The storm inside Dante's study had calmed into something quieter, more dangerous.
Aria sat on the edge of the leather sofa, her fingers trembling against her lap. Dante had poured her a glass of water, then lingered by the window, staring into the night like it held all his sins.
For once, neither of them spoke. The silence was almost worse than their shouting.
Finally, Aria broke it. Her voice was small, cracked around the edges.
"Dante…"
He didn't turn.
She swallowed hard, the question burning her throat raw. "Was it you that night?" Her voice shook, the words tasting like betrayal. "Or Lucien? Or…" Her chest heaved. "…is there another silver-eyed freak I don't know about?"
The room froze.
Slowly, Dante's shoulders stiffened. His hand twitched against the glass, the veins in his forearm tight as if he were restraining himself.
But he didn't answer.
He didn't deny it. He didn't confess.
He just turned away from her completely and walked out of the study, his footsteps heavy, final.
Aria's heart dropped into a hollow pit. She rose halfway, her lips parting in disbelief. "Dante?"
The door shut behind him, the echo slamming into her chest harder than any bullet.
Aria stood there, shaking, the taste of salt on her lips. She couldn't breathe. Every suspicion, every fear, wrapped itself around her throat.
If it wasn't Lucien… was it him?
She sank back into the sofa, her hands covering her face as the weight of the Moretti world pressed down on her shoulders.
For the first time since stepping into this life, she realized she might not just lose herself to Dante.
She might lose her soul.
Dante's footsteps echoed down the corridor like war drums. Each one heavier than the last.
He didn't look back. If he had, if he'd seen the way Aria's eyes broke when she asked that cursed question—he might have stayed. And staying meant confessing. Confessing meant destroying her.
The whiskey bottle was waiting for him in the library. He uncorked it with a snap of his wrist and poured until the glass was nearly overflowing. The liquid burned down his throat, but not enough. Nothing ever burned enough.
He braced his hands on the desk, his storm-grey eyes reflecting back at him in the darkened window. For a moment, he saw not himself, but Lucien. That same silver fire lurking in their blood, their curse.
And Matteo's face.
A growl tore from his chest. The glass shattered in his grip, shards biting into his palm. Blood spilled onto the wood, bright against the polished oak.
But the pain was nothing compared to the memory clawing at him.
The gunshot. The scream. Matteo collapsing in a pool of crimson.
Dante squeezed his bleeding fist tighter, his jaw clenched until it ached.
She thinks it was me.
The thought gutted him. Because the truth was worse than any of her accusations. The truth was tangled in shadows he could never let her see.
Not yet.
"Running from ghosts again, Moretti?"
The voice slithered from the dark corner of the room. Dante's head snapped up, muscles coiled.
Lucien Valerio stepped from the shadows, silver eyes gleaming like a knife's edge.
Dante's lip curled. "You've got a death wish, walking in here uninvited."
Lucien only smirked, casual, predatory. "If I wanted you dead, Dante, I wouldn't be standing in your library, bleeding confidence all over your carpets." He glanced at the shattered glass and the blood dripping from Dante's fist. "Though clearly, you're doing a fine job of destroying yourself."
Dante stepped forward, rage radiating off him. "What the hell do you want?"
Lucien's smirk widened. "The same thing she does." He let the words linger, sharp as venom. "The truth."
Dante's chest heaved, fury burning hotter than the whiskey in his veins.
But Lucien only tilted his head, eyes glinting. "Tell me, brother… when she finally learns what you've done, whose side will she choose?"
The air thickened, suffocating. Dante's silence was his only weapon now.
Because the truth was a blade—and it was already pressing against his throat.