The aftermath of the attack lingered in the mansion like smoke that refused to clear. The shattered glass had been swept away, the blood scrubbed from the marble, but the scent of gunpowder clung to Aria's memory, as vivid as the sound of her own name screamed by strangers who wanted her dead. Guards doubled at every door, shadows thickened in the halls, and yet the silence that fell over the estate afterward was heavier than the violence had been.
Aria moved through it like a ghost, her pulse thrumming with questions that grew sharper with every passing hour. At first, she told herself to wait, that Lorenzo would explain, that she would find answers not in panic but in patience. But patience had become another form of submission, and she was done being silent.
She found him in his study, standing by the wide windows with his back to her, his hands clasped behind him. The dark cut of his suit was immaculate, but she could see the tension in the line of his shoulders, the rigid stillness of a man at war within himself.
"Why me?" The words slipped from her mouth before she could steel them. "Why did they scream my name? Why was I the target?"
Lorenzo turned his head slightly, not enough to face her, just enough to let her see the hard edge of his jaw, the flicker of fire in his eyes. For a moment, silence stretched between them, taut as a wire. Then he exhaled slowly, as if he were expelling something dangerous.
"It doesn't matter." His voice was flat, final.
Aria's stomach twisted. "It doesn't matter? They came here for me. They would have killed me—"
"And I didn't let them." His voice cut through hers, sharp as a blade. He turned now, facing her fully, his eyes alight with that storm she was beginning to recognize: anger, fear, something more primal beneath it all. "You're alive because I put myself between you and their bullets. That is all you need to know."
Her hands curled into fists at her sides. "No, it isn't enough. I am not some pawn to be moved around your chessboard without understanding the game. You can't lock me up, marry me off, parade me around, and then expect me to stay blind when people are screaming for my blood."
The muscle in his jaw ticked. "Blindness is safer than truth, cara mia."
"Safer for who?" she demanded, stepping closer, heat sparking in her chest. "For me—or for you?"
For a heartbeat, she thought he might answer. His gaze lingered on hers, fierce, almost desperate, before he turned away again, striding back to the desk. His hand slammed down against the wood, a low growl tearing from his throat.
"This conversation is over."
The dismissal was a slap across her pride. Aria stared at him, her chest heaving, her heart ricocheting against her ribs. She wanted to scream, to shake him until he cracked open, until the truth spilled out. But she saw it then—the walls he'd built around himself, higher and stronger than any fortress. He wasn't just refusing her answers. He was protecting something deeper, darker. Something he believed she couldn't survive knowing.
Fine. If he wouldn't tell her, she would find her own way.
The thought settled inside her like a seed, one that grew roots with every hour of silence that followed. Aria began to move differently in the mansion, her eyes sharp, her ears tuned to every whisper. She took stock of exits, of guard rotations, of which staff watched her with pity and which with suspicion. Independence had once seemed impossible, but now it became necessity. If she was a target, then she could no longer wait for Lorenzo's truth. She needed her own.
Days later, while dressing for yet another suffocating dinner, she reached for her jewelry box. The sight of the velvet case usually calmed her—small luxuries she'd never asked for but had been draped around her like chains disguised as gifts. Tonight, however, her hand froze. Something was wrong.
She opened the lid slowly. Nestled between glittering necklaces and rings lay a slip of paper, folded neatly, as though placed there with deliberate care. Her heart stuttered, her breath catching as she reached for it with trembling fingers.
She unfolded it, and the world tilted.
Two words, written in the same unfamiliar hand as the first warning, cut through her like a knife:
"You're next."
Her reflection in the mirror behind the box stared back at her, wide-eyed and pale, as though even her own image no longer recognized the girl she had been. The note trembled in her grip, but her spine straightened, iron stiffening inside her veins.
They weren't going to stop. Whoever they were, whatever they wanted, it wasn't just about Lorenzo. It was about her.
And if Lorenzo wouldn't tell her why, she would have to find out before the next bullet found its mark.