It had been days since Luciano stepped into Aria's room and chose not to kiss her.
But that moment… it hadn't faded.
It had deepened.
Like a quiet storm building in the distance, waiting for the right second to strike.
—
Breakfast came late.
Aria didn't go down to the grand dining room—not when she knew Luciano would be there. Not when the air between them was still charged with something unspoken and sharp.
Instead, she sat near the window of her room, cradling a mug of tea and staring out into the endless garden.
How could something look so beautiful and still feel like a cage?
The estate was gold and marble and silence. The kind that settled deep into your bones.
But her thoughts weren't quiet.
They spun with him—Luciano. His voice, his nearness. His pain.
And her own.
Because she didn't know what scared her more: his darkness… or how much of it she was starting to understand.
—
Clara knocked around noon.
"Missed you at breakfast," she said, slipping in without waiting for an invitation.
Aria smiled faintly. "Didn't feel like being stared at by Armani-wearing statues."
Clara chuckled. "Fair."
Then, after a pause: "Something's changed between you two."
It wasn't a question.
Aria looked down. "I think he's trying. I just don't know what for."
Clara sat beside her. "Luciano doesn't try for anyone. He controls. Threatens. Owns. So if he's hesitating… it's because of you."
Aria turned to her. "And if I fall for him? What then?"
Clara didn't answer right away.
Finally: "Then you better be sure he'll catch you. Because men like Luciano… don't love halfway. They consume."
—
That night, the dream came again.
Except this time, it wasn't a dream—it was a memory.
She was back in that hotel room with her mother's screams echoing down the hallway. Back in the helplessness. The fear.
Aria shot up, gasping.
And standing in the doorway, silent and still, was Luciano.
She didn't ask how long he'd been there.
He stepped inside slowly, eyes on her. "You were crying in your sleep."
"I'm fine," she lied.
"No," he said gently, "you're not."
She didn't speak.
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, like he belonged there. Like the storm in her chest had called him in.
"I used to dream about Adriano," he murmured. "Same nightmare, over and over. His voice. His eyes. The way he begged me not to leave him behind."
Aria's heart clenched.
"I never said goodbye," he whispered. "I never even buried him myself."
"Luciano…"
He shook his head. "Pain doesn't make us good, Aria. It just teaches us how to hide it."
She reached for him, not with words, but with touch—her hand on his.
And for once, he didn't pull away.
"I'm tired of hiding," she said softly.
He turned his hand to hold hers. "Then stop."
And in that silence, there was no cage.
Just two broken people, holding on to each other like a match and a fuse.
—
They didn't kiss that night.
But the space between them?
It burned.