The fire in the study had burned down to embers. Shadows crept across the Cavelli estate, lengthening against the stone walls until the place felt more mausoleum than home. Outside, guards rotated in disciplined silence, their boots crunching softly against gravel, rifles slung with a weariness that hadn't yet reached surrender.
Inside, Gabe remained at his desk, the maps spread like open wounds before him. The whiskey glass Lottie had pushed away still sat untouched. He hadn't moved it. He hadn't moved much at all.
She lingered by the door, half-hidden in shadow, unwilling to break the fragile silence that hung between them. Something in him—something unguarded—had flickered when she told him she wouldn't let him break. It had been brief, gone as quickly as it surfaced, but she'd seen it.
Now, watching him bent over the desk, every line of his body taut with control, she understood the truth: Gabe wasn't unbreakable. He was already breaking, and it was his sheer will that kept the cracks from splintering wider.
At last, he spoke, his voice a low rumble.
"You should keep training. Don't wait for me to tell you."
It wasn't a dismissal, but neither was it an invitation. It was something else—a command wrapped in concern, stripped of softness.
Lottie folded her arms, stepping into the light. "I don't need you to remind me, Gabe. I know what's at stake."
His head lifted, and his eyes found hers. For a long moment, he said nothing, only studied her with the kind of scrutiny that made her want to shrink and stand taller at the same time.
"You're stubborn," he murmured finally. "That'll keep you alive longer than you think."
She swallowed, a strange heat pooling in her chest. But before she could reply, the door burst open.
Marco strode in, his presence as sharp as the blade holstered at his hip. His eyes swept over Lottie, then cut to Gabe. "We've got movement. Vitale's trucks—three of them—were spotted on the east route. Unmarked. Looks like they're testing our reach."
Gabe straightened, his hand flattening against the map as if to pin the city itself in place. "How many men?"
"Two dozen, maybe more. Too many to be moving quietly."
A beat of silence. Lottie felt the shift in the room, the sudden coil of tension that wrapped around them all.
Gabe's voice, when it came, was measured steel. "Then he's bluffing. Trying to make noise, to see if we bite."
Marco frowned. "And if it's not a bluff?"
"Then we take him apart." Gabe's eyes darkened, sharp as glass. He tapped the map, circling the eastern docks. "But not on his terms. We let him move in, let him think he's untouchable. Then we cut the line behind him. Trap him in his own arrogance."
Marco nodded, but his gaze flicked toward Lottie again, a silent accusation burning in his eyes. She stiffened under it.
When he left, Gabe exhaled slowly, running a hand over his jaw. "He's getting restless. That makes him dangerous."
"Then maybe Marco's right," Lottie said quietly. "Maybe I am a distraction you can't afford."
His head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing. "Don't."
"Don't what? Speak the truth?"
"Don't reduce yourself to a liability," he growled, rising from his chair. His height, his presence, swallowed the space between them. "You think Vitale won't see through that? You think he won't twist it? He already has his eyes on you, Charlotte. That's why you don't get to falter. Not once."
Her breath caught. His anger wasn't aimed at her—it was aimed at the fear that gnawed at both of them. Still, her voice shook as she forced the words out.
"Then teach me faster."
Something cracked in his expression, a fissure of frustration and something darker. He stepped closer, his hands braced on either side of the desk, caging her without touching.
"You think this is about speed? It's about survival. And survival doesn't care if you're ready."
The silence between them burned. For a heartbeat, the air felt heavy enough to crush. And then Gabe stepped back, dragging a hand through his hair.
"Go rest. Tomorrow, before dawn—we start again."
Lottie wanted to argue, but the finality in his tone silenced her. She left the study, though the weight of his gaze followed her out.
By morning, the Cavelli estate stirred with new urgency. Gabe's orders had spread: scouts fanning along Vitale's routes, messages carried in coded whispers, supply chains quietly strangled one link at a time. Men who had been sluggish with grief now moved with renewed precision, their loyalty sharpening into purpose.
In the training wing, Lottie stood again with the staff in her hands. Her palms were raw, her muscles sore, but her resolve burned hotter than her pain. Gabe struck harder that morning. He didn't hold back. And when she faltered, he pushed her up again, his voice low, unyielding.
"Again."
By the third hour, she was trembling, sweat dripping into her eyes. But she blocked one of his strikes cleanly, her stance firm, her eyes locked on his.
He didn't praise her. He didn't need to. The faintest flicker in his eyes told her enough.
That night, the first ripples of Gabe's plan reached Vitale.
At his warehouse, Rafa laid down a sheet of paper—numbers scrawled in ink, routes crossed out with heavy red lines.
"Three trucks gone. Two drivers missing. And the docks? Empty. Cavelli's choking us."
Vitale leaned back in his chair, swirling his glass, his grin razor-sharp. "Let him try. Wolves who starve grow desperate. And desperation makes men sloppy."
Rafa's expression didn't change. "And if he's not the one starving?"
Vitale rose, crossing to the window. Beyond it, the city stretched in jagged lights, a kingdom he claimed by venom and fire. His fingers tapped against the glass, slow, deliberate.
"Then I'll take what he won't let me have. His woman. His pride. His last tether to sanity." His reflection in the window grinned back at him. "Charlotte Rossi will bleed him dry without spilling a drop."
Rafa said nothing, but in the silence, the war deepened.
Back at the Cavelli estate, Lottie sat by her window, bandaging her blistered palms with slow, careful movements. Outside, the guards changed shifts, their figures shadows against the moonlight.
Somewhere in the house, Gabe moved through the halls like a restless ghost, his presence a constant hum in the air. She could feel it even without seeing him—like the rhythm of her own heartbeat, steady, unrelenting.
She tightened the bandage around her hand and whispered to the empty room, as much a vow to herself as to the night:
"He won't break me. Not Vitale. Not even Gabe."
But deep down, she knew the truth.
She wasn't afraid of Vitale breaking her.
She was afraid of Gabe being the one to shatter first.
And if he did, the whole war would come crashing down with him.