The drive back to the mansion was silent — painfully silent.
Rain drummed against the car windows, blurring the city lights into streaks of gold and red. Elena sat in the corner seat, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. Her heart still hadn't slowed since the fight. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw blood — his blood, on Lorenzo's hands.
She should have been terrified. She should have hated him more than ever.
But all she could think about was the way his eyes looked just before he stopped — wild, lost, and then… broken.
Lorenzo sat opposite her, his shirt stained, knuckles raw. He hadn't said a word since they left the party. The air between them felt thick, heavy with things unsaid.
When the car finally stopped, he stepped out first, offering his hand. She hesitated but took it anyway. His palm was warm — too warm — and when she met his gaze, she saw something she didn't expect. Not anger. Not pride. But something softer. Regret.
He let go quickly, as if her touch burned. "Go to your room," he said quietly.
"Lorenzo—"
"I said go."
The sharpness in his voice made her flinch. She wanted to yell, to ask him why he lost control like that, but instead, she just nodded and walked away.
As soon as she entered her room, she closed the door and leaned against it. Her chest ached. The sound of the rain outside mixed with the echo of his words: No one touches what is mine.
"Mine…" she whispered to herself, tears slipping down her cheeks. "I'm not yours. I'll never be."
But the truth was, a part of her already felt claimed — not by his cruelty, but by the way he looked at her when he wasn't supposed to. That raw, unguarded moment that made her heart forget the danger.
Down the hall, Lorenzo stood in front of his mirror, his reflection a stranger he despised. His hands were still trembling. He had killed before — too many times to count — but this time it was different.
He hadn't hit that man because of business or power.
He'd done it because of her.
He saw her fall. He saw her fear. And something inside him snapped — the same part of him he had buried years ago with every corpse and broken promise.
He slammed his fist against the marble sink, blood smearing against the white surface. "You're losing control," he muttered to himself. "Over a woman."
But no matter how many times he said it, her voice kept echoing in his head — that trembling please stop, the way she touched his arm with tears in her eyes. It had stopped him. It always did.
He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly. He didn't understand her — this fragile, stubborn girl who wasn't afraid to talk back to the devil. But somehow, she made the silence in his world louder, clearer… human.
The next morning came too quickly.
Elena barely slept. Her dreams were full of shadows, broken glass, and Lorenzo's eyes. When sunlight spilled through her curtains, she sat up, her throat tight.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," she said softly.
One of the guards stepped in. "Mr. De Luca wants to see you. Now."
Her stomach knotted, but she nodded. She changed into a white blouse and black skirt — simple, neat, and far from the elegant blue dress that had started everything.
When she walked into Lorenzo's study, he was standing by the window, his back to her. Morning light outlined his tall figure, the muscles in his shoulders tense under his shirt.
"You wanted to see me?" she asked carefully.
He didn't turn. "Sit."
She obeyed, sitting at the edge of the leather chair, her hands clasped tightly.
"You shouldn't have interfered last night," he said quietly.
Her eyes widened. "I saved you from doing something unforgivable."
His jaw flexed. "You saved that man, not me."
"Then maybe you both needed saving," she said, her tone sharper than she intended. "You can't keep living like this, Lorenzo. Killing, fighting, owning everything you touch—it's not strength. It's fear."
That made him turn. His gaze was sharp, but beneath it, something flickered — confusion, maybe pain. "You think you know me, Elena?"
"No," she said softly. "But I think you don't know yourself anymore either."
The room went still. Her words hit harder than she expected. He looked at her, really looked at her — and for the first time, the devil looked human.
He sighed, lowering his head slightly. "You should stay away from me."
She frowned. "Why?"
"Because I destroy everything I touch."
Something in his voice broke her. She stood slowly, walking toward him. "Then maybe it's time someone stopped you."
He stared at her, their faces inches apart. The air shifted — warm, charged, dangerous. Her heart thudded in her chest, her breath catching as his eyes dropped briefly to her lips before meeting her gaze again.
"Elena," he said quietly, almost like a warning.
"What?"
"Don't test me."
She smiled faintly, though her voice trembled. "Maybe I already am."
He turned away first, his hands buried in his pockets, trying to hide how close he was to losing control again — not in anger this time, but in something far worse. Desire.
"Go," he said finally, his tone uneven. "Before I forget who I'm supposed to be."
Elena hesitated, her heart pounding. She wanted to ask what that meant, but deep down, she already knew. She had seen a glimpse of the man behind Il Diavolo, and it terrified her — not because he was cruel, but because he was real.
When she left the room, Lorenzo leaned back against the wall, shutting his eyes. For the first time in years, he felt something like fear — not of losing power, but of losing himself to the woman who refused to bow to him.
Later that evening, she sat by her window again, watching the rain return. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear him talking — his voice low, commanding. But she could also feel it: a crack forming in the armor he had built around his heart.
Maybe she didn't belong to the Mafia.
Maybe she belonged to something even more dangerous — the man who ruled it.
And as thunder rolled outside, one truth echoed louder than the storm:
Lorenzo De Luca might own the underworld…
but Elena Russo was beginning to own him.