Elara sat curled in the corner of the grand room, her back pressed against the velvet chaise, knees drawn tightly to her chest. Her fingers trembled against the soft fabric of her dress, eyes wide, unblinking. She hadn't slept. She couldn't. Every tick of the ancient clock rang in her skull like a countdown she didn't understand.
Lucien Moretti.
The name coiled in her mind like a snake, squeezing tighter with every breath. Her father's warnings echoed louder now. Words whispered over dinner tables, tucked into bedtime stories meant to frighten her into obedience.
"The Morettis are devils dressed in silk, Elara. Their hands drip with old blood. If you see one, if you hear their name, you run. No matter what. You run."
But there was no running here.
The door creaked open with smooth finality.
Lucien entered, slow and deliberate, like a predator who knew the cage was locked tight. This time, no tailored jacket. Just a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark veins and strong wrists exposed. Dangerous, casual elegance. His hair was still perfect, every black strand in place, his gray eyes sharp as winter steel.
Elara flinched backward, her breath shallow and rapid.
"Still awake?" he asked softly, as if they were lovers sharing a quiet midnight.
She didn't answer. Her throat burned from holding back tears, fear twisting in her gut.
He crossed the room in slow, measured steps, like a man inspecting rare, expensive art.
"Tell me," he said, crouching before her with unnerving calm, "why is the daughter of Vincent Vale walking the streets of Rome like a common girl, painting for pennies? Does your father no longer fund your quiet little life?"
The breath fled her chest.
"How do you know my father?" she whispered.
Lucien smiled faintly, but it was cold. Almost pitying.
"Your father," he said gently, "was a man of secrets. Of betrayals. Once upon a time, he made a promise to my family. A promise that cost him dearly when he broke it."
Her skin crawled. A dull buzzing filled her ears.
"What are you talking about?"
Lucien reached into his pocket and slowly unfolded a black envelope. The same one she'd glimpsed in his study hours before. He let the paper fall open between them like a priest revealing confession.
Inside was an old photograph.
Four men stood arm in arm at a grand party. Laughter frozen in time. One of them was unmistakably her father. Young, handsome, smiling.
The man beside him was Lucien's father.
"My father's killer," Lucien murmured.
Elara gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth.
Lucien leaned closer, voice low, velvet and venom.
"Did he never tell you how he ruined us? How he betrayed his closest friend? How he helped tear down the Moretti legacy with a single whisper to the wrong people? To the law?"
Tears burned her eyes, confusion thick in her throat. She shook her head desperately.
"You're wrong," she croaked. "My father wasn't part of any of that."
Lucien's gaze sharpened, slicing through her words.
"Lies," he said softly. "You don't even know the blood on your family's hands, do you?"
She tried to stand, to shove him away, but he caught her wrist. Not bruising. Not cruel. Firm. Impossibly strong.
His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, slow as silk.
"I wonder, Elara Vale," he said thoughtfully, "what else your father kept from you. What you might be worth to me beyond revenge."
Her heart stuttered in terror.
"I won't be your pawn," she whispered, fighting the tears threatening to spill. "Kill me or let me go, but I won't dance for you."
Lucien's smile was faint. Almost sad.
"I don't want to kill you, little painter," he murmured. "You are far more interesting alive."
He released her wrist and stood.
"Rules, Elara," he said, turning his back to her as he walked toward the door. "Learn them. Obey them. And you may yet leave this place breathing."
Her voice was small, shaking. "What rules?"
He paused, hand on the doorframe.
"One. You stay where I put you. Always.
Two. You speak only when spoken to.
Three. You touch nothing that does not belong to you.
Four. You tell me the truth. Every time. No matter how small.
And five."
He looked over his shoulder. His gaze locked hers. Gray fire, quiet and terrifying.
"Rule five. You never, ever run from me again. Or I'll break those pretty legs myself."
The door clicked shut behind him, swallowing his shadow.
Elara sat frozen, heart pounding against her ribs like a bird trapped in a glass jar. Her chest ached with held breath. Her father's warnings screamed in her head.
She wasn't here by mistake.
She wasn't some random victim of fate.
Lucien Moretti had taken her for a reason. And it was written in the sins of her family's past.
For the first time since she'd opened her eyes in this gilded prison, Elara truly understood.
She was not a guest here.
She was collateral.
And Lucien Moretti, the Tyrant of Rome, was not finished with her yet.