Morning came quietly, almost deceptively so, as though the world itself had decided to grant them one fragile reprieve from the chaos that had become their lives. The curtains swayed with the faintest breeze, carrying with it the scent of coffee drifting from somewhere down the hall. Aria stirred, her body wrapped in the silken sheets that never felt like hers, her mind swimming between restless dreams and the memory of the night before—the fire, the kiss, the phone call that had ripped it all away. She blinked against the pale light creeping into the room and for once, she didn't feel the crushing weight of eyes watching her from every corner. The mansion felt different, hushed, almost… gentle. She turned slowly, expecting the emptiness she had grown accustomed to, but instead her gaze collided with Lorenzo's. He was already awake, already dressed in a simple shirt with the sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms, his posture less rigid than usual as he sat at the edge of the bed, scrolling through something on his phone. It wasn't the image of the Don everyone feared—it was a man, unguarded, distracted, and yet when he glanced at her, when his eyes softened and his lips moved with a low murmur, she froze.
"Aria."
Just her name. Not "wife," not "bride," not "you." He spoke it quietly, almost reverently, as if the syllables themselves carried a weight he rarely allowed himself to show. She hadn't realized until that very moment how seldom he used it, how often he cloaked his words in commands and coldness, as though naming her would be giving her too much of himself. But hearing it now—it was like a thread tugged deep in her chest, unraveling something she had spent weeks binding tightly.
She blinked at him, startled by the gentleness in his tone, her throat constricting. For once, there was no fire, no storm, no battle raging between them. Just her name, spoken as though it belonged in his mouth. She sat up slowly, pulling the sheets around her, watching him in silence because she didn't trust herself to speak. He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes unreadable, before setting the phone aside and standing.
"Come," he said, softer this time, gesturing toward the balcony. And strangely, she obeyed without protest.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint hum of the city waking in the distance. He had already laid out coffee and fruit on the small table outside, and she realized with a jolt that he must have ordered it before she woke. The thought of him anticipating her, considering her comfort in even this small way, was unsettling in its intimacy. They sat opposite each other, the silence stretching but not in the suffocating way it usually did. For the first time, it felt companionable, as though the war between them had called a truce, if only for a single morning.
Lorenzo poured her coffee without asking how she took it. He already knew. The gesture made her chest ache with an emotion she refused to name. She sipped in silence, her gaze flickering to his, and for once, he didn't look away. There was no mask today, no armor. Only a man who seemed bone-tired, who let his hand linger against his mug longer than necessary, who occasionally allowed his eyes to drift toward her like he was memorizing her presence.
It was terrifying, how easy it was to imagine this as something real. A marriage that wasn't built on blood and debt, but on simple mornings and coffee and stolen glances across a table. Aria caught herself smiling at something he said—something dry, almost teasing, though she couldn't recall the exact words—and it startled her. The smile felt foreign, unguarded, like sunlight cracking through the storm she carried inside her.
When he noticed, his expression shifted almost imperceptibly. His lips curved, not fully, but enough that she caught the ghost of it. Lorenzo De Luca, the man who commanded rooms and silenced enemies with a look, was smiling at her. And the worst part was that it didn't feel like a weapon. It felt real.
They stayed like that longer than she expected, letting the minutes stretch into hours. He spoke a little about business—careful, measured, always guarded—but then he surprised her by telling her about his mother's roses, how he used to watch her tend them before his father tore the garden apart. His voice had gone distant, quiet, carrying a vulnerability she hadn't thought him capable of sharing. She listened, her heart tightening with sympathy she shouldn't have allowed herself to feel, realizing with each word that there was more to him than the monster she had painted in her mind.
And then, as if the universe couldn't tolerate peace between them for long, it ended.
The knock at the door was sharp, urgent. One of the guards entered without waiting for permission, his expression tight as he handed Lorenzo a plain envelope. Aria felt the shift instantly—the air turning heavy, Lorenzo's body tensing as though he were preparing for a blow. He opened it with deliberate slowness, his jaw hardening as his eyes scanned the contents.
When he finally slid the paper across the table to her, Aria felt her stomach drop. It was a photograph—grainy, but clear enough to see. Her and Lorenzo, captured on the balcony just moments ago, sitting across from one another like husband and wife in some fragile illusion of normalcy.
Scrawled beneath it, in sharp black ink, were the words:
One of you will not survive.
Aria's hands trembled as she stared at the threat, her blood running cold. She looked up at Lorenzo, expecting anger, expecting violence. But instead, she saw something worse—his eyes, hard as stone, watching her as though he were already calculating which one of them the message was meant for.