Morning light crept through the blinds like knives, slicing the room into fragments. Lottie sat at the edge of her bed, sleepless again, her hands worrying the edges of the photograph until the paper felt ready to disintegrate.
The woman in the picture—her mother, her real mother—stared back with that same fierce sharpness Lottie sometimes glimpsed in her own reflection. Caruso blood. The thought made her skin crawl.
A knock rapped on the door.
She tensed. "Who is it?"
The door opened without waiting. Gabe stepped inside, dark suit, darker mood, the kind of presence that filled every corner. He didn't bother with greetings.
"Eat." He set a tray on the nightstand—fruit, bread, coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
She blinked at it, then at him. "You've turned into my jailer and my butler."
His brow arched. "You'd rather starve?"
"I'd rather have the truth."
The words cracked sharper than she meant. He froze, his jaw flexing once before he turned away. "Not now."
"Not now, not ever," she muttered.
He pivoted back so quickly she startled. "Careful, Lottie. You think you want the whole truth, but once it's out, you'll wish you never heard it."
Her pulse spiked. She hated the way he spoke like that—like he carried the world's ruin in his pocket and she was too fragile to hold even a corner of it.
"Stop deciding what I can and can't handle," she snapped. "Stop deciding everything for me."
His silence was a wall, but his eyes—those burning, conflicted eyes—betrayed him. She saw something in them that terrified her more than Vitale's threats. Longing. Possession. A pull that felt like standing too close to fire.
"Eat," he repeated, softer this time. Then he left.
By midday, the estate swarmed with tension. Guards swept every room. Radios buzzed with clipped reports. Marco oversaw the checks with a soldier's efficiency, but Lottie caught his eyes once, and the message there was unmistakable: He's hiding more from you than he admits.
Outside, the world was deceptively calm. Children rode bicycles on distant streets. Neighbors tended to their roses. Yet every shadow felt orchestrated, every car too slow, every face too blurred to trust.
She wandered into the greenhouse just past noon, needing space, needing air that wasn't heavy with fear. The scent of damp earth and citrus leaves was a small reprieve.
Until she saw him.
Gabe stood near the far wall, jacket off, sleeves rolled, phone pressed to his ear. His tone was low, deadly calm, but the words carried across the glass panes.
"If he wants her so badly, let him try. But he won't touch her. Not while I breathe."
Her heart clenched.
He hung up and turned. Their eyes met through rows of orange blossoms. For a moment neither moved, the silence alive with everything unsaid.
"You shouldn't be here alone," he said finally.
"You can't lock me in a room forever."
His mouth curved, humorless. "I can try."
Something in her snapped. She crossed the space, anger and fear colliding. "You can't keep treating me like I'm a problem to be managed. I'm not a pawn in your war, Gabe."
He closed the distance too, until the heat of him pressed at her skin, until she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze.
"You're not a pawn," he said, voice rough. "You're the reason I'm still playing."
Her breath hitched.
He lifted a hand, almost touching her cheek, but stopped a fraction short, his restraint trembling in the space between them. "Don't you see? Vitale knows it. That's why he wants you. Because he's finally found what I can't afford to lose."
The words sank deep, dangerous and intoxicating.
She wanted to step back, to remind herself he was fire, that fire burned. But instead, she stayed rooted, drawn in despite the fear clawing her chest.
The greenhouse door slammed. Marco strode in, grim urgency breaking the fragile moment. "We've got movement. Vitale's men are gathering two blocks east. This isn't posturing anymore."
Gabe's hand dropped, his expression snapping back to steel. "Positions?"
"Two cars, four men confirmed, maybe more in the shadows."
"Then we bleed them out before they crawl closer." Gabe turned to her, his gaze softer now but no less commanding. "You stay inside. This isn't a request."
She wanted to argue, but the look in his eyes left no room. It wasn't cruelty—it was desperation.
As he left with Marco, weapons already in hand, Lottie's knees nearly gave way.
She pressed her palms against the cool glass of the greenhouse, staring at the world outside. The air smelled of citrus and iron.
And for the first time, she realized Gabe wasn't the only one caught in Vitale's fire.
She was burning too.
