The estate had never felt so heavy.
Night still clung to the horizon, dawn not yet daring to break. The Cavelli mansion sat shrouded in silence, its stone walls streaked by the faint glow of lanterns and headlights as wounded men stumbled through the gates. The smell of smoke clung to them — smoke, gunpowder, blood.
Lottie stepped from the car on unsteady legs. Her ribs ached with every breath, her body trembling from exhaustion she couldn't name. She glanced back — Gabe was the last to emerge, his silhouette stark against the still-burning horizon of the docks beyond. He hadn't spoken a word during the drive back.
The silence between them had been suffocating. Not angry silence, not even bitter silence. It was the kind that pressed against the lungs, thick and heavy, a silence carved out of things neither of them knew how to say.
Inside, the marble foyer was a patchwork of chaos. Men collapsed against walls, their shirts bloodied, hands clutching wounds as Marco and others barked orders. The house, once a sanctuary, now resembled a field hospital. The chandeliers glittered above the carnage, mocking in their elegance.
One man sat with his back to the wall, pressing a rag against his side as blood seeped through his fingers. Another gritted his teeth while someone stitched his arm without anesthetic. In the far corner, two bodies lay shrouded with linen, and already the cloth was turning dark where blood refused to be contained.
Lottie wrapped her arms around herself, the cold seeping in despite the warmth. She couldn't look away from the haunted faces of Gabe's men — warriors who had marched into the night with confidence, only to return fractured, bloodied, carrying their dead on stretchers.
Vitale had taken more than weapons. He had stolen their certainty.
"Get them patched up. Nobody leaves the grounds until I say." Gabe's voice cut through the chaos, sharp as broken glass. He moved with lethal precision, directing his men without hesitation. But his jaw was set too tightly, his eyes storm-dark, his movements sharper than necessary.
Marco stepped forward, blood smeared on his sleeve, his voice low but heated. "We lost six. Two more won't make it through the night. And Vitale—"
"Vitale is alive because I allowed him to walk away." Gabe's tone was ice. His men stilled, glancing at one another but saying nothing. "He thinks tonight was a victory. Let him. When I come for him, there won't be smoke to hide behind."
But Marco didn't flinch. "You can't keep promising blood without giving them something solid. They followed you into fire tonight, and half of them came back burned. They're loyal, Gabe, but even loyalty has a breaking point."
The air between them snapped taut, sharp as a blade.
Lottie's stomach twisted. She had never seen Marco defy Gabe so openly, not like this. The room held its breath, men shifting uncomfortably, waiting for Gabe's response.
For a heartbeat, she feared Gabe would lash out — not with fists, but with words that could cut deeper than steel. Instead, he turned away, his voice quieter but colder.
"Get them treated. We bury our dead at dawn."
Marco's jaw flexed, but he nodded, retreating to rally the others.
⸻
Lottie followed Gabe up the staircase without realizing her feet were moving. The walls seemed to close in as they climbed — paintings of Cavelli ancestors glaring down with cold, painted eyes, judging silently.
In his study, Gabe finally stopped. The desk was scattered with maps, half-drained glasses of whiskey, and notes scribbled in his unmistakable sharp handwriting. He leaned against the edge of the desk, bracing himself with his hands, head bowed.
"You should rest," he said without looking at her. His voice was lower now, rawer, stripped of its steel.
"You're not resting."
"I don't have that luxury."
The words cut through her, but she stepped closer anyway. "Neither do I."
His gaze snapped up to her then, and for the first time all night, she saw the cracks beneath the armor. His eyes weren't just storm-dark. They were bloodshot, shadowed, hollow.
"You could've died tonight," he said, his voice breaking in places he didn't mean to show. "If I'd been a second too late—" He broke off, turning sharply away, his hand curling into a fist on the desk. "Vitale knows it. He'll use you again. He'll use anything."
Her breath trembled, but she forced herself forward. She reached out, laying her hand gently over his clenched fist. "Then let me be more than a weakness. Teach me to fight. To stand beside you."
He stilled.
Her words hung in the air, fragile yet defiant. Around them, the house groaned with activity — men moving, doors opening and shutting, muffled voices echoing down the halls. But in the study, time itself seemed to hesitate.
"You don't know what you're asking," he said at last, his jaw tightening.
"I know enough. I know Vitale won't stop, and I know hiding won't save me. If I'm going to survive this, if I'm going to survive you, I need more than words." She lifted her chin, her voice steady despite the quake in her chest. "I need to be ready."
The silence stretched.
Finally, Gabe exhaled, long and reluctant, his shoulders dropping. "Tomorrow. At first light."
The promise wasn't tender. It was steel wrapped in exhaustion, inevitability. But it was a promise nonetheless.
And for the first time since the fire, a spark lit in Lottie's chest. Not hope, not yet. But defiance.
⸻
Later that night, Lottie found herself wandering the corridors, her bare feet silent against the polished wood. She passed rooms lit faintly by lamps where men dozed in chairs, rifles within reach. She paused outside one open doorway.
Inside, Marco sat at a desk, hunched forward, his head buried in his hands. Papers were scattered across the wood, maps marked with ink and blood alike. He looked older in that moment, worn thin, his shoulders heavy with grief.
"You shouldn't be here," he said without looking up. His voice was hoarse.
"I couldn't sleep."
He gave a humorless laugh. "Join the club."
For a moment, silence stretched. Lottie hesitated, then stepped inside. "You don't trust me, do you?"
His eyes lifted, dark and sharp. "I trust Gabe. That's not the same thing."
The words stung, but she nodded slowly. "Fair enough."
He studied her for a long moment, then sighed, leaning back in his chair. "He's losing men faster than he can bury them. Vitale is bleeding us dry. And you…" He trailed off, his eyes narrowing. "You're not his weakness, Charlotte. You're his edge. He fights like a man who finally has something to lose."
Her throat tightened. She didn't answer.
"Be careful," Marco added, his voice softer now. "Because if Vitale realizes that too…" His gaze drifted back to the maps. "He'll break him through you."
Lottie left the room with her heart pounding.
⸻
By the time dawn's pale light filtered through the estate's windows, the courtyard was filled with silence.
The dead lay in a neat row, white sheets drawn over their bodies. Men stood in lines, heads bowed, their faces carved with grief and fatigue. The morning air smelled of earth and blood, bitter and heavy.
Gabe stood at the head of the courtyard, silent. He didn't speak words of comfort or promises of revenge. He didn't offer prayers. He simply stood there, his silence saying what words never could.
When the bodies were carried away for burial, Lottie lingered at the edge of the courtyard. The men moved past her, their eyes hollow, their loyalty fraying but not yet broken.
And through it all, Gabe stood like stone.
But when his gaze finally found hers across the courtyard, she saw the truth.
He wasn't stone at all.
He was fire, burning itself out from within.