The night never really slept in the Cavelli estate.
Searchlights swept the outer walls in wide, deliberate arcs, slicing the dark into shards of pale light. Men patrolled the corridors with the low hum of boots and clipped murmurs, restless shadows with weapons slung at their sides. Radios crackled and hissed like insects. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, sharp and hollow, its cry echoing against stone walls.
Every sound carried too far, too sharp—like the world itself was wound tight on the edge of breaking.
Lottie sat curled in the armchair by Gabe's window, her knees drawn close to her chest, staring out across the estate grounds. The horizon was bruised with the faintest smear of silver, but dawn hadn't fully broken. Not yet.
Sleep had never come. Her body ached, every muscle screaming from training and bruises layered on bruises, but her mind wouldn't still. She kept seeing the cellar—the cold stone walls, Enzo's trembling hands, and the way his voice had cracked when he'd said the words Vitale had fed him. She'll be your undoing.
The thought gnawed at her, teeth on bone, chewing slow and steady until it hollowed out her chest.
Behind her, the soft rasp of fabric broke through the silence. Gabe was dressing, tugging on a fresh black shirt, his movements measured and precise, though she could see the stiffness in his shoulders. He hadn't slept either—she didn't need proof. The shadows under his eyes said enough.
"You should lie down," he said without turning, his voice roughened by exhaustion.
She didn't move, didn't look away from the window. "If I close my eyes, I'll see him again. The way he looked at me. Like I wasn't even a person anymore, just—just a weapon waiting for Vitale to use."
Silence stretched like a knife blade.
Then his footsteps crossed the room. The boards creaked faintly beneath his weight until he stood beside her. His presence filled the small corner, heavy and solid, his gaze fixed on the faint light cresting the horizon.
"That's exactly what Vitale wants," he said at last, low and even. "Fear. He bends men with it. Makes them doubt, makes them hesitate. He thinks he can bend you too."
Her throat worked as she finally turned to look at him. "And can't he?"
His jaw flexed, but he didn't waver. His eyes locked on hers, steady and unflinching. "Not while I breathe."
The words hit her chest like a stone thrown into water—sharp, rippling, sinking deep. It was more than a vow. It was a warning.
Slowly, she unfolded from the chair, rising until she stood close enough to feel the heat of him, to see the hard set of his mouth and the exhaustion carved into the lines around his eyes. "You can't keep carrying all of this alone, Gabe. If Vitale is going to use me, then let me be more than a weakness. Let me stand with you."
For a moment, his expression didn't change, but his hand lifted almost instinctively. Fingers brushed through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. The touch lingered, softer than it had any right to be.
"And what happens," he murmured, "when standing with me means falling with me?"
Her lips parted, breath trembling, but her answer came sure and steady. "Then we fall together."
The silence that followed was thick, charged, and fragile all at once.
And then he kissed her.
At first, it was almost hesitant, like a man testing dangerous ground, a soldier trying to step somewhere he shouldn't. But the hesitation burned away quickly, replaced by hunger, by fire. He kissed her as though the world outside didn't exist, as though dawn and Vitale and war could all wait. His hands curled around her waist, anchoring her, pulling her close.
She clung to him, her fists gripping the fabric of his shirt, grounding herself in the raw heat of him. The kiss tasted of fear and defiance, bitter and sweet all at once.
When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, breath ragged and uneven.
"You'll undo me, Lottie," he whispered, his voice frayed at the edges.
Her lips curved into the faintest, fragile smile. "Or maybe I'll save you."
⸻
By the time the sun clawed its way fully over the horizon, the war room was alive with tension. The long oak table was buried under maps and notes, the surface marked with smudges from hurried hands and ink stains that spoke of long nights. Radios buzzed from the corners, spitting static and clipped updates from men stationed beyond the estate.
Marco was already at the head of the table, his posture sharp, his expression tighter than usual. Around him, half a dozen of Gabe's men stood in stiff attention, their voices pitched low as they debated patrol routes and supply lines.
The moment Gabe entered, silence dropped like a stone. He moved through the room with quiet authority, Lottie trailing close behind him.
A flicker of hesitation rippled through the men as their eyes shifted toward her. She wasn't one of them—not fully. Not yet. But Gabe's presence was enough to silence any unspoken question. He didn't need to declare that she belonged there. His actions had already said it.
"Report," Gabe said.
Marco straightened. "Scouts say there's unusual movement at the eastern docks. More men than usual. Too organized to be coincidence. Vitale's positioning."
Gabe's jaw hardened. He leaned over the table, scanning the map with a predator's eye. "Not positioning. Not yet. He's still testing. He wants us to move pieces before we see the board."
His hand reached out, dragging one of the markers slowly along the docks toward the heart of the city. "He'll strike deeper than this. Something that forces us to split."
"Or someone," Lottie said quietly.
The room turned toward her. Heat flushed her face, but she didn't falter. She stepped closer to the table, her voice steady. "He won't just try to break walls. He'll try to drag me out. If I'm his weapon, then that's how he wins—by pulling me away from you."
The silence stretched. Marco frowned, skeptical but thoughtful.
But Gabe… Gabe's expression shifted.
"She's right," he said after a long beat, his tone low, certain. "It's exactly what I'd do."
He straightened, his gaze sweeping the table. "We bait him. Make him believe he's close. But it's on our terms, not his."
Marco's brow furrowed. "Risky."
"It's war," Gabe answered flatly. "Risk is all we have left."
⸻
The hours bled together in motion—men fortifying barricades, radios crackling with fresh intel, weapons checked and loaded until the click of metal became the steady heartbeat of the estate.
Lottie wandered into the balcony garden as the preparations continued. The roses that once bloomed bright and full had withered under late summer's heat, their petals brittle and curled, crumbling at the touch. She plucked one carefully, rolling it between her fingers, petals flaking like ash.
So much beauty, always crumbling under pressure.
"Don't pick dead flowers," a voice said from the doorway.
She turned. Gabe leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching her. His tone carried a faint rasp of humor, but his eyes gave him away. He looked tired, worn thin, like a man stitched together by nothing but willpower.
She held up the brittle rose. "Even dead things have meaning."
His expression softened for just a moment, enough to show the cracks beneath the steel. He stepped closer, and the space between them shrank until the world outside the garden walls disappeared.
The estate buzzed with the rhythm of war, men and machines preparing for dawn's edge. But here, in this fragile quiet, it felt like the eye of the storm.
For a moment, she let herself believe they could hold it. That the world wouldn't shatter when the sun rose fully.
But somewhere inside, she knew—dawn had only just broken, and already the shadows were closing in.