The car ride was silent again, but this silence wasn't heavy—it was sharp, like glass underfoot. Aria's mind raced, replaying the man's dying words: They want the girl… they want her dead.
Why?
The vehicle slowed, and when the doors opened, Aria realized they weren't at Dante's estate. They were pulling into a sprawling villa overlooking the city—the Valerios' territory.
Her blood chilled.
"Why are we here?" she hissed as Dante helped her out, his hand iron on her waist.
"To finish what they started," he said simply, eyes fixed ahead. "If they want to send dogs after you, they can answer to me face-to-face."
Inside, the Valerio estate was marble and menace. Men in tailored suits lined the halls, their guns gleaming faintly under chandeliers. The Valerios were one of the oldest crime families—slick, calculating, snakes in silk.
At the head of the long dining table sat Don Valerio, a hawk-eyed man with silver hair and a cigar between his fingers. His children flanked him like soldiers.
But Aria's gaze snagged on the youngest.
A boy—no, a man, maybe her age—lounged casually in his seat. He was strikingly beautiful in that dangerous way, with sharp cheekbones, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips, and eyes…
Silver.
The same molten, storm-grey silver as Dante's.
Her stomach dropped.
"Dante Moretti," Don Valerio drawled, exhaling smoke. "You arrive in my house with blood still dripping from your shoes. Should I take this as disrespect?"
Dante didn't flinch. He dragged Aria closer, forcing her into the spotlight. "Your men tried to kill my wife. In my city. That's the disrespect, Don."
A ripple of murmurs swept the table.
Don Valerio leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "Your wife? Ah, yes… the politician's daughter. Convenient alliance." His gaze flicked to Aria, studying her like prey. "But you should know, ragazzo, not every bullet fired wears my crest."
Before Dante could respond, the youngest Valerio laughed softly. The sound was mocking, velvety.
"I must say," he drawled, rising to his feet. His silver eyes locked onto Aria, and for a moment it felt like a mirror of Dante's stare, but colder, emptier. "I wasn't expecting her to be so… beautiful."
Aria stiffened.
He stepped closer, ignoring the tension crackling through the room. His gaze lingered on her face, her bandaged arm, and finally—those storm-grey eyes of hers that mirrored his own.
"Funny, isn't it?" he said, smirk widening. "Two silver flames burning under one roof. Perhaps fate enjoys cruel jokes."
Aria's breath caught.
Dante's arm shot out, blocking the younger Valerio from coming closer. His voice was a blade. "Stay the hell away from her, Lucien."
Lucien.
The name settled in Aria's bones like ice.
Lucien only smiled, his gaze flicking between them with unsettling amusement. "Oh, Dante. Possessive as always. But tell me…" He tilted his head toward Aria. "Does she even know what those eyes mean?"
The table went dead silent. Even Don Valerio's hand paused mid-air with his cigar.
Aria's pulse roared in her ears. "What… what do you mean?"
Lucien chuckled, retreating back to his seat as though the game bored him already. "Ah, don't look at me like that. Secrets taste better when your own husband keeps them from you."
Her gaze snapped to Dante. His jaw was steel, his fists clenched, his storm-grey eyes unreadable.
The meeting spiraled from there—accusations, veiled threats, promises of bloodshed if another attempt was made on Aria's life. But Aria barely heard any of it.
She sat there, heart thundering, staring at the reflection of her own silver eyes in the wine glass before her… and the smirk of the man who shared them.