The rain hadn't stopped in hours. It drummed relentlessly against the tin roof of the hideout, the sound filling every corner of the small cabin in the hills. The place was nothing like his mansion—no marble floors, no gleaming chandeliers, no silk curtains drawn with precision. Here, everything smelled faintly of damp wood and pine. The floor creaked with every step, and the single fireplace coughed up more smoke than heat.
Aria sat curled up on the worn couch, knees to her chest, staring at the fire. It was supposed to be a safehouse, a temporary escape from the chaos that had erupted in the city after the rival family made their move. But she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd been pulled deeper into his world, where even the air felt heavier with secrets.
Luca was in the kitchen—if you could call it that—pouring two glasses of water. She could hear the soft clink of glass against the countertop, followed by the heavy footsteps she'd come to recognize. Everything about him seemed deliberate. Even the way he moved carried a quiet authority, as if every step was calculated for effect.
"You're still not talking to me," he said, setting a glass down on the table in front of her. His voice was calm, but she knew him well enough now to hear the frustration just beneath it.
"You think I have anything to say to you?" She replied, not looking up.
"I think," he said, sitting across from her, "that you have too much to say, but you're afraid I won't like it."
She looked at him then, really looked. His shirt was damp from the rain, clinging to his shoulders in a way that reminded her—against her will—of just how much space he took up in any room. His dark hair was messy, with strands falling over his forehead, a departure from the always-composed Don she'd met weeks ago.
"You wouldn't like it," she said finally.
The firelight flickered, catching the sharp lines of his face, the shadow along his jaw. "Try me."
She stood abruptly, pacing toward the window. The storm outside was a wild, living thing, the wind rattling the glass in its frame. "You think because I'm here, because you've trapped me in this—this arrangement, that I owe you… anything. But I don't. I didn't choose this life, Luca."
He leaned back, his gaze never leaving her. "You chose to live."
Her breath caught, anger and a flicker of something else twisting in her chest. He always did this—reduced her choices to life or death, as if there were no space between them.
"I could have found another way," she said.
"You could have died," he countered, his voice low but edged with steel.
They stood in the crackling silence, the sound of rain pressing in around them. She hated him for being right and hated him for the way his presence filled her lungs like smoke she couldn't cough out. And worse, she hated herself for noticing that, even in this moment, she was aware of how close he was to her.
When the wind slammed against the cabin again, the lights flickered once, twice, and then went out completely. The fire remained their only source of light, casting the room in gold and shadow.
Luca stood, moving toward her. "It's just the storm," he said, his voice softer now. He was close enough that she could smell the faint scent of rain on his skin, the warmth of him standing like a wall between her and the cold.
Her heart was hammering, but she stepped back—only to find her shoulders pressing against the wooden wall. He didn't touch her, not yet. His hands were braced on either side of her, his head dipping just enough that she could feel his breath against her cheek.
"You should be in bed," he murmured.
"I'm not tired."
His eyes searched hers, dark and unreadable, and for one impossible moment, she swore she saw something unguarded there. Not the ruthless Don, not the man who'd cornered her into marriage, but someone… human.
"Neither am I," he said quietly.
She didn't know who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was her—but suddenly his mouth was on hers. It wasn't gentle. It was desperate, heated, like all the arguments and tension between them had found their outlet in this single moment.
Her hands pressed against his chest, not pushing him away, not exactly pulling him closer either. The kiss deepened, his hand sliding to the small of her back, drawing her against him.
The sound of the rain faded into nothing. The world narrowed to the taste of him, the rough warmth of his palm against her spine, and the soft scrape of stubble against her cheek.
It was wrong. It was dangerous. And it was over too quickly.
She broke the kiss, breathing hard, eyes wide. "We can't—"
"I know," he said, his voice low and rough.
They stared at each other for a long moment, both unwilling to admit what had just happened. Then he stepped back, turning toward the fire.
"You should sleep," he said without looking at her.
She wrapped her arms around herself, retreating to the couch, heart still racing. But long after the fire burned low and the storm outside eased into silence, she could still feel the ghost of his lips on hers.