.
To Leonardo.
With a cold, wicked smirk.
Flash.
"She's pretty, isn't she?"
But that was then — a memory, blurred at the edges, soaked in Leonardo's blood and Jonathan's betrayal.
Jonathan's jaw locked. His nostrils flared.
"Stay away from her, figlio di puttana."
His voice was low. Deadly.
Leonardo chuckled like he'd just been complimented.
"Stay away from her?" he repeated, stepping around the desk with a lazy swagger. "Who do you think's been watching her sleep at night while you're off playing king in your little empire?"
Jonathan's body turned to stone.
Leonardo leaned in close enough to whisper — close enough to be shot.
"Your security," he sneered, "is a fucking joke. I broke into your house, watched her sleeping so peacefully — skin bare under the sheets, completely defenseless. I could've done anything. Touched her. Fucked her. Ruined her — right there. Just to watch you burn from the inside out."
Jonathan didn't respond.
He didn't warn.
He just drew the gun from under his jacket and fired.
Bang.
But Leonardo moved fast — inhumanly fast — ducking low as the bullet shattered the glass behind him.
He laughed — wild, broken, echoing against the marble like something unholy.
"You can't kill me," he grinned, straightening with ease. "Remember?"
His smile spread — twisted and dark.
"No one can."
He stepped closer, arms wide like he wanted to be shot again.
"You made that rule, thane," he hissed. "Back when you exiled me like some rabid dog. Remember that? Your first mistake. You should've put a bullet in my skull then."
Jonathan didn't lower the gun.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Leonardo kept coming — slow, deliberate — the barrel practically kissing his chest.
"Pull the trigger again," he whispered. "Let's see if your guilt finally outweighs your pride."
Jonathan's hand twitched. Just once.
Leonardo saw it. And smiled like the devil spotting a crack in heaven's gates.
"That's what I thought," he murmured.
"I made a promise to you, Thane. I'll take everything you ever had. Starting with Emilia.
And you—"
He leaned in, breath brushing Jonathan's cheek.
"—you're going to sit back. Watch. And do nothing."
Crack.
Leonardo didn't flinch when the punch came — but his body sure reacted.
The crack of Jonathan's fist against his jaw echoed like gunfire.
Blood splattered.
His head jerked violently to the side, his lip splitting, bruises blooming like ink under porcelain skin.
But he laughed.
Low.
Unhinged.
The kind of laugh that crawled under your skin and stayed there.
Jonathan grabbed him by the collar, slamming him into the edge of the desk, fury roaring through every vein in his body.
"I didn't kill you then," Jonathan growled, voice trembling with rage, "because I was guilty."
Another shove. Leonardo's head knocked back. Still smiling.
"But don't you ever use that guilt on me. Don't you fucking dare."
His voice dropped to a vicious whisper.
"I will break my own rules for you, Leonardo. I will make your life so goddamn torturous, you'll wish I had killed you in that fire."
He leaned in.
"And as for Emilia—if you touch even a strand of hair on her head, I swear to every devil in hell, I will end you."
Leonardo's swollen mouth twitched with amusement. Blood stained his teeth. He looked more amused than afraid. More alive than ever.
He jerked his collar free, straightened his shirt despite the tremor in his hand, and chuckled like this was all foreplay.
"You always did have a temper, Thane," he rasped, wiping blood from his mouth. "I like this version of you. The cracks are showing."
He turned, walking slowly toward the door, each step dragging crimson across the marble floor.
Before stepping out, he glanced back one last time, eyes gleaming with that same cold, eerie calm.
"You can tighten your fences, lock all your doors," he said smoothly. "But I already got in once. And next time, I won't just be watching."
Then he was gone.
Jonathan stood motionless for a beat. Just one. Then—
He touched the comm in his ear.
"Tighten security. Full lockdown. I want eyes on Emilia every second, understood?"
"Yes, sir."
Jonathan didn't move for a while. His hands rested on the desk, knuckles cut and faintly bleeding, jaw locked so tight it hurt. The silence pressed heavy — no Leonardo, no words, just the echo of what he'd almost done.
