The noise came first — sharp, violent, and echoing through the marble halls. Elena stirred from her sleep, the distant crash of furniture and angry voices dragging her from her dreams. Her heart raced before her feet even touched the cold floor.
She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and hurried down the staircase. The deeper she went, the louder the chaos grew — the sound of fists meeting flesh, men shouting, women gasping. When she reached the bottom, the scene froze her in place.
Lorenzo stood in the center of the grand hall, fury blazing in his eyes. His shirt was half-torn, his knuckles soaked in crimson. Beneath him, a man lay bruised and broken, coughing blood onto the polished tiles.
"Lorenzo!" Elena's voice sliced through the noise. But he didn't stop. Another blow. And another. The sight made her chest tighten painfully — she couldn't stand it any longer.
Without thinking, she pushed past the line of guards and maids who watched in silence, fear written on their faces.
"Enough!" she shouted, grabbing his arm just as he swung again. "What is wrong with you?"
Lorenzo turned, his jaw clenched. "That's none of your business, lady." His voice was low and dangerous, but she didn't flinch.
"Oh, yes, it is my business, young man!" she snapped, standing her ground. "You keep disturbing my sleep and beating people half to death for no reason!"
He glared at her, his chest heaving. "Like I said, Elena, what I do is none of your concern. You don't even know what he did."
Her eyes softened slightly. "Then tell me. What did he do?"
"He tried to set me up," Lorenzo growled, kicking the chair aside. "Tried to get me killed." His voice dripped with betrayal, rage still trembling in every word. He turned back to the beaten man, fists tightening again.
But Elena moved quicker. She caught his arm and held it — small hands against his iron strength, trembling but unyielding. "Stop," she whispered.
He froze.
"I live with you now, right?" she continued, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "You said I belong to you. Then everything that concerns you concerns me too."
Her words hung in the air like lightning after a storm. Everyone — the guards, the servants, even the bleeding man on the floor — stood frozen in shock.
Lorenzo blinked, taken aback. No one had ever dared speak to him like that. No one had ever claimed to care.
Before he could respond, Elena grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the stairs. "Come with me."
He didn't resist. Maybe it was the tone of her voice — soft but commanding, trembling but certain. Maybe it was the way her hand fit into his, warm and real. But he followed her without a word, ignoring the curious, jealous stares of everyone they passed.
Upstairs, she led him into his own room. The door closed behind them with a quiet click.
"Sit," she ordered.
Lorenzo raised a brow. "You're giving orders now?"
"Yes," she said simply, rummaging through a cabinet until she found the first-aid kit.
He watched her move — the way her hair fell over her face as she bent down, the faint tremble of her hands. When she knelt beside him and began cleaning his wounds, he felt something strange stir in his chest — not pain, but something heavier, deeper.
The sting of alcohol on his cuts didn't hurt nearly as much as the sight of her face when she lifted her head. A single tear slid down her cheek, then another.
He frowned. "Why are you crying?"
She shook her head quickly, brushing at her face, but more tears came. He reached out, his rough fingers surprisingly gentle as he tilted her chin up.
"Elena," he said quietly. "Why?"
Her voice broke. "Because… I can't stand seeing you hurt, Lorenzo."
He froze.
"You're the only one who ever stood up for me," she whispered. "Everyone else— they wanted to see me gone. But you… even when you were cruel, I felt safe here. You saved me from them, even if you don't see it that way. I was just scared you'd end up like them… cruel, heartless. I don't want you to hurt yourself like my mom did."
The mention of her mother softened something inside him. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he sighed and placed his hand over hers.
"I will never hurt myself again," he said, his voice rough but sincere. "You have my word."
She met his gaze, eyes glistening. He hesitated — then, almost without realizing it, brushed away her tears with his thumb. "Now," he murmured, "can you please stop crying?"
She nodded, trying to smile. But the space between them was charged — too close, too intimate. Lorenzo's eyes flicked down to her lips.
Before either could stop it, he leaned forward. She didn't move away. Their lips met softly, uncertain at first, then deepening with the quiet ache of two broken souls finding something whole for the first time.
The kiss was slow, lingering — a promise neither of them spoke aloud.
When they finally pulled apart, Elena's cheeks were flushed, and Lorenzo's breath came uneven.
"Why did you…?" she began.
"Because you make me feel human," he said simply.
For a long time, they said nothing else. Lorenzo leaned back on the couch, and Elena rested her head against his shoulder. Outside, the rain started again, tapping softly against the windows.
Minutes turned into hours. The world outside didn't matter anymore. For the first time since she entered his mansion, Elena felt peace. And for the first time in years, Lorenzo De Luca — Il Diavolo — closed his eyes not from exhaustion, but from calm.
By evening, the mansion had quieted. Whispers spread among the maids, jealousy sparking like fire, but neither of them cared.
In the stillness of that room, surrounded by shadows and moonlight, they both drifted into sleep — her hand resting over his heart, his arm wrapped protectively around her.
Two broken pieces of different worlds, finding their way back to something that almost felt like love.