"Some homes do not shelter you; they swallow you whole."
The rain had finally stopped when the car rolled into the outskirts of Milan. The city didn't sleep—it only shifted its heartbeat. Neon lights pulsed in the distance, painting the wet streets in bruised hues of blue and red.
Élise leaned forward slightly, eyes wide at the unfamiliar skyline. It was like looking at another world—so alive, so distant from everything she'd ever known. Towering buildings stretched upward, glass and steel glinting beneath the city's sleepless glow.
But Lorenzo's world was not there, not in the towers or the light. His home was tucked away, down a narrow road where wealth hid behind silence.
The car turned off the main street and into a long drive flanked by stone walls and tall cypress trees. The night swallowed sound, leaving only the crunch of tires on gravel.
When the iron gates opened, Élise's breath caught.
The estate before them was vast but somber. Built of pale stone, it stood beneath the weight of ivy and moonlight, its windows like eyes watching the night. It didn't look new. It looked like it had always been there—waiting.
Matteo parked by the steps, stepping out to open the door.
Élise hesitated before following Lorenzo's lead. Her shoes clicked softly against the wet stones, and she clutched her small bag close, as if it were armor.
The front doors swung open before they reached them. A tall man in a black shirt and rolled sleeves stood there, his expression unreadable. His hair was streaked with gray though he didn't look old.
"Welcome back, signore," the man said in Italian, voice deep and even.
Lorenzo nodded once. "Is everything in order?"
"Always." His gaze flicked briefly to Élise, then back to Lorenzo. He didn't ask questions.
Lorenzo gestured slightly toward her. "This is Élise Rousseau. She'll be staying here for a while."
The man gave a short nod, his tone turning more careful. "Understood."
He stepped aside, and Élise followed them into the house.
Inside, the air was cool and faintly scented with cedar and smoke. The hall stretched long and quiet, lit by soft lamps that threw gold against the stone. Paintings hung on the walls—portraits, landscapes, a few abstract swirls of color that looked out of place.
It was beautiful in a way that felt wrong. Too still. Too perfect.
Her footsteps echoed faintly as she followed behind Lorenzo. He moved like he'd walked these halls a thousand times—measured, certain, unhurried.
They passed through another archway into a large sitting room. Dark leather furniture, bookshelves filled to the ceiling, and the crackle of a small fire.
"Sit," Lorenzo said simply.
She hesitated but obeyed, setting her bag beside her. The warmth of the fire brushed her hands, the soft flicker of light casting her reflection in the glass of the nearby window.
Lorenzo stood by the fireplace, one hand resting against the mantel, his blue eyes reflecting the flames. Matteo disappeared somewhere behind them, the sound of footsteps fading into the corridor.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Élise's heart beat too fast, her mind filling with the low hum of unease.
Finally, she whispered, "You live here alone?"
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze lifted to one of the portraits above the mantel—a woman, dark-haired, smiling faintly, her hands resting protectively on the shoulders of a child with bright blue eyes.
"My mother did," he said softly.
Her breath caught. "She…?"
"She died when I was eight." His tone was steady, not emotionless but distant, like the words had been rehearsed through the years. "She took a bullet meant for me."
Élise froze. The fire crackled louder, filling the silence that followed.
He finally turned toward her. "I owe her my life. Everything since then—every choice I've made—is because she's not here to make them for me."
There was no bitterness in his voice, only fact. But in his eyes, something darker stirred—a grief too deep to name.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
He looked at her for a moment, then nodded once, as if accepting the words without believing them.
"You should get some rest," he said, turning slightly. "You'll stay in the west room. It's quiet."
She hesitated, glancing at the firelight dancing across the polished floor. "Why are you helping me?"
He stopped walking, his back still to her.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, without turning around:
"Because someone once helped me when they didn't have to."
His voice was low, almost lost to the crackle of fire.
Then he left the room, footsteps fading into the hall.
Élise sat alone, the silence pressing close. Her fingers curled into her skirt.
Helped him? she thought. Who could have helped a man like Lorenzo Moretti?
She looked again at the portrait—the woman's soft smile, the boy's solemn eyes. The resemblance was unmistakable.
Her heart tightened.
She rose slowly, clutching her bag, and followed the corridor where he'd gone. The house seemed to breathe around her, its walls whispering with old echoes.
A door opened to her right. The gray-haired man from earlier—Luca, she remembered hearing—stood there, holding a folded towel.
"Miss Rousseau," he said gently. "This way, please."
He led her down another hallway lined with arched windows. The rain had stopped, leaving the gardens outside misted and pale. The room he showed her was larger than she'd ever seen—high ceilings, a bed draped in white, a window that looked out onto the trees.
"I'll bring fresh clothes and something warm to drink," Luca said.
"Thank you," she murmured.
When he left, the silence returned, deep and still.
Élise sat on the edge of the bed, setting her bag down carefully. Her reflection caught in the mirror—small, pale, out of place among all the marble and quiet elegance.
She pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart still beat too fast.
She didn't belong here. And yet, for the first time in her life, she wasn't afraid of going home.
Outside her window, the night wind stirred through the trees, carrying the faint echo of footsteps below.
In the courtyard, Lorenzo stood beneath the archway, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The rain had left the air sharp and clean. He watched the smoke curl upward, eyes lost in thought.
Matteo approached quietly from behind.
"She's settled," he said.
Lorenzo nodded. "Good."
Matteo hesitated. "You're sure about this? Bringing her here? The Bianchi will find out soon enough."
"They already know," Lorenzo said, flicking the ash away. His voice was calm, but his eyes were cold. "And they'll wonder why."
Matteo frowned. "And why did you?"
Lorenzo looked toward the upper window, where a faint shadow moved behind the glass—Élise's silhouette.
"Because," he said softly, almost to himself, "I can't stop seeing mother in her eyes."
Matteo's brow furrowed, but he said nothing. The sound of the fountain filled the quiet, the soft splash of water against stone.
Lorenzo took one last drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly. The smoke caught the moonlight before dissolving into the night.
"Keep an eye on her," he said finally. "If the Bianchi come closer, I want to know before they breathe."
"Understood."
When Matteo left, Lorenzo remained there, watching the window where Élise's light flickered faintly through the curtain.
He told himself it was precaution. That she was leverage. That she was nothing more than the debt her father owed.
But deep down, something old and dangerous stirred—a memory, a guilt, a promise long buried.
He had once sworn that no innocent would ever bleed for his father's sins.
And now, sitting in his house, sleeping in his mother's wing, was the living proof of a promise he didn't know how to keep.
Upstairs, Élise lay awake beneath the quiet hum of the night.
Every creak of the old house made her flinch. Every flicker of shadow across the ceiling reminded her she didn't know this world—or the man who had pulled her into it.
But for all the uncertainty, for all the fear, one thought kept her from breaking:
For the first time, her pain belonged to no one else.
And though she didn't yet understand it, she was no longer just the girl who'd been taken.
She was the girl he couldn't let go.