The charm was warm in Aria's palm by morning.
She'd slept with it under her pillow, as if the weight of someone else's grief might quiet her own. It didn't. But it gave her something to hold onto—something real in a house where everything felt like a performance.
She slipped it into her pocket before leaving the room.
Downstairs, the halls were eerily still. No guards hovered near the doors, and even the staff moved with hushed urgency. Something was off.
In the dining room, Luciano sat alone at the head of the table, dressed in black, a glass of scotch untouched beside him.
He didn't look up when she walked in.
But he spoke. "You weren't supposed to see me yesterday."
She paused. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
He finally looked at her.
"You didn't interrupt. You reminded me I'm still visible."
Aria sat at the far end, unsure if she was invited or testing him.
"You say things like you want to be known," she said carefully. "But then you shut every door that opens."
His eyes darkened. "I never said I wanted to be known. Just obeyed."
Her chest tightened. "And what if someone wanted more than that?"
Luciano laughed—but there was no humor in it.
"Then they'd die disappointed."
—
Midday brought a storm.
Thunder cracked through the sky like the world was splitting open. Rain pelted the estate, smearing the windows with streaks that blurred the world outside.
Aria stayed in the music room, her fingers ghosting over the piano keys.
She hadn't played since her father died.
The memory of it—of small hands reaching for beauty in a house filled with silence—made her stomach twist.
But this place… this gilded cage… had woken something up in her.
A need. A fire.
She pressed a key.
Then another.
The sound was soft, unsure—but it was hers.
—
Luciano watched from the doorway, silent.
He didn't speak until the final note lingered like smoke.
"You're good."
Aria turned slowly. "I used to play for peace. Now I play so I don't scream."
He stepped inside, every movement deliberate.
"You're changing."
She met his gaze. "Or maybe I'm remembering."
Luciano nodded, as if that meant something to him.
"You think you can remember who you are in a place like this?"
Aria stood. "I think I have to."
—
That night, he didn't summon her.
But she found herself outside his study anyway.
She knocked once.
No answer.
She opened the door.
Luciano sat in the dark, back to the fireplace, eyes on nothing.
She didn't speak. Just walked to the armchair across from him and sat.
Minutes passed.
Then his voice came, rough and low. "Do you know what they said when Adriano died?"
Aria said nothing.
"They said it was my fault. That I made him soft. That I should've taught him to kill instead of read."
He looked at her.
"I did both. It still wasn't enough."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "You loved him."
Luciano didn't blink. "More than I knew how to say."
A silence settled. Not heavy. Just real.
And then he asked, "Why haven't you tried to run again?"
Aria held his gaze.
"Because for the first time in years, I feel like someone sees me."
Luciano's jaw clenched.
"Don't make me care about you."
Her heart stumbled.
"Why not?"
"Because caring is a weakness people use to gut you from the inside."
—
Aria stood slowly, walking to where he sat.
She leaned down, her hand gently brushing his cheek.
"You're already gutted, Luciano."
His eyes burned into hers.
"And yet, you're still standing."
She turned and walked out, heart hammering.
She didn't see the way his hand curled around the charm at his throat.
The one she thought he'd forgotten.