The house had learned to breathe without him.
Elara Romano noticed it the moment she stepped inside—the way the walls no longer held their breath, the way the clock dared to tick aloud. Death had settled in like dust, unapologetic, visible only when the light struck just right.
Her mother had cried.
Her relatives had whispered.
Elara had gone silent.
She stood now in her father's study, fingers clenched around the back of a chair that still smelled faintly of ink and bergamot. Outside, the rain fell in disciplined lines, as if even the sky understood restraint better than she did.
The lawyer cleared his throat.
"Elara," he said gently, as though softness might prevent the fracture already spreading in her chest. "Your father's will is… unconventional."
She didn't look at him. Her gaze was fixed on the sealed envelope resting on the desk.
Unconventional.
That was a polite way of saying cruel.
"Read it," she said. Her voice surprised even her—steady, cold. "Before I lose patience."
The lawyer hesitated. Then—
To my daughter, Elara Romano.
Her heart stuttered.
If you are hearing this, I have failed in the one duty that mattered most—staying alive long enough to protect you.
Her nails dug into her palm.
There are dangers I could not erase. Enemies I could not bury. And truths I was too cowardly to tell you.
Elara swallowed. "Get to the point," she muttered. "Damn it."
The lawyer continued.
From this day forward, Elara will reside under the protection and guardianship of Alessandro De Luca.
The room tilted.
"What?" she snapped. "What the hell did you just say?"
The lawyer repeated it, slower this time, as if explaining a sentence to a child.
"No," Elara laughed—sharp, cracked. "That's bullshit. Absolute bullshit."
She turned to her mother. "You knew?"
Her mother's eyes dropped.
That was answer enough.
"He hasn't visited in years," Elara said, heat rising. "Years. He disappears like a ghost, and suddenly he owns my life?"
The door behind her opened.
The sound was quiet. Deliberate.
Every nerve in her body reacted before her mind did.
"You always had a temper," came a male voice—low, composed, infuriatingly calm. "Your father said it would either save you or destroy you."
Elara turned.
Alessandro De Luca stood framed in the doorway, dressed in black that seemed less like mourning and more like authority. Tall. Still. His presence pressed into the room like an unspoken command.
Older than she remembered. Harder.
His eyes—steel-dark, unreadable—settled on her face.
"Go to hell," she said immediately.
The lawyer stood so fast his chair scraped the floor. "Miss Romano—"
"Leave," Alessandro said quietly.
The word carried weight.
The room obeyed.
When the door closed, silence thickened.
"So," Elara said, arms folding tightly over her chest. "You finally show up."
"I never left," Alessandro replied. "I watched."
She scoffed. "That's supposed to comfort me?"
"No," he said. "It's the truth."
She stepped closer, defiance burning. "You don't get to decide where I live. I'm not a child."
Alessandro's gaze dropped briefly—to the tremor in her hands, the dark circles beneath her eyes.
"You're grieving," he said. "And exposed."
"I'm furious," she shot back. "And you're a bastard if you think—"
"Careful," he interrupted. Not raised. Not sharp. Just final.
Her mouth snapped shut.
That scared her more than shouting would have.
"Your father signed everything," Alessandro continued. "Property. Authority. Conditions."
"Conditions," she echoed bitterly. "Of course."
"You will stay with me."
The words landed softly.
They still felt like chains.
"I won't," she said. "I'd rather sleep on the street."
A pause.
Then Alessandro stepped forward—close enough that she caught the scent of rain and leather, close enough that her anger wavered.
"Your father owed people," he said quietly. "Dangerous people."
Her breath hitched.
"He thought love alone would protect you," Alessandro went on. "It won't."
She stared at him. "You're enjoying this."
"No," he said. "I'm enduring it."
Her laugh was hollow. "You think locking me in your world will save me?"
"I think," Alessandro replied, voice darkening, "that if you stay where you are, someone will hurt you. And I will not allow that."
"Allow," she repeated. "God, you sound like a tyrant."
He didn't deny it.
"You'll stay with me," Alessandro said again, quieter now. "At least until I neutralize the threat."
"And if I refuse?"
His eyes held hers—steady, unyielding.
"Then I'll drag you out of danger kicking and screaming," he said calmly. "And hate me later."
Her chest burned. Fear, rage, something dangerously close to curiosity tangled inside her.
"This is insane," she whispered. "My life is already shattered. And you—holy shit—you walk in like you own the ruins."
"I don't own you," Alessandro said.
Then, after a beat:
"I am responsible for you."
That was worse.
The De Luca estate did not announce itself.
It simply appeared—stone rising from the hillside like an old wound that had never healed, iron gates curving inward as if closing around an unwelcome thought. Elara pressed her forehead to the window as the car slowed, rain streaking the glass into distorted lines.
"This is a prison," she muttered.
"It's a stronghold," Alessandro replied from the front seat. "There's a difference."
She snorted. "Only if you're the one holding the keys."
The gates opened without a sound.
Elara's stomach tightened. Cameras followed the car's movement with mechanical patience. Guards—real ones, not decorative—stood near the entrance, their gazes sharp, professional, uncurious.
Her father hadn't been paranoid.
He'd been hunted.