He finally exhaled, slow. Reached for the remote beside the monitor.
The screens flicked to life — security feeds glowing one after another until he found her.
Kitchen.
There she was.
Emilia.
Barefoot. Wearing one of his shirts again. Hair everywhere. And somehow, she'd managed to turn his perfectly organized kitchen into a war zone.
Flour dusted the marble counter like snow. A cracked egg dripped lazily off the edge. There was a metal whisk in her hand — or maybe a weapon, judging by how aggressively she was stirring.
Jonathan just… stared.
For someone who couldn't cook, she looked way too confident.
She leaned over the bowl, muttering under her breath.
"Okay, maybe not that much sugar. Or— maybe more? Ugh, I don't even care anymore."
She tasted it. Made a face. Added more sugar anyway.
Jonathan's mouth twitched. Barely.
Not quite a smile, but close.
Then she dropped the bowl.
It didn't break — somehow — but the noise made her jump. She froze for a second, glanced around, then sighed.
A soft knock followed a few seconds later.
"Urm Miss Emilia?"
It was Joann, her voice muffled through the door — polite, careful, like she already knew trouble was brewing.
"You sure you don't need my help, miss?"
Emilia rolled her eyes, brushing flour off her cheek with the back of her hand.
"No, nope! I don't need anything. Thanks for asking!" she called out.
There was a small pause. Then Clara again — hesitant, nervous.
"Um… I'm not sure Sir Blacksmith would like that, miss. It's my job to—"
She didn't finish, because the door suddenly swung open from the inside — Emilia standing there, hair wild, apron halfway tied, eyes bright with mischief.
"Relaxxxxxxx," she said, stretching the word like honey. "Jonathan isn't here, is he?"
Clara blinked. "Well, no, but—"
"Exactly!" Emilia grinned, propping one arm against the doorframe. "Besides, you've been serving me since I got here. Let's have a switch, señorita."
"A… switch?" Clara stammered, clutching her towel.
"Mhm." Emilia stepped aside, motioning dramatically toward the stool. "You sit. I cook. Equality."
Clara looked horrified.
"But Miss—"
"No buts!" Emilia said cheerfully, ushering her in before she could protest further and locking the door again with a click. "Now sit. That's an order."
Clara's mouth opened like she wanted to object but couldn't quite form the words.
Jonathan, watching from his office, exhaled sharply through his nose — a sound dangerously close to a laugh.
On-screen, Emilia was now guiding the poor maid to a stool, practically forcing her to sit. Clara sat stiffly, wringing her hands, as Emilia grabbed a pan and somehow managed to turn on the wrong burner.
Flames hissed.
Clara gasped.
Jonathan's eyes widened slightly.
Emilia shrieked, waving a towel at the smoke like that would fix anything. "Oh my god, it's fine! It's— it's fine!"
Clara jumped up, snatched the pan off the heat, and blew out the small flame.
Emilia grinned, sheepish. "See? Totally under control."
Jonathan rubbed his temple, muttering under his breath,
"Hopeless."
But his eyes didn't leave the screen. He watched through the monitor as she picked up the whisk — confidently, almost proud — until something splattered onto her face. She blinked, sighed dramatically, and muttered,
"…Right. Maybe I do need help."
Clara rose halfway from the stool, worried. "Please, Miss Emilia— Sir Blacksmith will be very upset if—"
Emilia turned sharply, mock-offended. "Clara! Are you doubting my culinary potential?"
"Potential?" the maid whispered.
Emilia grinned. "Exactly, just sit back and watch me do my thing"
Jonathan's gaze stayed glued to the monitor.
Emilia was stirring something that looked illegal to serve, wearing one of his shirts and humming like she was performing for an audience of ghosts.
He wasn't even aware of how still he'd gone — the only movement was the slow flex of his jaw whenever she muttered to herself.
"Okay, maybe I shouldn't have added that much salt," she grumbled on-screen.
Jonathan exhaled quietly through his nose — something dangerously close to amusement.
"Jesus, she's hopeless," he muttered.