The rain had stopped, but the city never truly slept.
New York hummed softly outside the tall windows distant sirens, a late-night train, the soft rustle of leaves soaked in moonlight. Inside the DeLuca mansion, the air still carried the faint scent of storm and tension, and something else warmth, closeness, unspoken truths.
Adora woke to that silence.
She blinked slowly, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. The silk sheets beneath her felt foreign, soft as whispers. Her hair was tangled, her heart heavier than it had been in days. For a moment, she didn't remember where she was.
Then she saw him.
Marco stood shirtless by the window, his back to her, the pale glow from outside tracing the scars along his shoulders. His posture was tense too still, too alert like a man who never truly rested.
He was watching the sunrise.
The light turned the edges of his profile gold, but there was no peace in his gaze, only the quiet vigilance of someone who'd learned to expect loss.
Adora sat up slowly, the sheet falling around her waist. Her voice came out softer than she meant.
"You didn't sleep."
He didn't turn. "Men like me don't sleep easily."
"Because of guilt?"
He exhaled a small, humorless laugh. "Because of memories."
Adora studied him for a moment. The world outside seemed to fade all that existed was the space between them, charged and fragile.
"What kind of memories?" she asked gently.
"The kind that remind you what it costs to be in this life." He finally turned to her, his eyes meeting hers. "And the kind that warn you not to drag someone innocent into it."
Her breath hitched. "If that's what you think I am innocent then you don't know me as well as you believe."
He smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Maybe not. But I know I've already ruined enough lives to recognize the beginning of another mistake."
She frowned, her voice tightening. "Is that what last night was to you? A mistake?"
He hesitated. "It was… inevitable."
Adora pulled the sheet tighter around her. "You're very good at making something sound romantic and tragic at the same time."
"Maybe because that's what this is," he said softly. "Both."
The honesty in his tone disarmed her. There was no arrogance now, no carefully constructed mask just a man who looked like he'd carried too much for too long.
"Marco…" she started, but before she could finish, his phone buzzed sharply on the table.
He crossed the room, picking it up. His expression darkened as he read whatever message flashed across the screen.
"What is it?" she asked.
He slid the phone into his pocket, expression shuttered. "Nothing you need to worry about."
"That's what you always say."
"And it's always true," he replied, his voice firmer now. "Adora, I need to take care of something. Stay here until I come back."
"Stay here?" she repeated. "In your mansion, where your enemies apparently know how to find you?"
He turned, almost smiling despite himself. "You're safer here than anywhere else right now."
"I don't like being told what to do."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I know. That's one of the reasons I can't stop thinking about you."
Her pulse stuttered. He leaned in and brushed a kiss against her forehead tender, almost reverent before walking out of the room.
The door closed softly behind him, and the echo of it stayed with her.
For a long moment, Adora sat there, staring at the space he'd just left. She didn't know what to make of any of it the kiss, the confession, the danger that seemed to follow him like a shadow.
Finally, she got out of bed, slipping into her clothes. The mansion felt larger in the morning quiet and cold, every corridor echoing like a secret. She found herself wandering, fingers grazing along the polished walls, the portraits of men whose eyes seemed to follow her.
At the end of the hallway, she came across a heavy door left slightly ajar. Something about it drew her in.
Inside, the air was different dustier, stiller. A study, maybe. Books lined the walls, but it wasn't the shelves that caught her attention. It was the small wooden box on the desk, open just enough to reveal stacks of old letters.
Curiosity tugged at her.
She hesitated only a second before picking one up. The handwriting was sharp and elegant, written in Italian. The only words she could make out were Mio figlio, non dimenticare chi sei.
My son, never forget who you are.
It was signed Alessandro DeLuca.
Marco's father.
Her chest tightened. These letters weren't recent. The ink had faded. Maybe once there had been love between them before it all soured into violence and control.
A sudden sound made her jump footsteps in the hall.
She turned quickly, hiding the letter back in the box just as the door opened.
It wasn't Marco.
A tall woman stepped inside, dressed in a black trench coat and red lipstick. Her heels clicked against the marble, confidence in every movement. Her beauty was sharp, almost weaponized cold, deliberate, practiced.
"Who are you?" Adora asked quietly.
The woman smiled, slow and amused. "You must be her."
"Her?"
"The new fascination," she said. "I'm Luciana Rossi."
The name hit like ice. Adora had heard it before whispered between vendors in the market, murmured by Naomi when she'd looked up Marco's name online. Luciana Rossi, the woman who once ran with him. The one rumored to have been his fiancée.
Adora's throat tightened. "What are you doing here?"
"I was invited," Luciana said smoothly, walking past her like she owned the place. "You, on the other hand… weren't."
"I don't need your approval."
Luciana's smile didn't falter. "Approval? No. But a warning, maybe. Marco has a way of collecting fragile things. And breaking them when he gets bored."
Adora's jaw set. "You think I'm fragile?"
"I think you're temporary."
The words burned, but Adora didn't flinch. "Then why are you here? To warn me, or to win him back?"
Luciana's eyes glittered. "Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe I just wanted to see the woman who managed to make him hesitate."
"Marco doesn't hesitate."
"He does now," Luciana said, stepping closer. "And that makes him dangerous not to me, but to you. Because men like Marco don't change. They just trade one reason for destruction for another."
The door behind them opened.
Marco stood there, rain still clinging to his hair, eyes flicking between the two women. The tension in the room crackled instantly.
"Luciana," he said flatly. "You weren't supposed to be here."
She smiled sweetly. "You say that every time."
Adora felt something cold twist in her stomach.
"Adora," Marco said, turning to her, "wait for me downstairs."
"No," Luciana said softly, her voice silk and venom. "Let her stay. You've already let her into your bed why not into your secrets too?"
Adora froze. The air left the room.
Marco's jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth."
Luciana laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Oh, I see. The great Marco DeLuca grows a conscience. How tragic."
"Get out," he said, voice low and dangerous now.
For a moment, Luciana held his gaze, as if daring him to move. Then she smiled again a sad, knowing curve of lips.
"Be careful, Marco. She looks at you like you're salvation. But we both know you're the storm."
She brushed past him and disappeared down the hall, perfume lingering like poison.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Adora turned to Marco, heart pounding. "Was she telling the truth?"
He closed his eyes briefly. "Not about everything."
"But about some things?"
He looked at her then tired, conflicted, raw. "Luciana was part of my past. A part I'm not proud of."
Adora's chest ached. "You should've told me."
"I was going to," he said quietly. "But not like this."
Her voice broke slightly. "She said you'd break me."
He stepped closer, his tone fierce, desperate. "The only thing I want is to protect you."
"From what? From the world? Or from you?"
The question hung heavy in the air.
He didn't answer.
And that silence said more than any words could.
Adora took a slow breath, fighting the ache in her throat. "I need some air."
"Adora
But she was already gone, her footsteps echoing down the marble hall.
Outside, the morning light had turned sharp, cutting through the mist. She walked out into the rain-soaked garden, her mind spinning, heart torn between anger and something dangerously close to longing.
Behind her, unseen through the high windows, Marco watched one hand pressed to the glass, his expression unreadable.
He knew he was losing her.
And for the first time in years, the thought of losing something terrified him.