Morning light crept through the blinds like knives, slicing the room into fragments. Lottie sat at the edge of her bed, sleepless again, her hands worrying the edges of the photograph until the paper felt ready to disintegrate.
The woman in the picture—her mother, her real mother—stared back with that same fierce sharpness Lottie sometimes glimpsed in her own reflection. Caruso blood. The thought made her skin crawl.
A knock rapped on the door.
She tensed. "Who is it?"
The door opened without waiting. Gabe stepped inside, dark suit, darker mood, the kind of presence that filled every corner. He didn't bother with greetings.
"Eat." He set a tray on the nightstand—fruit, bread, coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
She blinked at it, then at him. "You've turned into my jailer and my butler."
His brow arched. "You'd rather starve?"
"I'd rather have the truth."
The words cracked sharper than she meant. He froze, his jaw flexing once before he turned away. "Not now."
"Not now, not ever," she muttered.
He pivoted back so quickly she startled. "Careful, Lottie. You think you want the whole truth, but once it's out, you'll wish you never heard it."
Her pulse spiked. She hated the way he spoke like that—like he carried the world's ruin in his pocket and she was too fragile to hold even a corner of it.
"Stop deciding what I can and can't handle," she snapped. "Stop deciding everything for me."
His silence was a wall, but his eyes—those burning, conflicted eyes—betrayed him. She saw something in them that terrified her more than Vitale's threats. Longing. Possession. A pull that felt like standing too close to fire.
"Eat," he repeated, softer this time. Then he left.
By midday, the estate swarmed with tension. Guards swept every room. Radios buzzed with clipped reports. Marco oversaw the checks with a soldier's efficiency, but Lottie caught his eyes once, and the message there was unmistakable: He's hiding more from you than he admits.
Outside, the world was deceptively calm. Children rode bicycles on distant streets. Neighbors tended to their roses. Yet every shadow felt orchestrated, every car too slow, every face too blurred to trust.
She wandered into the greenhouse just past noon, needing space, needing air that wasn't heavy with fear. The scent of damp earth and citrus leaves was a small reprieve.
Until she saw him.
Gabe stood near the far wall, jacket off, sleeves rolled, phone pressed to his ear. His tone was low, deadly calm, but the words carried across the glass panes.
"If he wants her so badly, let him try. But he won't touch her. Not while I breathe."
Her heart clenched.
He hung up and turned. Their eyes met through rows of orange blossoms. For a moment neither moved, the silence alive with everything unsaid.
"You shouldn't be here alone," he said finally.
"You can't lock me in a room forever."
His mouth curved, humorless. "I can try."
Something in her snapped. She crossed the space, anger and fear colliding. "You can't keep treating me like I'm a problem to be managed. I'm not a pawn in your war, Gabe."
He closed the distance too, until the heat of him pressed at her skin, until she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze.
"You're not a pawn," he said, voice rough. "You're the reason I'm still playing."
Her breath hitched.
He lifted a hand, almost touching her cheek, but stopped a fraction short, his restraint trembling in the space between them. "Don't you see? Vitale knows it. That's why he wants you. Because he's finally found what I can't afford to lose."
The words sank deep, dangerous and intoxicating.
She wanted to step back, to remind herself he was fire, that fire burned. But instead, she stayed rooted, drawn in despite the fear clawing her chest.
The greenhouse door slammed. Marco strode in, grim urgency breaking the fragile moment. "We've got movement. Vitale's men are gathering two blocks east. This isn't posturing anymore."
Gabe's hand dropped, his expression snapping back to steel. "Positions?"
"Two cars, four men confirmed, maybe more in the shadows."
"Then we bleed them out before they crawl closer." Gabe turned to her, his gaze softer now but no less commanding. "You stay inside. This isn't a request."
She wanted to argue, but the look in his eyes left no room. It wasn't cruelty—it was desperation.
As he left with Marco, weapons already in hand, Lottie's knees nearly gave way.
She pressed her palms against the cool glass of the greenhouse, staring at the world outside. The air smelled of citrus and iron.
And for the first time, she realized Gabe wasn't the only one caught in Vitale's fire.
She was burning too.