The dream clung to Aria like a second skin.
She sat up in bed with a sharp inhale, her fingers ghosting over her lips. They still tingled—phantom warmth, phantom breath. Luciano's voice still echoed in her head.
"I'll lock you in me."
She didn't know what that meant. Not really. But her body had responded to it with a traitorous kind of heat.
The sun filtered through the gauzy curtains, but the De Luca estate remained heavy with shadows. Even the daylight didn't feel free.
She slipped out of bed, ignoring the ache in her chest, and walked barefoot to the bathroom. The tiles were cold, the mirror foggy with memory.
Was she going crazy?
No. She was just… unraveling. Or maybe, being rewoven into something else. Something less soft. Less breakable.
Downstairs, the house was too quiet. Always too quiet, like it was holding its breath for the next command from its king.
She found the kitchen empty except for one of the guards—Dante, she thought his name was—nursing a coffee and pretending not to notice her. He was young, maybe mid-twenties, with a shaved head and sharp jaw, but his eyes held the same unreadable edge all of Luciano's men wore.
She poured herself a cup of tea, her hands steady even though her insides weren't.
"Where is he?" she asked, voice casual.
Dante didn't flinch. "Meeting. Won't be back until late."
Good. She needed space.
She spent the morning in the music room, fingers gliding over piano keys that felt colder than she remembered. Music had always been her escape. But even that felt different here. Controlled. Monitored. Like she wasn't playing the keys—she was being watched through them.
Midway through a haunting chord progression, the door opened.
She stiffened.
But it wasn't Luciano.
It was Matteo—Luciano's right-hand man. Always polite. Always dangerous.
"Luciano asked me to check on you," he said, voice smooth, like aged wine. "Said you've been… restless."
"I didn't realize I needed permission to take a walk," Aria snapped, her fingers still on the keys.
Matteo didn't smile. "You don't. But it's better if you tell someone first."
"Because I might disappear?" she said bitterly.
He tilted his head. "Because not everyone in this house is fond of you."
That stopped her.
She looked up. "What do you mean?"
Matteo stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "Luciano's enemies are not always outside these walls. Some of them wear loyalty like a mask. And you—" he paused, his gaze steady "—you're a weakness. Whether he admits it or not."
Aria's mouth went dry.
She didn't want to be anyone's weakness. Especially not his.
"I'm not a pawn," she said quietly.
"No," Matteo agreed. "But in this world, even queens get sacrificed."
With that, he turned and left, his footsteps as silent as a warning.
—
The rest of the day passed in silence.
Aria stayed in the library, reading books she didn't finish, sipping tea that went cold. Her thoughts were a mess—Luciano's voice still in her head, Matteo's warning under her skin.
By the time dusk fell, she felt more like a ghost than a girl.
And then, around nine, the front doors opened.
Luciano was back.
She heard the unmistakable sound of his voice—low, commanding—as he gave quick orders to someone in the hallway. He didn't come to her room, didn't call for her.
Good.
She didn't want to see him.
She didn't want to ask why she couldn't stop thinking about him.
But when midnight came, she still wasn't asleep.
She lay on the wide bed, staring at the ceiling, the silk sheets too smooth to feel comforting.
And then—just as she began to drift—there was a knock.
Not loud.
Just once.
She sat up.
"Come in," she said.
Luciano entered.
His dark suit jacket was gone, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked… tired. But not defeated. Never that.
"I shouldn't be here," he said, but walked in anyway.
"Then leave," she said, voice tight.
He ignored it.
Instead, he stood at the foot of her bed, staring down at her like he was trying to solve a puzzle with no right answer.
"I had to kill someone today," he said flatly. "Someone who betrayed me."
Aria's breath caught. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you keep looking at me like I'm still the man you used to know. I'm not."
"I know that."
"Do you?"
He took a step forward. Then another.
She didn't move.
"You're not afraid of me," he said quietly. "And that… is dangerous."
"I should be?" she asked.
"Yes." His voice was low, almost a whisper. "Because I don't know what I'll do if you keep looking at me like I'm still capable of being saved."
She stood then, rising from the bed in one fluid motion. "I'm not here to save you, Luciano."
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then slowly back to her eyes.
"Then what are you here for?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I'm starting to think it's not freedom."
Silence stretched between them like a live wire.
He reached out then—slowly, deliberately—and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
Her skin burned where his fingers brushed it.
"Sleep," he said, voice dark. "Before I forget how to be gentle."
And then he left, leaving her standing there, heart thundering like war drums in a too-quiet room.