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Chapter 20 – A Storm Behind His Eyes
The rain returned without warning, washing over the tiled roofs of the Moretti estate like a confession the sky had long been holding back. Elira stood at the window of the eastern corridor, arms wrapped tightly around herself, watching the water trace serpentine paths down the glass.
Lorenzo hadn't spoken to her since that moment in the garden. Not with words. But his silence had been louder than any confession. She had felt it in the way his eyes clung to her during rehearsals, in the tremble of his hand when it brushed hers by accident, and in the restraint carved into his every movement—as if he was afraid that one misstep would ruin her.
But hadn't he already ruined her?
Ever since she stepped into his world, everything she thought she knew about herself had begun to unravel. The girl who had once dreamed of Paris stages and Broadway spotlights now found herself in a world painted in blood, lies, and veiled desire.
She turned away from the rain, unable to bear the reflection of her doubt.
Footsteps echoed behind her. Heavy. Familiar.
She didn't need to turn to know it was him.
"Rain suits you," Lorenzo said quietly. His voice held something fragile beneath its smooth texture—like a violin string stretched too tight.
She didn't respond right away. Then, softly, "It hides the truth. That's why I like it."
A pause.
He moved closer, the air shifting around her, thicker now with tension. "What truth are you hiding?"
She turned toward him, lifting her chin. "That I'm not afraid of you. I'm afraid of what you make me feel."
Their eyes locked.
Something dangerous passed between them.
Lorenzo's gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second, before he looked away. "You shouldn't feel anything for me. This—what's happening—it's not safe."
"I didn't ask for safe," she whispered. "I asked for honesty."
He took a breath like he was about to tell her something important. But just then, his phone buzzed.
He answered it, face turning to steel as he listened. Elira could hear nothing but the thunder beyond the glass, but whatever was said on the other end pulled the shadows deeper beneath Lorenzo's eyes.
When he hung up, he didn't explain. He simply said, "Get ready. You're coming with me."
"To where?"
"Somewhere only fire survives."
She didn't ask again.
An hour later, they were on the road.
The countryside blurred past them, soaked in rain and dusk. Elira sat beside him in the back of the black SUV, her hands cold against the leather seat, her thoughts spiraling.
She should have stayed behind. But part of her—some aching, reckless part—knew that if she let him go alone, she might never see him again.
They drove to the edge of the city, where vineyards gave way to warehouses, and then to ruins. The car stopped before an abandoned chapel that leaned like a secret no longer strong enough to bear its own weight.
Lorenzo got out. She followed.
Inside, the chapel smelled of mildew and ash. A single candle burned in the far corner, illuminating a man tied to a chair—bloody, beaten, barely conscious.
Elira's breath caught.
"What is this?" she asked, voice trembling.
Lorenzo didn't look at her. "Truth."
He walked to the man and crouched before him, speaking in fast, precise Italian. Elira caught a few words. Traitor. Shipment. Bomb.
The man spat blood onto the floor.
Lorenzo stood, pulled a gun from his jacket.
Elira flinched. "Lorenzo—"
"This man tried to blow up a medical convoy sent to one of my orphanages," he said quietly. "Because I didn't fund his cousin's gambling den."
"He's not worth—"
"I don't kill for revenge." His voice dropped to a razor-sharp edge. "I kill to prevent more blood."
The gunshot cracked like lightning.
Elira shut her eyes.
When she opened them, Lorenzo was staring at the ground, the gun lowered, the man slumped over, still.
She wanted to scream. Cry. Run.
But she didn't.
Instead, she walked to him and whispered, "Does it get easier?"
"No," he said. "But you get colder."
She reached out, brushing his hand.
"I don't want you to be cold."
He looked at her then. Really looked. As if he saw something in her no one else had noticed.
And in that moment, something shifted again.
Later, back at the villa, neither of them spoke. They sat on opposite ends of his massive study, thunder outside echoing the storm inside them.
Finally, Lorenzo said, "My father built this empire with blood. I was sixteen when I saw my first execution. Twenty when I had to order one."
She looked at him across the room, eyes wet but unafraid. "You think telling me this will scare me away?"
"No," he said. "I think telling you this will make you stay."
He walked to her slowly, like a man walking toward his ruin.
"I don't want to be what my father made me," he said. "But I also can't escape it."
She stood. "Then don't escape. Change it."
He laughed once. Bitter. "It's not that easy."
"Then I'll stay until it is."
Silence.
He stepped closer, until they were just inches apart.
"Elira," he breathed. "If you stay, I'll destroy you."
"Then destroy me."
He kissed her.
Not like the first time — not out of lust, not as a distraction. This time, it was an act of surrender. Of confession.
Their mouths collided in a clash of fire and ice, hands tangled in silk and breath. His fingers slid into her hair, hers gripped his shirt like she was afraid he'd vanish.
In that kiss, there was no mafia.
No lies.
Only them.
When they finally broke apart, the only sound was the rain outside.
And the slow, terrifying rhythm of two hearts learning how to beat in sync.
But far away, across the sea in Istanbul, another man picked up a photo of Elira.
He smiled.
"I found your weakness, Moretti."
And with that, the real game began.
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End of Chapter 20