The estate held its breath. The early afternoon sun painted long shadows across the manicured lawns, but nothing outside was ordinary. Every rustle of leaves, every distant engine hum set Lottie's nerves alight. She pressed her palms to the cool glass of the greenhouse, gripping the edges as if she could anchor herself to the world she once thought safe.
Two blocks east, the shadows moved with intent. Gabe's voice still echoed in her mind: "Positions. You stay inside. This isn't a request."
She wanted to argue. To move. To do something. Anything. But she couldn't. Not without becoming part of a recklessness that could kill them all.
Her thoughts fractured. She saw the photograph on her nightstand again—her mother's fierce eyes staring back, as though warning her of the chaos her bloodline had inherited. The Caruso name wasn't just a lineage; it was a trigger, a spark that had set this city on fire decades ago. And now, Lottie realized, that fire wasn't contained—it was rising, and she was standing in the middle of it.
The greenhouse door creaked open. Marco appeared first, silent as a shadow, and gestured sharply. "They're closer. Two blocks east. Three vehicles, four men in black. They're probing. Testing defenses."
Lottie's stomach dropped. "Probing? That… that's nothing. They're circling for the kill."
Marco's eyes softened for a fraction of a second. "You're not wrong. That's why he doesn't want you outside."
Before Lottie could respond, the sharp snap of heels on stone drew her gaze. Gabe entered, black suit now replaced by tactical gear, every inch of him radiating lethal precision. He moved with the ease of a predator among prey, scanning every corner, every shadow.
"Lock it down," he ordered, voice low, commanding, magnetic. "I want eyes on all exits. Marco, perimeter sweep. Everyone else, secondary positions. No mistakes."
"Yes, sir," Marco replied, already moving.
Gabe paused in front of Lottie, his eyes dark pools that reflected both storm and fire. "Stay here," he said, almost a whisper, though the authority behind it made her flinch.
"I'm not a child," she snapped, but he ignored her.
Instead, he leaned closer, the heat of him brushing against her. "No. Not a child. But someone I can't afford to lose. Understand?"
The words weren't a question. They were a warning.
Outside, the streets had changed. The neighborhood that once seemed harmless now felt alien, hostile. Dark vehicles lingered just beyond familiar corners. Men in black, faces obscured, moved with predatory purpose.
From the greenhouse, Lottie could see them testing the estate, their eyes sharp, their movements synchronized. Each approach felt like a chess piece being moved with careful malice. She clenched her fists. Fear surged, but beneath it, a different pulse: anger.
She would not be a helpless target. Not entirely.
Inside, Gabe orchestrated the defense with chilling efficiency. Radios crackled with clipped updates:
"East perimeter clear."
"North gate—two vehicles stopped."
"Movement in alley three. No visual on faces."
Every message tightened the air. Lottie watched him, silent and tense, seeing the lines etched deep in his face, the weight of the empire on his shoulders, and the personal stakes he never let slip.
Her pulse quickened, but it wasn't fear alone. Seeing him like this—so dangerous, so commanding—drew something primal inside her, a mixture of awe and desire that terrified her more than Vitale's looming threat.
Suddenly, a sharp explosion shattered the quiet—a car's hood ignited in a distant alley, black smoke curling toward the sky. The estate's alarms screamed in response. Guards scrambled, weapons drawn. The greenhouse door slammed open as Gabe's hand landed on her shoulder, grounding her in the chaos.
"They're testing us," he growled, eyes scanning the horizon. "They want to see if we'll falter."
"I—I can see them," she stammered, pointing toward the alley where figures moved among shadows.
"No. Stay with me," he said, his hand tightening around her wrist—not harshly, but enough to anchor her attention. "You can't be a target out there. Not yet. Not until I clear this."
She swallowed, trembling, but nodded. The fire inside her—the determination, the stubborn refusal to be nothing more than prey—burned hotter than her fear.
Gabe moved to the center of the estate's main hall, issuing orders that were precise, deadly. Lottie followed at a cautious distance, watching as he orchestrated men and weapons with the ease of a seasoned general. His mind was always three steps ahead, predicting, countering, manipulating the battlefield before it even existed.
A drone's whirring above caught her attention. She saw it first—small, black, almost invisible, hovering near the treetops. She gasped, pointing.
Gabe's eyes narrowed. "Vitale's scouts. They're recording positions, looking for weak points."
"I can—" she began, but he cut her off with a sharp glance.
"You can observe, not intervene. You'll do more harm than good."
Her lips pressed together, frustration bubbling, but she stayed put. Observation became her role, and even in stillness, she found purpose. She noted the positions, the movements, patterns she had never seen before.
The next hour unfolded like a storm. Shadows moved along the streets. Vehicles lurched into alleys, stopping suddenly, then retreating. Every incursion was met with precise resistance from Gabe's men, coordinated chaos that left the attackers frustrated and bleeding.
At one point, a group attempted to scale the east wall. Guards intercepted them, gunfire cracking, a brief flash of violence that painted the estate's exterior with danger. Lottie pressed her face against the glass, heart hammering, unable to look away from the organized brutality that Gabe commanded.
In a pause between chaos, he caught her gaze. His hand brushed against hers—not intentionally tender, not warm, just grounding, a reminder that she was not invisible, not disposable. The look in his eyes held everything unspoken: warning, desire, ownership, protection.
Hours stretched, a battle of shadows and strategy. Vitale's men retreated in fits and starts, regrouping, probing again and again, each attempt met with calculated resistance. The estate's walls held, but the tension never released. Lottie felt as if every heartbeat carried the weight of the city's threat, of lives that could end with a single misstep.
By late afternoon, Gabe finally called a temporary halt. The attackers withdrew, for now. Guards remained vigilant, eyes never leaving the perimeters. Lottie exhaled, but the adrenaline didn't fade.
"You stayed alive," Gabe said, voice low, almost a growl. "That's all that matters."
"I'm not a child," she murmured, the fire in her voice barely hiding the trembling of exhaustion.
"No," he admitted, a fraction softer, "but you are mine to protect. Do you understand?"
Her chest tightened. The words carried both comfort and captivity, desire and command. She nodded, but inside, a different truth burned brighter than fear: she was not just being protected. She was part of this war now, inseparable from the fire that surrounded them both.
As the sun dipped low, painting the estate in crimson and gold, Lottie stood in the greenhouse again, watching the world through the fractured light. She felt something shift within her—a recognition that fear alone could not dictate her fate.
She was caught in fire. She was part of it. And if this was war, she would not be a casualty. She would be the spark.