Luca's pov –
The moment her eyes flicked past me, I knew.
Something was behind me.
Someone.
I moved on instinct — grabbed Elena by the waist and yanked her to the side as the bullet tore through the wood where her head had been seconds before.
The shot echoed like a damn thunderclap.
Glass shattered. Alarms blared. My blood went cold.
I hit the ground hard, dragging her down with me. Her body collided with mine, and for a second I felt her heartbeat — wild, frantic — like mine. Her hand clutched my shirt, her breath catching as another shot ripped through the hallway.
"You okay?" I asked, not expecting an answer.
She blinked up at me like I was speaking another language, then shoved me off.
"What the hell was that?"
"I was hoping you could tell me," I snapped, already drawing the gun from my shoulder holster.
My security team should've responded by now. The silence wasn't comforting — it was surgical. Someone planned this. Knew exactly where I'd be. Knew Elena would be with me.
Which meant this wasn't just an attack.
This was a message.
And someone wanted us dead.
I pushed Elena behind the nearest marble pillar and took cover at the edge of the hallway. Whoever it was, they were good — one shot, then silence. No footsteps. No taunts.
Professional.
"Stay down," I told her.
She ignored me, of course. "You think this is about me?"
Her voice was sharp, accusing. She thought I set her up.
I almost laughed.
"No one wants you dead yet, wife. You're still the bargaining chip."
She flinched at the word. Wife. It hit like a slap. Good. We were both bleeding under the same contract, and neither of us forgot it.
Another shot cracked past, and I saw the shooter — black mask, tactical gear, moving toward the west wing exit.
I took the shot without hesitation.
He dropped.
One clean bullet through the temple.
I didn't miss.
When it was over, silence fell heavy.
I stood over the body while the security team finally poured in, too late and too loud. Elena was at my side now, staring down at the man like she expected him to get up again.
He didn't.
She crouched slowly. Pulled off his glove. Something shifted in her expression.
"You know him?" I asked.
"No."
Too fast.
Too cold.
She lied.
But I didn't call her on it — not yet.
Instead, I nodded to my men. "Get him out of here. And check the security feed. I want to know how the hell someone got through two checkpoints without alerting a single soul."
They scattered. Good soldiers. But even the best bleed if you cut deep enough.
Elena turned to me once we were alone.
"You think this is the first time someone tried to kill you?" she asked, tone sharp.
"No," I said. "But it's the first time they waited until you moved in."
Something in her jaw tightened.
I saw the gears turning behind those pretty, dangerous eyes. She wanted to blame me. Wanted to storm off, maybe even threaten to sleep in a different wing again.
But something held her there.
Maybe it was fear.
Or maybe it was the truth we were both starting to choke on — we weren't strangers anymore.
Not after tonight.
Later, in the war room — what the staff called the second-floor library — I poured myself a drink and watched the security footage on loop. Elena stood by the window, arms crossed, still in her ruined wedding dress.
The lace was torn at the hem. Blood near the shoulder — mine or hers, I couldn't tell. She hadn't changed. She hadn't flinched when the body hit the ground.
I was starting to think she was more like me than I wanted to admit.
"You're not surprised," I said finally.
She looked over her shoulder. "Neither are you."
I nodded slowly. "Which means someone knew this truce wouldn't hold."
"No one wants peace," she said. "They want power. Peace is just what they name the coffin after."
That made me glance at her.
Really look.
She was supposed to be the enemy's daughter. Spoiled. Weak. Raised in silk and blood.
But the girl in front of me? She didn't flinch when a bullet missed her by inches. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She just… watched.
"You've seen death before," I said quietly.
She didn't answer.
Didn't have to.
It was all over her.
I sat back in the leather chair and watched her reflection in the dark window. Her arms were folded, but not for comfort — for restraint. Like if she let herself move, she might strike.
"You said something earlier," she said after a long beat. "About a girl who saved you."
I stiffened.
She turned to face me. "Who was she?"
I sipped my drink, letting the silence hang. That memory… it didn't belong here. Not with her. Not in this house. It was the only part of me that hadn't been weaponized.
"I was fifteen," I said finally. "Some rival gang sent a kid to gut me in the back alley behind the opera house. Sloppy job. He got me in the side and ran."
Elena didn't move.
"She came out of nowhere," I said. "Looked like a ghost. Pressed her scarf to the wound. Screamed at me to stay awake. Then disappeared before the medics showed."
"You remember her face?"
"I remember her eyes."
And I did.
Honey-gold, with something sharp behind them. Fearless. Angry.
She looked just like—
I stood too quickly.
Elena blinked. "What is it?"
I stepped toward her, my heart beating faster than I liked. My voice was low, careful. "Where were you that night?"
"What night?"
"The opera house. Five years ago."
She didn't answer.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
"Elena," I said. "Was it you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Liar.
But it wasn't the lie that twisted in my gut — it was the why behind it.
If she had saved me… why the hell would she marry me now?
Unless—
"You came back to finish the job," I whispered.
She looked at me — no denial. Just fire.
"I came back to bury a ghost," she said.
And that's when I knew.
She wasn't just here because of the truce.
She was here to destroy me.
And I'd already let her too close.
But before I could speak — before I could reach for the gun I hadn't noticed she'd clocked under my jacket — the library door burst open.
Marco.
My head of security.
His face was pale, his voice like gravel.
"Boss," he said. "There's something you need to see."
He tossed a photo onto the table.
I looked down.
And froze.
It was the assassin.
Tattoo behind his ear.
A black crescent — the mark of the Orlov Bratva.
Russian. Elite. Merciless.
And they never move without a bounty.
My voice came out cold.
"Who put out the hit?"
Marco's gaze shifted.
Elena answered for him.
"Your uncle."