The Cavelli estate woke under a sky the color of ash.
Dawn spilled pale and reluctant across the courtyard, where fresh earth was still damp from the burials of the night before. The scent of soil and smoke clung to the air, stubborn reminders of everything they had lost. For hours, no one had spoken louder than a whisper. Even the birds seemed reluctant to sing.
But inside the mansion's training wing, silence broke in a different way.
The sharp crack of a wooden staff against the floor echoed through the cavernous hall, followed by the steady cadence of Gabe's voice.
"Again."
Lottie's chest heaved, her breath uneven, her palms slick with sweat. The muscles in her arms screamed, but she lifted the practice staff anyway, squaring her stance just as Gabe had shown her.
He circled her like a hawk, every movement measured, his presence a gravity she couldn't escape. His gaze lingered not on her face but on her stance, her grip, the way her shoulders bunched with tension. He looked at her like she was a puzzle he couldn't decide whether to solve or break apart.
"Your feet," he said, nudging her ankle with the toe of his boot. "Too close. Widen them. You're not bracing for a storm—you're standing in it."
She adjusted, biting back the urge to argue.
"And your eyes." He reached forward, tilting her chin up with two fingers. The calloused touch was surprisingly gentle, lingering longer than it should have. "Don't look at the weapon. Look at the man holding it. Anticipate. Don't react."
Her pulse stuttered, not from training. She jerked her chin free and steadied her staff. "Then attack me."
A flicker of something—surprise, amusement, maybe even pride—passed over his features. Then the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're not ready."
"I'll never be ready if you keep holding back."
The silence between them sharpened, thick with tension. Finally, Gabe raised his own staff, his movements precise, deadly in their restraint.
When he struck, it was fast, a blur of motion. She blocked clumsily, the shock rattling her bones. Her staff nearly slipped, but she dug her heels in and pushed back.
He didn't let up. Blow after blow came, his strikes pulled but powerful, each one testing her reflexes, forcing her to move faster, steadier.
Her arms burned. Her shoulders ached. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead, but she kept going. She swung back, sloppy but determined, her strikes wild but fueled by something raw.
Again and again their staffs collided, the sound ringing through the room like thunder. Gabe moved like water, fluid and controlled. She moved like fire, fierce and unpredictable, refusing to be extinguished.
At last, her grip failed. The staff slipped from her hands and clattered across the floor. Lottie bent double, gasping, her vision swimming with exhaustion.
"You're not weak," Gabe said, his voice softer now, almost reluctant. "But you're undisciplined. That will get you killed."
She straightened, defiance burning through the fatigue. "Then teach me discipline. Don't shield me. Don't coddle me. You promised."
Something flickered across his face—pride tangled with fear. He bent, retrieved her staff, and pressed it back into her hands.
"Tomorrow. At first light again."
But he didn't step away. He lingered, close enough that she felt the heat radiating from him. His eyes dipped briefly to her lips before snapping back up.
"Don't mistake resolve for readiness, Charlotte," he murmured, his voice roughened by restraint. "Resolve burns fast. Readiness is what survives."
Her grip tightened. "Then let me burn until all that's left is readiness."
His jaw clenched, but he said nothing more.
By mid-morning, the kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and scorched toast. The rest of the estate stirred slowly, men moving through the halls like ghosts, their faces drawn, their voices subdued.
Lottie slipped into the kitchen, her arms aching, her palms raw with blistered skin. She reached for a glass of water, but froze when she saw Marco seated at the table, a mug in his hands. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms smeared with grime, his expression shadowed by fatigue.
He looked up, eyes narrowing at the sight of her hands. "You're bleeding."
She glanced down. The blisters had split, smearing thin lines of red across her skin. "Training."
Marco grunted, not impressed. "So he's finally letting you into the fire."
She bristled. "You disapprove?"
"I disapprove of distractions," he said flatly, his voice sharp as a blade. "And you, Charlotte, are the biggest one he's ever had."
The bluntness cut deep, but she forced herself to hold his stare. "I'm not a distraction. I'm trying to help."
He leaned forward, his gaze narrowing. "Help? You think swinging a stick for an hour makes you ready? Vitale isn't going to wait for you to learn how to fight. He'll come the second he sees an opening. And when he does, Gabe will throw everything—every man, every bullet, every ounce of himself—into saving you. And that will get us all killed."
The words stung, but she refused to back down. "Maybe I am his weakness. But I can also be his strength. Don't pretend you don't see it. He fights harder now than ever before."
Marco's jaw tightened. He looked away, muttering into his coffee. "Pray you're right."
That evening, the study filled with men and tension in equal measure. The long oak desk was buried beneath maps, red ink carving through supply routes, markers scattered like pieces of a game no one wanted to play.
Gabe stood at the head of the room, a black shirt rolled to his elbows, his posture iron-straight. His men shifted uneasily, waiting for him to speak.
"Vitale thinks last night was victory," Gabe said, his tone steady, controlled. "It wasn't. It was desperation. He struck hard because he's running out of options."
Marco cut in. "Running out of options doesn't make him less dangerous."
"No," Gabe agreed, his gaze sweeping the room. "It makes him reckless. And reckless men make mistakes."
He leaned over the map, his fingers tracing the docks, the eastern routes, the back alleys that had fed Vitale's supply lines for years.
"We cut these," he said. "One by one. Quietly. No fire, no noise. We starve him out until he's choking on his own desperation."
The men muttered, some nodding, others uncertain. Revenge burned hot in their blood, but they trusted Gabe's vision.
Lottie lingered in the doorway, unseen by most. She watched him speak, his voice calm, his presence commanding. To his men, he was unshakable, stone and steel. But she saw the cracks—exhaustion in the set of his shoulders, shadows under his eyes, the weight pressing down.
When his gaze lifted, it found hers. For a heartbeat, something unspoken passed between them.
Not hope. Not yet. But resolve.
Later that night, the estate settled into uneasy quiet. Men stood watch at every corner, their silhouettes cutting against the glow of lanterns. The world outside was heavy with silence, but inside Gabe's study, the weight lingered.
Lottie found him at the desk again, a glass of whiskey untouched at his side, maps scattered in disarray. He didn't look up when she entered, but his voice was low.
"You should be asleep."
"So should you."
He gave a humorless chuckle, finally raising his gaze. His eyes were tired, but still sharp. "Sleep isn't a luxury I can afford."
She stepped closer, her voice softer now. "Neither can I."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then she reached for the glass, sliding it away from him. "Whiskey won't keep you sharp."
His lips twitched, almost a smile. "Neither will you."
The words weren't cruel, but they carried more weight than he intended. She leaned closer, her hands braced against the desk, her eyes locked on his.
"Maybe not," she whispered. "But I'll keep you from breaking."
His jaw tightened, his control wavering. For a heartbeat, the air between them burned with something heavier than tension, more dangerous than war.
And though he didn't kiss her—not yet—the silence they shared was an oath of its own.
A promise.
A warning.
A fire waiting to consume them both.