The door clicked shut, and Dante's absence felt heavier than his presence. Aria stood in the center of the library, staring at the drops of blood still glistening on the shards of glass.
Her chest rose and fell, shallow, uneven. Was it you… or Lucian…? The question replayed like a haunting melody.
Her fingers hovered over the bloodstained glass. For a moment, she thought of pressing her hand against it, feeling the sting, grounding herself in the pain the way she'd once seen Dante do. But she snatched it back. She couldn't afford to lose herself like him. Not now.
The Moretti mansion wasn't quiet. It never was. Every shadow had ears, every corridor whispered. And as she turned, she caught the faintest sound—a creak at the doorway.
It wasn't Dante.
A maid, eyes lowered, lingered too long before scurrying off. And something in the woman's hurried footsteps screamed fear.
Aria's pulse raced. She followed. Through the winding halls, past portraits of men with the same sharp Moretti jawline and the same darkness in their eyes, until the maid disappeared into the servants' wing.
Aria hesitated, then stepped inside.
The air was colder here, damp with secrets. She pressed herself against the wall as muffled voices carried from the narrow passage ahead.
"…if she keeps digging, she'll end up like Matteo."
Her breath caught.
"…the Don won't allow it. Dante's barely keeping her in line."
A pause. Then, lower, harsher—"…and if Lucian's right, she's already doomed."
The voices dissolved into footsteps.
Aria stood frozen, heart hammering so hard she thought it might give her away. Matteo's name. Lucian's warning. Dante's silence. All weaving into a web she wasn't sure she wanted the truth of.
But one thing was certain. She was done waiting for Dante to hand her the truth.
She would rip it out of this house herself, even if it destroyed her.
Dante Moretti's footsteps echoed like gunfire down the marble corridor, each one fueled by the fury clawing at his chest. His palm stung where the glass had torn it open, but he welcomed the pain—it was easier than the memory in Aria's voice when she said his brother's name.
Was it you… or Lucian?
He pushed open the doors to his private quarters, the heavy oak slamming against the walls. The room was dark, curtains drawn, lit only by the faint glow of city lights seeping through the glass.
He braced his hands against the dresser, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Silver eyes stared back—cold, ruthless, yet trembling with the secret he'd carried since that night.
Matteo's blood had been warm on his hands.
A sharp knock at the door broke the silence. Dante didn't move.
"Brother," Lucian's voice slithered in, smooth, amused. "She's asking questions, isn't she? You should know better than to let your woman wander in the dark."
Dante's fist slammed against the mirror, cracking it down the middle. His reflection fractured, just like his composure.
"Careful, Lucian," Dante growled, his voice low, dangerous. "One day that tongue will cost you your life."
Lucian stepped inside uninvited, the smirk already curving his lips. He looked so much like Matteo in the dim light, and for a split second, that resemblance was a blade twisting deeper in Dante's chest.
"Or maybe," Lucian drawled, his silver eyes glinting, "it'll cost yours."
The silence between them was suffocating, heavy with unspoken truths.
Dante turned away from the broken mirror, his blood dripping onto the floor. "Stay away from her," he warned.
But Lucian only chuckled, a sound colder than winter steel. "You and I both know, brother… the closer she gets, the closer she comes to learning which of us killed Matteo."