The car did not stop until dawn.
Paris blurred past the windows, empty streets, pale sky, the city holding its breath after a night of violence. Amélie sat in silence, wrapped in Vittorio Russo's jacket, her fingers curled tightly into the fabric as if letting go might shatter her completely.
She had stopped shaking only minutes ago.
Vittorio noticed everything.
The way her shoulders remained tense. The way her gaze darted at every sudden sound. The way she held herself together through sheer will alone.
"You're injured," he said quietly.
She shook her head. "No. Just tired."
A lie.
But not one he pushed.
The vehicle finally slowed, pulling through iron gates into a secluded estate on the edge of the city. Guards stepped forward immediately, weapons lowered only when they recognized Vittorio.
"Secure the perimeter," he ordered. "No one in or out without my word."
"Yes, boss."
The car door opened. Vittorio stepped out first, scanning the area instinctively before turning back to her.
"We're here," he said.
Amélie hesitated.
Every instinct screamed at her not to trust him. He was still her enemy. Still a Russo. Still part of the world that had stolen her safety.
And yet he was also the man who had walked into gunfire to pull her out.
She stepped out.
The estate was quiet. Stone walls. Tall windows. No luxury, no unnecessary decoration, everything about the place felt controlled, intentional.
Like him.
Inside, warmth wrapped around her instantly. Soft lighting. Clean air. Silence.
She swayed slightly.
Vittorio caught her elbow before she could fall.
"I'm fine," she insisted.
He didn't release her immediately. His grip was firm but careful, like he was afraid of hurting her.
"You don't have to be," he said.
The words struck deeper than she expected.
He guided her to a couch, signaling for a medic. As the man checked her vitals, Amélie stared straight ahead, her mind replaying flashes of the warehouse hands grabbing her, voices, the fear she had swallowed whole.
"You're in shock," the medic said gently. "No physical injuries, but you need rest."
Amélie nodded mutely.
When the medic left, silence settled again.
"Your father knows you're alive," Vittorio said. "He's on his way."
Her heart twisted. Relief. Fear. Guilt.
"He'll kill you," she said quietly.
Vittorio's mouth curved slightly. "He'll try."
She looked at him sharply. "Why are you so calm?"
"Because I expected this."
She really studied him now. The exhaustion in his eyes. The dried blood on his cuff. The way he leaned against the wall as if holding himself upright took effort.
"You could've handed me over," she said. "Used me."
His gaze darkened. "I don't trade people."
"You trade power," she replied.
He didn't deny it.
"But not you."
Something about the certainty in his voice made her chest ache.
Before she could respond, the front doors opened.
Lucien Laurent entered like a storm given human form.
His eyes locked on Amélie instantly.
She rose unsteadily, and in a blink he was in front of her, pulling her into his arms with a force that made her breath hitch.
"My heart," he whispered hoarsely. "My Amélie."
She clutched his suit, inhaling the familiar scent of him, finally allowing herself to feel safe.
"I'm here," she murmured. "I'm okay."
Lucien pulled back, hands gripping her shoulders as he scanned her face frantically. "Did they hurt you?"
"No," she said softly. "They tried to use me."
Lucien's jaw tightened dangerously.
Behind her, she felt Vittorio's presence like a weight.
Lucien turned slowly.
For a moment, the room felt like it might explode.
"You," Lucien said.
Vittorio met his gaze without flinching. "Me."
Silence stretched.
"You saved her," Lucien said finally.
"Yes."
Lucien studied him, then did something unexpected.
He inclined his head.
"My debt is not small," he said. "Do not mistake that for trust."
Vittorio nodded once. "I wouldn't dare."
Lucien turned back to Amélie. "You're coming home."
She stiffened.
"No," she said.
Both men looked at her.
"I'm not safe there," she continued. "Not yet."
Lucien frowned. "This place belongs to—"
"To Vittorio," she finished. "And that's exactly why they won't expect me here."
Lucien hesitated.
Vittorio spoke calmly. "She's right."
Lucien's eyes flicked to him sharply.
"I can protect her," Vittorio said. "Until the Valen Syndicate is eliminated."
Amélie held her breath.
Lucien looked between them, calculation flashing across his face.
Finally, he nodded.
"Two weeks," he said. "Then she comes home."
Vittorio accepted without argument.
The first night was the hardest.
Amélie lay awake in a guest room that wasn't hers, staring at the ceiling as memories crept in uninvited. Every shadow felt like a threat. Every sound made her flinch.
A knock sounded softly at the door.
She sat up instantly. "Yes?"
Vittorio entered slowly, hands visible, as if not to startle her.
"I couldn't sleep," he said. "I thought you might not either."
She hesitated, then nodded.
He remained by the door. "I can leave."
"Stay," she said quietly.
He did.
They sat in silence, the distance between them heavy with things unsaid.
"Why did you really come for me?" she asked suddenly.
He didn't answer immediately.
"Because if I hadn't," he said finally, "I would've become the kind of man I hate."
Her throat tightened.
"You hate my family," she said.
"Yes."
"And me?"
He looked at her then. Really looked.
"No," he said. "That's the problem."
Her breath caught.
They didn't move closer. Didn't touch.
But something fragile and dangerous settled between them.
Trust.
Outside, unseen forces shifted. Alliances tightened. Enemies planned.
And inside the quiet estate, the line between enemy and protector began to blur.