Moonlight spilled in soft stripes through the slatted curtains, casting pale ribbons across Silvio's sleeping form. His breath was deep, steady — a rare moment of peace carved out in a life like his. One arm was slung loosely over the empty space beside him, fingers curled as though still holding her.
But Rose wasn't there.
Wrapped in one of his shirts, barefoot and silent, she moved through the shadows of his study. The scent of cedar, ink, and cigar lingered in the air. She hadn't meant to come here — not like this, not while he slept. But something had been gnawing at her since Eleanor Moore's visit. The way the woman had walked into the estate like a ghost in silk, like someone who had nothing to lose. Like she already knew Rose would never make it out.
Rose's fingers danced across the polished drawers of his desk. One was locked. Of course it was. Silvio didn't leave things unattended. But she remembered something — a small key he kept behind one of the oil paintings in his gallery room. She'd seen him once, not knowing she was watching.
And now she was here.
The drawer gave a faint click as it opened.
Inside were old papers, faded receipts in Italian and French, a folded map of Trieste marked with a blood-red X, and… a photograph. Black and white. Frayed at the edges.
Her heart stuttered.
It was of a young woman — not her mother, but someone else. She had the same eyes as Rose. Familiar sadness, familiar defiance. Scrawled on the back in handwriting she recognized too well were three words: Non doveva morire.
She wasn't meant to die.
Rose's fingers trembled. The woman's face seared itself into her memory like fire across silk.
A soft noise behind her.
She turned sharply.
Silvio stood in the doorway, shirtless, sleepy but sharp-eyed. His presence filled the room even before he spoke. He looked at the open drawer, then at her. Then quietly, he said, "Couldn't sleep?"
Her mouth was dry. "No."
He said nothing at first, only walked toward her slowly, bare feet soundless against the marble. When he reached her, he took the photo from her hands, folded it once, and set it back in the drawer without looking at it. Then he closed it.
Lock clicked shut again.
"I told you," he said, voice low and steady, "there are things you won't come back from if you dig too deep."
She looked up at him. "And you still left the map. The photo. You wanted me to find it."
Something flickered in his gaze — not surprise, not anger. Something like… ache. Like a wound reopened.
"I want you to know me," he admitted after a moment, his voice rough. "Even the parts I buried."
There was a silence between them — heavy, stretched. But it didn't suffocate. It held.
Then his fingers brushed her jaw. "Come back to bed, La Fiora. You're colder than your words."
She let him lead her back to the bedroom, tension coiled between them like smoke. Once there, he tugged the shirt off her, slowly, inch by inch, until it pooled at her feet. His hands weren't demanding — they were reverent, as if she were the only thing in his world that hadn't turned to ash.
Their bodies met under the weight of silence, mouths brushing softly, the kiss slow and deep — not raw this time, not brutal, but yearning. As if both of them were reaching toward something neither could name.
When he laid her down, his touch was unhurried. He held her like someone memorizing every breath, every curve, every heartbeat. Their heat still burned — but beneath it was something far more dangerous.
Trust.
Afterward, tangled in sheets, she rested her head against his chest and traced idle lines over his scars.
"You're not what I expected," she whispered.
"No one ever survives what they expect," he murmured. Then, with more tenderness than she was prepared for: "But I never wanted you to be part of that war, Rose."
She looked up at him, his face half-hidden in the shadows. "I already am."
His arm tightened around her.
She didn't mention the photo again. Nor did he.
But as he drifted back to sleep beside her, Rose stared at the ceiling — wide awake. The silence between them was no longer empty. It was filled with unsaid names, unread documents, and the ghost of a woman she didn't yet understand.
Eleanor was still out there. Alive. Watching.
And Rose knew — whatever peace she had now, however deep she fell into Silvio's world and arms — something dark was waiting.
And it was getting closer.