Morning came with no sunlight.
Thick clouds hung low over the De Luca estate like a warning. The kind of day where even the air felt sharp. Restless.
Aria hadn't slept.
Her dreams had twisted into a blur of chains and candlelight, of Luciano's voice in her ear, low and final: You're still here.
She hated how true it was.
Hated that she wasn't even sure what part of her kept staying—the scared part, the curious part, or the one that had started to crave the pull of his gravity.
—
Clara brought her breakfast but didn't linger.
"There's tension in the house," she whispered, eyes flicking to the door. "Something happened last night after the auction."
Aria frowned. "What?"
Clara hesitated. "One of the men who lost a bid… tried to challenge Luciano."
Her blood ran cold. "Tried?"
"He's not breathing anymore."
Aria gripped the edge of the tray. "He killed him?"
"This isn't a place for cowards," Clara said, softly but clearly. "And it's not a place for mercy either."
She left before Aria could respond.
—
By noon, Aria wandered into the east wing—somewhere she rarely went. It was quieter there. Older. She passed faded tapestries and thick wooden doors. At the end of one hallway, she heard it:
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Metal striking something solid.
Curiosity won.
She cracked the door open.
It was a private training room. And at the center—Luciano.
His shirt was off, back slick with sweat, muscles flexing with every swing as he struck a padded target again and again with a combat knife.
The blade gleamed in the dim light.
Thud. Thud. Sharp, clean, violent.
He didn't notice her right away.
But she couldn't look away.
There was something terrifyingly beautiful about him like this—raw and stripped of the polished armor he wore in public.
When he finally did glance her way, he didn't flinch. Just tossed the knife into the air, caught it by the handle, and said, "Watching or judging?"
Aria stepped inside. "Trying to understand."
He pulled a towel over his shoulder. "That's dangerous."
"More dangerous than staying ignorant?"
His lips twitched—almost a smile.
She walked closer, slowly. "Why do you need to know how to kill someone with a knife when you have guards and guns?"
He met her gaze. "Because sometimes, you have to bleed with your own hands to make a message land."
Her stomach turned. "That's not justice."
"No," he said. "It's survival."
—
They sat in silence for a while.
Luciano drank water. Aria stared at the wall.
Then she asked, "Who was the boy in the painting?"
He stiffened. Just slightly.
"My brother," he said after a beat. "Adriano."
She waited.
He didn't elaborate.
So she said quietly, "He looked… sad."
"He was soft," Luciano said, wiping his hands. "Too soft for this world. And I couldn't protect him."
Aria's voice dropped. "Is that why you're so hard on everyone else?"
His eyes found hers. "I'm hard because no one protected me either."
—
The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It was full of things neither of them knew how to say.
Finally, Luciano stood and walked to a drawer, pulling something small out. He returned and placed it in her palm.
A thin, worn charm. A lion's head.
"Adriano's," he said. "He wore it every day. I kept it… until I forgot why."
Aria looked up at him. "Why give it to me?"
He stared at her, eyes unreadable. "Because for the first time in years, I don't feel like I'm holding my breath when someone's near me."
Her throat tightened.
It wasn't a confession.
It was something quieter. Sadder. More dangerous.
Trust.
Or the ghost of it.
—
Later that night, Aria sat on her bed, staring at the charm in her hand.
She should've felt sick. Should've thrown it away.
Instead, she curled her fingers around it, like it meant something.
Like he meant something.
And that terrified her more than any knife ever could.