The east wing bedroom was larger than Elena's entire childhood suite back at the Rossi compound.
Obsidian walls, floor-to-ceiling windows draped in sheer charcoal silk, a king-sized bed that looked carved from midnight itself. A single crimson rose lay on the black satin duvet—petals still dewy, like it had been placed there minutes before she arrived.
A message. A taunt. A claim.
She stood in the center of the room in the same bloodstained gown, arms wrapped around herself as if the silk could still protect her. The door had closed behind her with the same soft, expensive finality as Luca's earlier.
Dante had delivered her here without a word, only a curt nod before vanishing. No lock clicked. No guard posted outside.
He didn't need to lock her in.
She already knew she couldn't leave.
Not yet.
Elena crossed to the en-suite bathroom—marble veined with silver, rainfall shower big enough for three people, a clawfoot tub that looked deep enough to drown regrets in. A walk-in closet waited beyond, already stocked.
She opened the double doors.
Rows of black lace lingerie. Silk slips in deep garnet and midnight. Dresses that clung like second skin. Heels sharp enough to draw blood. No modest options. No escape routes disguised as clothing.
Everything screamed his.
She let the doors fall shut again.
Back in the bedroom, she peeled off the ruined gown—slowly, mechanically. The silk hit the floor with a wet slap. Blood had soaked through to her skin in places; dark streaks painted her thighs, her stomach, the curve of her breasts like violent finger-trails.
She stepped under the shower without waiting for the water to warm.
Ice hit her first. She didn't flinch.
Let it burn. Let it hurt. Pain was honest. Pain was something she could control.
When steam finally clouded the glass, she tilted her face into the spray and let the water run red at her feet until it ran clear.
She stayed there until her fingertips pruned and her teeth chattered.
Only then did she shut off the water, wrap herself in one of the thick black towels, and pad back into the bedroom.
Luca was sitting in the armchair by the window.
He hadn't made a sound entering.
Elena froze mid-step, towel clutched to her chest.
He lounged like he owned the room—which he did—like he owned the air in it, the shadows, her.
Fresh black shirt, sleeves still rolled. Hair damp at the ends; he must have showered too. A tumbler of whiskey dangled loosely from his fingers. His eyes—those winter-blue eyes—traveled over her slowly. Not leering. Assessing. Hungry in a way that felt like being stripped to bone.
"You're late," he said quietly.
"I needed to wash my father's blood off," she answered, voice flat. "Forgive me for the delay."
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
He set the glass on the side table with careful precision.
"Come here."
Two words. Not a request.
Elena's grip tightened on the towel. "I said yes to your terms. I didn't say I'd make it easy."
The corner of his mouth lifted—just a ghost of the old, reckless smile she used to chase.
"I don't want easy." He leaned forward, elbows on knees, gaze never leaving hers. "I want you exactly like this—angry, grieving, cornered. I want to feel every ounce of fight you've got left before I take it."
Her breath hitched.
He rose in one fluid motion and crossed the distance between them. Not fast. Not threatening. Just inevitable.
When he reached her he didn't touch—not yet.
He simply stood close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him, smell the clean cedar of his skin mixed with the faint burn of whiskey.
"Look at me," he murmured.
She lifted her chin. Defiant. Defeated. Both.
His hand rose—slow—fingers brushing the damp strands of hair from her cheek. Then lower, tracing the line of her throat where her pulse hammered like a trapped bird.
"You're shaking," he said softly.
"I'm cold."
"Liar."
His thumb pressed lightly against her racing pulse.
"Tell me to stop," he said. "Say the word and I walk out. The deal holds—no touching until you're ready. But you won't say it."
She hated that he was right.
Hated more that part of her—the dark, furious, grieving part—wanted him to keep going. Wanted something to drown out the echo of that single gunshot. Wanted to feel anything except hollow.
His fingers slid to the knot of the towel.
He didn't pull.
He waited.