The car stopped beneath a stone archway. Alessandro exited first, coat already dusted with rain, posture infuriatingly unhurried. He opened her door.
She stayed seated.
"I didn't agree to this," she said.
"You agreed to survive," he answered. "Get out, Elara."
She hated how calmly he said her name. As if it belonged to him already.
"Damn it," she whispered, then stepped out.
The house loomed closer now—dark windows, ivy clawing at the stone, history heavy in every shadow. This place wasn't built for warmth. It was built for endurance.
Inside, the air smelled of old wood and something sharper—polish, metal, restraint.
A woman waited in the hall, tall and narrow-eyed, dressed in black like mourning had become her uniform.
"Miss Romano," she said. "I'm Sofia. I manage the household."
Her gaze flicked to Alessandro. Respect. Wariness. Not affection.
"Show her to the east wing," Alessandro said. "Second floor. Keep the corridor sealed."
Sealed.
Elara's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
"It's temporary," Alessandro replied without looking at her. "Until I finish assessing the breach."
"What breach?"
"The one that got your father killed."
Her breath caught.
"You said nothing about—" She stopped herself, pride swallowing fear. "You don't get to drip-feed me terror like some sick strategy."
He finally turned. "You don't get to underestimate it."
Sofia gestured politely. "This way, Miss Romano."
The corridor stretched long and quiet, doors closed like mouths that refused to speak. Elara's room was large—too large—furnished in restrained elegance. No personal touches. No softness.
A gilded cage.
Sofia lingered. "There are rules."
Elara laughed bitterly. "Of course there are."
"No wandering after dark. No phone calls without clearance. No windows open."
"That's insane."
"That's survival," Sofia corrected. "Dinner is at eight. Mr. De Luca expects punctuality."
"When doesn't he?" Elara muttered.
Sofia's lips tightened. "Rest. You look… hollow."
When she was alone, Elara sat on the bed and stared at her hands.
They were shaking.
She pressed them flat against the mattress. Get it together. Don't let him see you break.
A knock came just after seven.
She opened the door to Alessandro.
He had removed his coat, sleeves rolled back, a faint cut visible along his knuckles.
Her eyes narrowed. "What happened to your hand?"
"Nothing," he said.
"That's a lie."
"Yes."
She crossed her arms. "You hurt someone."
"I warned someone," he replied calmly. "They didn't listen."
Her stomach twisted. "Because of me?"
"Because of your name."
They walked to the dining room in silence. The table was long, the chairs spaced too far apart—distance built into the architecture. Alessandro sat at the head. She took the nearest chair, refusing the symbolism.
"You've done this before," she said suddenly. "This… protection."
"Yes."
"And they hated you."
"Yes."
"Did they survive?"
A pause.
"Most of them."
Her appetite vanished.
"Say it," she demanded. "What happened to the rest?"
Alessandro met her gaze. "They didn't listen."
Her fork clattered against the plate. "You think I'm stupid."
"I think you're grieving," he said. "And angry. And untrained."
She pushed back her chair. "Go to hell."
He didn't stop her.
That night, sleep refused to come.
The walls felt too close. The silence too alert.
At three in the morning, Elara heard voices.
She crept to the door, heart pounding, pressing her ear against the wood.
"…wasn't an accident," a man said. "The brake line was cut."
Her father's death.
Elara's breath stuttered.
"We're running out of time," another voice added. "If she finds out—"
"She won't," Alessandro interrupted. Cold. Absolute. "Not yet."
Not yet.
Her fingers trembled against the doorframe.
Footsteps approached.
She stumbled back into the room just as the handle turned. Alessandro entered without knocking, eyes sharp, assessing.
"You were listening," he said.
She lifted her chin. "You were lying."
"Yes."
Rage flared. "You think you can decide when I deserve the truth?"
"I think," he said quietly, stepping closer, "that the truth will put a target on your back the moment you understand it."
"So you cage me instead?"
"I shield you."
"By controlling me."
His jaw tightened. "By keeping you alive."
"You're enjoying this power," she accused. "Admit it."
For the first time, something flickered—anger, sharp and restrained.
"You think I wanted this?" he snapped. "You think I wanted your father dead? That I wanted to look at you and see every mistake he made?"
The words hit hard.
She whispered, "You hated him."
"I loved him," Alessandro said hoarsely. "And he ruined himself trying to outrun consequences."
Silence stretched.
Then, softer: "I won't let that happen to you."
Her voice cracked. "You don't know me."
"I know enough," he said. "You walk like you expect to be abandoned. You fight like you're already losing. And you listen when you should run."
She swallowed. "Stop dissecting me."
"Then stop pretending you're safe."
Their gazes locked—something dangerous coiling in the space between them. Not desire. Not yet. Something sharper. Recognition.
"You're not my savior," she said.
"No," Alessandro agreed. "I'm your consequence."
A shout echoed from outside.
Alessandro moved instantly, pulling her behind him as gunfire cracked through the night.
"Stay down," he ordered.
Fear surged—but so did clarity.
This was real.
This was war.
As alarms blared, Alessandro glanced back at her once.
"I told you," he said. "You'll stay with me."
And for the first time—
She didn't argue.