Chapter 11 – A Touch of Glass and
Gunpowder
The villa sat on a hilltop outside Florence, bathed in late afternoon light that slanted through tall windows like golden arrows. From the outside, it looked like peace — old stone, climbing ivy, antique shutters. But inside, the tension was thick enough to slice.
The CEO — Lorenzo De Luca — stood by the tall windows, espresso in hand, his body a perfect stillness broken only by the occasional clink of porcelain against his wedding ring–less fingers. The room was luxurious but minimalist, more shadows than colors. He preferred it that way. It kept people honest — or at least unable to hide their lies behind loud things.
From this vantage point, he could see nearly the entire city — rooftops stacked like promises, distant church bells ringing soft through the hills. Florence always looked like a painting this time of year. It used to soothe him.
Not anymore.
Not since he began to doubt everyone in his life.
"You've been standing there for twenty minutes."
The voice slid through the room like perfume, sweet and artificial. Elira Montrelli — Italy's golden actress, his public girlfriend, the media's obsession, and lately, his deepest wound.
Lorenzo didn't flinch.
"I thought you had a shoot," he said without turning.
She walked barefoot across the marble, silk robe brushing her ankles, wine glass in hand. "Wrapped early. Thought I'd surprise you."
"You did," he murmured, finally facing her. His eyes, dark and alert, studied her face. Lipstick freshly reapplied. Jewelry different from this morning.
"You changed," he noted.
Elira's smile was cool. "Maybe I wanted to look better for you."
Lorenzo said nothing.
They both knew she hadn't dressed up for him.
Later, she tried to pull him into bed. He didn't go.
She hissed as he turned away, "You're thinking about her again, aren't you? That little actress."
He paused at the door. "She doesn't lie to me."
"And I do?"
"You lie to yourself first."
Then he walked out — not in anger, but in detachment. Elira screamed something behind him. He didn't hear.
Studio – The Next Day
"Quiet on set!"
Rain hammered down from the overhead machine. Seraphina Bellini stood in the middle of the sound stage, soaked in the false storm, her hair clinging to her cheeks. Her scene partner struggled to keep up with her emotion.
Lorenzo watched from the shadows, arms crossed, eyes pinned on her. She was otherworldly — not just beautiful, but truthful. Every expression raw. Unfiltered.
"Cut!" the director shouted.
Seraphina lowered her head, trembling, panting through the weight of the scene. As she stepped off the set, she glanced toward the shadowed balcony above — and met Lorenzo's gaze.
It lasted only two seconds.
But something passed between them. Something dangerous.
Back in his office, Lorenzo replayed the footage alone. Frame by frame. Not the scene — her eyes. The way she bared herself to the camera without blinking. It unnerved him.
A knock.
He didn't answer. His bodyguard entered anyway.
"Sir," Enzo said. "The leak… it came from someone in your circle."
Lorenzo's jaw clenched. "And?"
"We believe Elira sent a transcript of the production meeting to your competitors."
Of course she did.
Lorenzo stared at the screen — at Seraphina's face frozen mid-cry.
"Prepare a letter. End her contract. Quietly."
"Yes, sir."
That Night – Seraphina's Apartment
Seraphina returned home with aching feet and a stuffed bag of soggy clothes. Her flat was small but cozy — a rented top-floor unit with wood beams and secondhand art.
She was just settling in when a sharp knock startled her.
A tall man in black handed her a sealed envelope. No words.
She opened it cautiously.
Your fire deserves to be seen without shadows.
— L.D.L.
Beneath the note: a formal invitation to dinner at Villa De Luca. No explanation. No conditions.
Her heart skipped. She read it again.
And again.
Villa De Luca – 10:03 PM
The gates opened for her without a word.
She stepped into the candlelit estate in a flowing cream dress, nerves flaring like fever under her skin. She half-expected paparazzi, cameras, the glitz of fame.
Instead, silence.
Lorenzo was waiting in the dining room, wearing all black, one hand resting on a glass of red wine.
"You came," he said.
"You invited me."
"Most wouldn't."
She lifted her chin. "I'm not most."
A flicker of a smile — not warm, but honest.
Dinner was delicate and strange. Not romantic — not yet — but charged. They talked about everything but themselves.
Finally, she asked, "Why me?"
Lorenzo's gaze didn't shift. "Because you speak from your wounds."
She swallowed. "So do you."
Silence.
He stood. "Come. I want to show you something."
The Cellar
The wine cellar was cool, lined with centuries-old bottles and forgotten stone walls.
Lorenzo lit a wall lamp, illuminating a faded portrait of a woman.
"She was my mother."
Seraphina looked at him.
"She died in this house," he said. "Murdered. I was fourteen."
Seraphina's breath caught. "I'm sorry."
"You don't have to be."
"You never talk about this."
"I never let anyone this close."
Their eyes met. Something opened.
Then—
Glass shattered upstairs.
Gunshots.
The Attack
Lorenzo shoved Seraphina behind a pillar. "Stay here."
She clung to his wrist. "What's happening?"
"Someone wants me dead."
He pulled a pistol from behind his coat and disappeared up the steps.
Silence. Then more shots. Screams. Two loud crashes.
Then… nothing.
Seraphina waited in the dark, every breath a blade.
Aftermath
When Lorenzo returned, his shirt was bloodstained, one knuckle split.
Seraphina stepped out. "You're hurt."
He looked at her slowly. "Not enough."
She stared. "You're not just a producer."
"No."
"You're… mafia?"
He hesitated. "I was born into it."
Her voice cracked. "And me? What am I now?"
He stepped closer. "The only one I don't want to lose."
They stood in silence. Nothing romantic. Nothing innocent. Just fire and truth.
She whispered, "Am I in danger now?"
"You always were. But not from me."
He turned, but she caught his hand.
He looked back.
For once, he didn't hide.
Neither did she.
End of Chapter 11