The De Luca estate was never quiet for long.
By mid-morning, the halls buzzed with movement—men in suits, hushed conversations in Italian, the hum of danger so familiar it became background noise.
Aria stayed out of the way.
She'd learned early: silence was safer than curiosity.
But today felt different. The air was heavier. Tighter.
Even Clara, who usually smuggled her breakfast in with soft smiles and whispered jokes, didn't say much. She only placed the tray down on Aria's dresser and said, "Wear something black tonight."
"Why?"
Clara didn't answer. Just left with a look that said: don't ask questions you're not ready to survive.
—
By dusk, the estate looked transformed.
Candles lit every hallway. Men and women filed in through the east entrance in sleek suits and backless gowns. No one smiled. Everything about the atmosphere whispered one word:
Power.
Aria stood by the window in a fitted black dress she hadn't picked, her arms crossed, her stomach in knots. She hated how beautiful the dress was. Hated that she looked like someone who belonged in this world—when inside, she still felt like a girl trying not to drown.
She spotted him from the balcony.
Luciano.
Dressed in tailored black-on-black. No tie. No smile. Just quiet command.
He looked like he'd been carved from the same shadows he ruled.
Their eyes met across the distance.
He didn't beckon her.
Didn't need to.
She came.
—
The ballroom was cathedral-like. Marble floors. High glass ceilings. Chandeliers like cages dripping with gold.
And in the center, an elevated platform.
A stage.
Aria felt her chest tighten. "What is this?"
Luciano stood beside her, drink in hand, unreadable. "An auction."
Her blood ran cold. "Of what?"
He looked down at her, eyes hard. "Of loyalty. Of punishment. Of favors owed and collected."
That didn't make it better.
Luciano leaned in slightly. "You're safe."
"That's not the same as free," she said under her breath.
A flicker passed through his expression—approval, maybe. Or warning.
—
The auction began.
But it wasn't objects they were bidding on.
It was people.
Men dragged forward in chains. Women with trembling shoulders. Names were announced, debts shouted, prices offered in crisp notes and nods.
It was brutal.
Elegant.
Disgusting.
Aria wanted to leave. She turned to Luciano, voice low. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Because I need you to see what I am," he said. "So when I tell you I'm dangerous, you'll believe me."
Her throat went dry. "I already know what you are."
He didn't deny it.
But he didn't look away either.
—
Later, after the room thinned and the air reeked of wine and smoke, Luciano led her to a smaller chamber off the main hall.
Quieter. But not safer.
He closed the door behind them.
"You hate me right now."
"Yes," she said simply.
"Good." He stepped closer. "Hatred is honest."
She stared at him. "Why bring me here? Why let me see all this?"
"Because I'm not offering you a fantasy, Aria. I'm offering you truth."
She didn't want it.
Didn't want the weight of it.
But when he lifted her chin, his touch soft despite everything, she didn't pull away.
"Say it," he murmured.
"Say what?"
"That you're still here."
Her voice shook, but it came. "I'm still here."
He let go.
And left her standing there—fuming, shaking, aching with questions.
Not because he'd hurt her.
But because she didn't leave either.
—
That night, Aria couldn't sleep.
She sat by the window in her room, legs pulled to her chest, watching the stars above the stone walls.
This place. This man. This world.
It was poison wrapped in velvet.
And somehow, she was still breathing.
Still staying.
Still… his.