The De Luca mansion had never felt this quiet.
Every echo of a footstep, every rustle of curtains, every faint hum of the night seemed to whisper the same thing to Elena — he didn't trust you.
The words still replayed in her mind like a curse.
Lorenzo's voice, cold and sharp, asking if she betrayed him.
The disbelief in his eyes.
The way he walked away without letting her finish.
She had seen killers stare at her with more kindness than that.
All day she had avoided him — skipping dinner, locking herself inside her painting room, pretending to be busy while her chest ached from what he said. She didn't care about the rumors; she cared that he believed them, even for a moment.
By nightfall, the rain had stopped, but the sky still hung heavy with clouds.
Elena slipped out of their room, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, and wandered to the garden. A single lamp flickered near the marble bench, casting a soft golden glow across the roses. She sat there, staring blankly at the fountain, trying not to cry again.
⸻
Inside, Lorenzo paced their bedroom.
He had gone there expecting to find her — to explain himself, to take back the harsh words — but the bed was untouched. The room was cold, silent.
"Luca," he barked into the intercom. "Where's Elena?"
"I haven't seen her since dinner, boss," Luca answered.
Lorenzo cursed under his breath. "Find her."
Then he stopped, shaking his head. No — he would find her.
He threw on his coat and walked out, his steps heavy, his heart heavier.
⸻
He saw her before she saw him — sitting in the garden, shoulders curled inward, her hair catching the lamplight. For a moment he just stood there, watching. She looked heartbreakingly fragile, like something he'd accidentally broken and didn't know how to fix.
"Elena," he said softly.
She stiffened, but didn't turn. "What do you want?"
"I want to talk," he said, stepping closer.
"I don't," she whispered. When she finally stood, she tried to walk past him, but he caught her by the waist, pulling her back against him.
Her breath hitched. "Let go of me."
"No," he said firmly. "Not until you tell me why you're avoiding me."
She stayed silent, staring at the roses. He gently turned her around, his hand still on her waist. "Talk to me, bambina."
She shook her head, tears glinting under the dim light. He could see the hurt written across her face — and for once, the Mafia lord didn't know how to speak.
He guided her to sit down, then sat and pulled her gently onto his lap. She didn't fight him this time, just hid her face against his chest.
"Elena," he murmured. "Tell me what's wrong."
Her voice broke. "You yelled at me, Lorenzo. You looked at me like I was one of your enemies. You didn't even trust my words for a second. You believed what other people said — not me."
He felt the tremor in her body as she tried to wipe her tears.
"I thought you were different," she continued. "But you're just like them. You think I'm capable of betraying you."
Lorenzo felt a sting in his chest. He reached up, brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "I didn't mean to hurt you, piccola. I was angry. That's all. I didn't trust anyone in that moment — except you."
She lifted her head, eyes red and blazing. "Oh really?" she snapped. "You were harsh to me because you were angry? That's your excuse?"
"Elena—"
"Don't," she cut him off, pulling his hands from her waist. "Stay away from me, Lorenzo. Because right now, I'm mad at you too. Mr. De Luca."
She stood abruptly and stormed toward the house.
Lorenzo blinked, a small, helpless laugh slipping from his lips. "She's back to her angry self," he muttered.
Then he followed her.
"Elena!" he called, jogging up the marble steps after her. "You look even more beautiful when you're mad at me!"
She stopped halfway through the hallway, turning to glare at him. "Is that so, Mafia?"
The way she said it — that mocking fire in her eyes — made his pulse race. For a second he didn't trust himself to speak.
Instead, he simply strode forward, wrapped his arms around her, and without a word, lifted her into his arms.
"Lorenzo!" she gasped, her fists thudding weakly against his chest. "Put me down!"
"Not happening," he said, carrying her past the guards, the servants, everyone who wisely looked away.
She finally gave up, crossing her arms in defeat. "You're unbelievable."
"I've been called worse," he replied with a smirk, kicking their bedroom door open.
He set her down gently on the bed. She opened her mouth to scold him, but before she could say a word, his lips crashed onto hers. The kiss was hot, desperate — the kind that erased every cruel word between them.
Her anger melted into hunger; her hands slid up his chest, unbuttoning his shirt one piece at a time until it fell open, revealing the scars she once feared. Now she touched them like they were proof of his survival.
"Elena…" he whispered against her lips. "I'm sorry."
She didn't answer — she just kissed him harder, pouring all her frustration and longing into it. The room filled with the sound of their breath, their hearts, their need for each other.
He pulled her closer, his hands tracing the curve of her back as he laid her down, his body hovering over hers. She tugged his shirt off completely, her fingers trembling as she pressed kisses to his neck.
All the walls they'd built — every argument, every misunderstanding — fell away.
For the first time in days, there was no Mafia boss and no frightened girl. There was only Lorenzo and Elena — two broken souls finding their way back through fire and forgiveness.
When the storm outside finally broke again, thunder rolling through the city, they were still tangled together, skin against skin, heart to heart.
He brushed his lips against her forehead, whispering softly, "I'll never doubt you again."
She looked up at him, a faint smile on her lips. "You'd better not, Mafia."
He chuckled, pulling her close. "Even when you hate me, you're mine."
Elena rolled her eyes but didn't move away. "We'll see about that."
But deep down, she knew — no matter how angry she was, her heart would always find its way back to him.