The city streets should have felt ordinary—sunlight warming cobblestones, shops humming with life, vendors calling out their wares as silk and leather gleamed from polished windows. But Aria had long since learned that nothing in her world was ordinary anymore. Every step outside the walls of the De Luca estate was a gamble, every stroll through crowded markets a performance for eyes she could not see. She wore her role like a mask: the elegant mafia wife, flawless and untouchable, her hand looped through Lorenzo's arm as though she belonged there. Yet beneath the silk of her dress and the diamonds heavy on her wrist, her heart beat too fast, her mind cataloging every passerby, every shadow that lingered too long.
Lorenzo walked beside her, tall, unbending, a storm disguised in tailored black. To anyone watching, he was the picture of control, his grip light but firm against her spine, guiding her, claiming her. To Aria, he was a wall of tension. He never let his gaze soften in public, never allowed the tenderness that sometimes—rarely—slipped between them in private. Here, in the open, he was Don De Luca. Untouchable. Dangerous. And she was the jewel he paraded at his side, a warning dressed as beauty: touch what is mine, and die for it.
She had grown used to the stares, the way whispers bloomed as they passed. Still, unease knotted her stomach that morning, sharper than usual. She couldn't name it—only that the air felt too thick, the crowd too restless, and Lorenzo's jaw too tight as his eyes swept the streets.
They entered a narrow boutique tucked between marble pillars, its walls lined with dresses in cascading silks and rich velvets. Lorenzo remained near the entrance, posted like a sentinel, while Aria allowed herself a moment of distraction, fingers trailing over the fabric, imagining for a fleeting second a life where dresses were just dresses, not armor. She lifted a pale gown from its hanger, holding it against herself in the mirror, and almost smiled.
The reflection shifted.
A blur.
A flicker of steel.
Her scream caught in her throat as a figure lunged from behind, arm arcing high, the blade glinting in the light. It was instinct, not calculation, that made her stumble back—only to feel the sharp press of cold metal graze against her ribs. The strike was clumsy, redirected at the last second as Lorenzo moved with a speed that seemed impossible, his hand snapping around the assailant's wrist, twisting, snapping, disarming in one fluid motion. The knife clattered against marble tile, spinning before skidding to a stop at Aria's feet.
The world narrowed to sound—the crash of shelves, the guttural roar from Lorenzo as he slammed the attacker into a display, the shriek of fabric tearing, glass shattering. Aria's pulse roared in her ears as she pressed back against the wall, breath ragged, her eyes locked on the knife glittering where it had fallen. So close. Too close.
It had not been meant for her. She saw it in the angle of the strike, in the desperate fury of the man's eyes as Lorenzo held him pinned. That blade had been meant for Lorenzo. But she had been standing in its path, the fragile flesh between life and death.
More men swarmed in, Lorenzo's guards dragging the assailant away, muffled curses filling the air. Lorenzo stood over her, chest heaving, his face carved in stone, his hand trembling ever so slightly before he caught himself. He reached for her, fingers brushing her cheek, the touch almost reverent before it turned to steel. "Are you hurt?"
Aria shook her head, though her knees felt like water, though the phantom sting of the blade still burned against her side. She wasn't hurt—but she was shaken. And Lorenzo's eyes told her the truth he would never say aloud: if she had been even half a second slower, she would be lying in a pool of red silk, another casualty in a war she never chose.
The rest of the day blurred. Guards doubled around them, streets emptied in their wake, whispers followed like smoke. Aria kept replaying it in her mind—the knife, the heat of danger so close, the weight of being in the crossfire of a life that was no longer hers to control.
That night, long after the mansion had quieted and Lorenzo had locked himself away in his study, Aria moved through the darkened halls, restless. She passed by a half-open doorway and froze at the sound of hushed voices.
"…she's the weak link."
The words were sharp, venomous, laced with certainty.
"She makes him reckless. Distracted. The Romans see it. Everyone sees it. She won't last. Either she breaks him, or she breaks herself."
Aria pressed back against the wall, her breath caught, her blood running cold.
Weak link.
It wasn't just enemies who believed it. It was whispered here, inside his own house. She was not shield, not strength, not partner. She was the crack in the armor, the knife at his back, the one flaw that could unravel him completely.
And for the first time, as she stood trembling in the shadows, Aria wondered if they were right.