Cracks in the King
The sun had barely risen, but the Moretti mansion was already awake. Guards rotated at every entrance, their movements sharp, eyes scanning the grounds with military precision. The house felt less like a home and more like a fortress.
Elena sat by the kitchen window with a cup of untouched coffee. The bitter steam curled into the morning air, but she didn't taste it. She stared out at the manicured gardens, the roses she had once tended with gentle care now shadowed by armed men. What had once been a sanctuary now felt like a cage made of steel and secrets.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she wrapped them around the mug. She hadn't slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Dante's face in the broken living room, his words dripping venom: They're not your weakness, Lucian. They're your chains.
Elena shuddered. She had seen the look in Lucian's eyes when Dante vanished into the night. Rage. Fear. Possession. And last night, when Lucian returned from the docks, that same fire burned brighter, darker.
She set the coffee aside just as Isabella padded into the room, clutching her stuffed rabbit, her curls tangled from sleep.
"Mama," Isabella whispered, rubbing her eyes.
Elena's heart softened instantly. She lifted her daughter into her lap, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Good morning, my love."
"Where's Papa?" Isabella asked, her small voice laced with both curiosity and worry.
Elena swallowed. "He's… working."
"Is he fighting the bad man?"
The question cut like glass. Elena hugged her tighter. "Papa is making sure the bad man never comes near us again."
Isabella nodded sleepily, but her grip on the rabbit tightened. Even at her age, she understood fear. Elena's chest ached at the thought. Children weren't supposed to know fear like this.
---
Later that morning, Elena found herself outside Lucian's office. She hesitated before knocking, the deep rumble of male voices seeping through the heavy oak door.
"—hit the warehouses next," Matteo was saying. "His men will be spread thin after last night. It's the perfect time."
Lucian's reply was low, lethal. "Do it. Burn everything. Leave nothing standing."
Elena's hand hovered, then dropped to her side. She pressed her forehead against the door, heart thudding. This was Lucian in his element: ruthless, calculated, unrelenting. She feared that the man who had once whispered promises against her skin, who had held Isabella like fragile glass, was being buried beneath the Don.
When the door opened suddenly, she straightened. Matteo emerged, his expression grim, nodding respectfully as he passed. Behind him, Lucian stood, his shirt sleeves rolled, veins corded along his forearms, a storm etched across his features.
"Elena." His eyes softened briefly at the sight of her. "Come in."
She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. The office was a war map—literally. Charts of the city plastered the walls, pins marking Dante's strongholds. Weapons lay openly on the desk, alongside files and surveillance photos.
"This is what you've become," she whispered, unable to hide the tremor in her voice. "A general plotting destruction."
Lucian's gaze hardened. "This is what I've always been. You just didn't want to see it."
Her chest tightened. "No, Lucian. I saw you. The man who tucked Isabella into bed. The man who told me I was more than just a scar from your past. That man is slipping away."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Lucian crossed the room in three strides, gripping her waist, pulling her close until she could feel his heart hammering against her.
"You think I don't know what this war is doing to me?" he growled softly. "Every time I leave this house, I'm gambling with my soul. But I don't have the luxury of being just a man, Elena. I am Moretti. And Moretti does not forgive."
Tears burned her eyes. "And what happens when Moretti leaves nothing but ashes for our daughter to inherit?"
His grip faltered. For the first time in days, doubt flickered in his eyes. He exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead to hers.
"You don't understand," he murmured. "If Dante takes you, if he touches Isabella… there is no me left. I'd rather be ashes than empty."
Her tears slipped free, falling onto his shirt. She wanted to fight him, to scream, to demand he choose love over vengeance—but deep down, she knew this was his love. Twisted, fierce, terrifying.
---
That evening, Elena sat in the nursery with Isabella. The soft hum of a lullaby filled the room, but Elena's thoughts wandered. Every creak of the house, every shadow outside the window, made her chest tighten. She was caught between two fears: Dante's threats and Lucian's rage.
As Isabella drifted to sleep, Elena whispered, "I'll protect you. Even from him, if I have to."
The words shocked her as they left her lips, but she didn't take them back. Because for the first time, Elena feared not just losing Lucian, but surviving him.
---
Elsewhere in the city, Dante Marino nursed his wounds. His docks were ash, his men humiliated. But his fury was controlled, honed into something deadly. He sat in a darkened room, a glass of red wine in his hand, his lieutenant speaking softly at his side.
"Moretti struck hard," the man said. "But he left survivors. They spread fear."
Dante smiled thinly. "Good. Fear makes men desperate. And desperate men betray kings."
He raised his glass in a mock toast, his voice a whisper of venom. "Lucian thinks he's the fire. But I'll remind him—ashes aren't the end. They're the beginning."
---
Back at the mansion, Elena awoke in the dead of night to find Lucian's side of the bed cold. She slipped quietly through the halls until she found him in the study, seated alone with a glass of whiskey, staring into nothing.
The sight of him—so strong, yet so alone—broke her heart. She stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Come back to us, Lucian. Before there's nothing left."
He didn't answer. He only closed his eyes, leaning briefly into her touch, as if it was the last anchor keeping him from drowning.