Elena closed her eyes for one heartbeat.
Then she let go.
The towel pooled at her feet.
Cool air kissed her skin. Goosebumps raced across her arms, her stomach, her thighs.
Luca exhaled—a rough, almost pained sound.
His gaze devoured her—not crude, not rushed. Reverent. Possessive. Like a man finally allowed to look at something he'd starved for.
"Beautiful," he breathed. The word sounded torn out of him.
Then his hands were on her—warm, sure, callused palms sliding up her arms, over her shoulders, down her back. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just claiming.
He pulled her against him.
She gasped at the first press of his clothed body to her bare one. The contrast—rough wool, crisp cotton, hard muscle against soft, still-damp skin—sent sparks racing through her nerves.
His mouth found the side of her throat.
Not a kiss.
A scrape of teeth. A slow drag of lips. A brand.
"You still taste like summer," he muttered against her skin. "Even covered in blood and grief."
Elena's hands fisted in his shirt. She didn't know if she was pushing him away or pulling him closer.
"Shut up," she whispered.
He chuckled—low, dark, dangerous.
Then he kissed her.
Not soft. Not tentative.
He kissed her like a man who'd waited five years to remember how she tasted.
Hard. Deep. Devouring.
Elena kissed him back the same way—angry, desperate, punishing.
Teeth clashed. Tongues fought. Hands gripped too tight.
She tasted whiskey and salt and something metallic—maybe her own blood from where she'd bitten her lip earlier.
Luca groaned into her mouth—a raw, broken sound—and backed her toward the bed.
When the backs of her knees hit the mattress she stumbled. He caught her, lifted her like she weighed nothing, and laid her down on black satin.
He didn't follow immediately.
He stood at the edge of the bed, breathing hard, eyes black with want.
"Last chance," he rasped. "Tell me no."
Elena looked up at him—chest heaving, skin flushed, every inch of her screaming yes even as her mind screamed traitor.
She reached for the top button of his shirt.
Pop.
One.
Pop.
Two.
"I already said yes," she told him. "Don't make me repeat myself."
Something feral flashed across his face.
Then he was on her.
Clothes shed in frantic seconds—his shirt torn open, belt clattering to the floor, trousers kicked aside.
Skin to skin.
Heat to heat.
Memory to memory.
He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. The other traced every curve, every scar she'd earned in the years he'd been gone—small knife nick on her ribs from a botched kidnapping attempt at nineteen, faint burn on her inner thigh from a car chase at twenty-one.
He kissed them all.
Like apologies.
Like worship.
Like ownership.
When he finally settled between her thighs, he paused—forehead pressed to hers, breathing ragged.
"Look at me," he ordered again.
She did.
Blue eyes locked with hazel.
No words.
Just the slow, deliberate press of him entering her—inch by torturous inch—until they both shuddered.
Then he moved.
Slow at first. Deep. Controlled.
Every thrust dragged a gasp from her throat.
Every retreat pulled a growl from his.
The pace built—faster, harder, more desperate.
The bed creaked.
The city lights blurred beyond the windows.
Elena's nails scored his back—red lines he'd wear like medals tomorrow.
Luca's mouth found hers again—swallowing her cries, her curses, her pleas.
When the wave crashed over her she arched, shattered, sobbed his name like a curse and a prayer.
He followed seconds later—burying his face in her neck, hips stuttering, a guttural sound ripping from his throat as he spilled inside her.
They stayed like that—locked together, trembling, breathing each other's air.
For one heartbeat the world was small enough to fit inside this bed.
Then reality bled back in.
The blood on the floor.
The empire hanging by threads.
The revenge still waiting.
Luca lifted his head. Brushed sweat-damp hair from her temple with surprising tenderness.
"Sleep," he murmured. "Tomorrow we hunt."
Elena turned her face into his shoulder.
She didn't answer.
But her fingers stayed curled in his hair.
And for the first time since the gunshot—she didn't feel completely alone.