Vows of Fire
The silence after the storm was deafening.
Lucian held Elena and Isabella so tightly it was as if his arms alone could shield them from the world. Elena felt the tremor in his body—barely restrained rage fused with raw relief. His chest heaved against her cheek, his pulse hammering like a war drum, and she knew the man who stood before her was on the edge of something catastrophic.
The room around them was carnage. Splintered furniture, shattered glass, and the stench of blood marked the battlefield Dante Marino had dared to step into. Three bodies lay motionless at Lucian's feet, their lifeblood seeping into the Persian rug Elena had chosen only weeks ago. A grotesque stain, a reminder that in Lucian's world, nothing beautiful stayed untouched for long.
"Elena," Lucian whispered again, his voice hoarse, as if saying her name was the only thing tethering him to sanity. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head quickly. "No. Just—just shaken." She glanced down at Isabella, whose sobs were softening but whose small fists clutched Lucian's shirt with desperate strength. Elena kissed her daughter's hair, whispering comfort.
Lucian drew back just enough to study them, his eyes burning with the kind of ferocity that frightened her as much as it reassured her. He cupped Elena's face in one blood-stained hand, forcing her to meet his gaze. "I almost lost you tonight. Both of you. Do you understand what that means to me?"
Elena's lips parted, but no words came. She could only nod, because the truth was written in every line of his face.
Then Lucian stood, pulling out his phone with the other hand. His voice was steel when he spoke. "Matteo. Clean this up. Every trace. And put men on every corner of the property until sunrise. No one breathes near this house without my command."
The response was immediate, hurried footsteps echoing as Lucian's most loyal men rushed to obey. He ended the call, his jaw tightening. "Dante Marino walked into my home. He made a declaration of war."
Elena's stomach knotted. She had seen Lucian furious before, but this was different. This was personal. "Lucian…" she began softly, but he cut her off with a sharp shake of his head.
"There will be no peace now. Not until I put Dante's corpse in the ground."
---
Hours later, the house was quiet again, though the shadows still hummed with the memory of violence. Isabella had finally fallen asleep in Elena's arms, her small body trembling even in dreams. Elena laid her gently on the bed, tucking the blanket around her before stepping out into the dimly lit hallway.
She found Lucian in his office, standing before the wide windows that overlooked the city. He hadn't changed out of his blood-stained shirt. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat untouched on the desk, condensation dripping onto the polished wood. His gun was disassembled beside it, each piece lined with military precision, gleaming under the lamp.
"Lucian." Elena's voice was tentative, a whisper against the storm of his silence.
His head turned slightly, enough for her to see the flicker in his eyes. "You should be resting."
"I can't rest knowing what's boiling inside you." She crossed the room, bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. "Talk to me. Don't shut me out."
Lucian turned fully, and for a heartbeat, she saw something human—something broken—in his expression. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by the cold mask of a don preparing for war.
"He came for you, Elena. For Isabella. That is a line no man crosses and lives to tell about it. Do you understand?" His voice cracked like a whip.
"I understand," she said carefully, her heart racing. "But if you let rage consume you, you'll destroy everything. You'll lose yourself before you ever put an end to Dante."
Lucian's laugh was low, humorless. "Lose myself? Elena, you don't understand. Dante didn't just attack my house tonight. He lit the fuse to the one thing that keeps me breathing." He stepped closer, his hand gripping her chin with rough tenderness. "You. Isabella. If he takes you from me, there is no Lucian Moretti left. Only ashes."
Elena's breath caught. His words were both a confession and a threat—to her, to the world, to himself.
"Then promise me something," she whispered. "Promise me you'll fight to protect us, not just to destroy him. I don't want Isabella to grow up knowing her father burned the world and himself with it."
Lucian studied her for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, finally, he pressed his forehead to hers. His voice dropped to a rasp. "I promise you this, Elena. I will end him. And when I do, you'll never have to fear again."
Her heart twisted, because she knew that wasn't the promise she had asked for. But it was the only one he was capable of giving.
---
The next morning, Lucian convened his men in the underground war room—a fortress of steel and maps, screens flickering with surveillance feeds across the city. Matteo, broad-shouldered and grim-faced, stood at his right hand, while a dozen capos lined the table, waiting for orders.
Lucian entered like a storm contained within flesh. The room fell silent.
"Dante Marino has declared war," he said, his voice carrying like thunder. "Last night he stepped into my home, threatened my family, and spilled blood under my roof. For that, I will dismantle him piece by piece. His businesses, his alliances, his bloodline—nothing will remain."
A murmur of assent rippled through the men.
Matteo leaned forward. "Boss, Dante won't be reckless again. He'll fortify. He'll expect retaliation."
"Good," Lucian said coldly. "Let him expect it. Fear will rot him from the inside before my bullets ever touch his flesh."
He pointed to the maps. "Start with his shipments at the docks. Burn them. Then his clubs. His warehouses. Anything with his name on it goes up in flames. Send a message he can't ignore."
The men nodded, their eyes alight with the promise of bloodshed.
But in the corner of the room, Elena stood unnoticed, watching. She had followed quietly, unseen in the chaos, and what she witnessed now chilled her. Lucian wasn't just planning vengeance—he was orchestrating annihilation.
And as much as she loved him, a seed of dread rooted in her chest. Because loving Lucian Moretti meant loving the fire. And fire, she knew, consumed everything it touched.
---
That night, after the war council dispersed, Elena found herself back in the bedroom with Isabella asleep between them. She watched Lucian sitting on the edge of the bed, the glow of the city beyond the window painting his profile in silver and shadow.
"You're leaving, aren't you?" she whispered.
Lucian didn't look at her, his gaze fixed on the skyline. "Tomorrow. The docks first. Then the rest."
Her throat tightened. "And if you don't come back?"
He turned then, his eyes molten with a vow that could burn the heavens. "I'll come back. Because I swore no one would ever touch you again. And I don't break my vows, Elena."
He leaned down, pressing a fierce kiss to her lips—one that tasted of fire and inevitability.
When he pulled away, his final words hung heavy in the room, a death sentence written in flame.
"Dante lit the match. Now I'll show him what it means to play with fire."