The world outside her window had gone silent, but Elara couldn't shake the echo of that gunshot.
The memory clung to her skin like smoke — her brother's body collapsing beside her, the metallic scent of blood thick in the air, and the man with the silver eyes who'd stared at her like he already owned her fear.
Now, those same eyes were watching her again.
Only this time, she wasn't on the street.
She was in his mansion.
Elara's POV
The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the cold. The air conditioning hummed somewhere above me, far too crisp, far too deliberate. I tried to sit up, but my wrists screamed in protest. A pair of steel cuffs glinted in the dim light, chaining me to the headboard.
Panic rose sharp and fast.
I pulled, twisted, yanked—nothing. My breathing grew ragged.
Then the door opened.
The man who stepped in looked every bit the devil I remembered. Black shirt rolled at the sleeves, ink crawling down his forearm, hair slicked back like he'd just walked out of sin itself.
Luciano DeLuca.
The name had weight in the city's underworld — a whisper people didn't dare speak out loud.
And now he was standing a few feet from me, looking almost amused.
"Good. You're awake." His voice was low, smooth, the kind that slid under your skin before you realized you were bleeding.
"Let me go," I managed, my throat dry.
He ignored me, reaching for a decanter on the table. "You've been out for ten hours. You should drink something."
"I said let me go."
He poured a glass, not looking at me. "You saw something you shouldn't have."
The glass clinked as he set it down beside the bed. "And that… makes you a problem."
I swallowed hard. "You killed him."
Finally, his gaze met mine — sharp, unreadable, and for a moment, I thought I saw something flicker there. Regret? No. Men like him didn't regret.
"I killed many people, cara mia. Be specific."
"My brother!" I snapped, anger breaking through the fear. "He wasn't involved in your world. He was—he was just—"
"A journalist," he finished for me, his tone flat. "Who thought he could expose the DeLuca family and live to tell the tale."
Tears stung my eyes. "So you killed him for doing his job?"
He moved closer, until his presence filled the space. "I killed him because he crossed a line."
He said it like it was law. Like morality was a luxury people like me couldn't afford to believe in.
I turned my face away, refusing to let him see me break.
Luciano sighed quietly. "You should be grateful, Elara."
"Grateful?" I laughed, bitter and small. "For what? For not killing me too?"
"For still being alive." His gaze swept over me, assessing, calculating. "Trust me, there were others who voted otherwise."
I froze. "Others?"
"My men," he said simply. "They think keeping you is a risk."
"So why are you keeping me?"
Luciano's smile was faint, dangerous. "Because I like risks."
He turned to leave, and something in me snapped. "You think this is a game?"
He paused, hand on the doorknob, but didn't turn around. "No, bella. This is business."
Then he walked out, and the click of the lock echoed louder than a gunshot.
Luciano's POV
The sound of her voice lingered long after I closed the door.
Too soft to belong in this world. Too defiant to survive it.
I shouldn't have kept her.
Dante was right — she was a liability.
But when I saw her standing in that alley last night, shaking but unbroken, staring at me with those storm-colored eyes…
I knew she'd be more than that.
She was a complication I didn't know how to destroy.
"Boss."
Dante's voice snapped me out of it. My right-hand man stood by the hallway, expression grim. "The shipment's been moved. No trace left behind. But the cops—"
"I'll handle them."
Dante crossed his arms. "And the girl?"
"What about her?"
"She saw too much."
I looked past him, toward the room where she was chained. "She also knows names your men don't. Her brother was collecting files. I need them."
"And if she doesn't talk?"
"She will." I smiled, though it didn't reach my eyes. "Everyone talks eventually."
Dante gave me a look. "You're getting soft."
"I'm getting careful," I corrected. "There's a difference."
Still, when I walked back toward my office, I found myself replaying the way she'd said his name — her brother's name — with such raw, shaking fury.
Maybe she hated me.
Maybe she had every right to.
But I'd seen hatred before. This was different. This was fire — the kind that burns even after you think it's gone out.
And for reasons I didn't want to admit, it made me want to see it again.
Elara's POV
The door didn't open again that night. Or the next.
Food came in silently — trays left at the edge of the room, replaced when I wasn't looking.
I'd stopped screaming by day two. My throat hurt too much, and the walls didn't care.
It was on the third night that I heard footsteps.
They stopped outside my door, steady, unhurried. The lock clicked.
Luciano stepped inside, carrying something — a file.
He tossed it on the bed. "Recognize this?"
My breath caught. The folder was stamped with my brother's name. Matteo Moretti.
"Where did you—"
"I told you," he interrupted, sitting on the edge of the desk, "your brother played in dangerous waters. These were the files he tried to leak. Now, you're going to tell me who helped him."
"I don't know."
He tilted his head. "Wrong answer."
Something about the calm in his voice terrified me more than if he'd shouted.
I clenched my jaw. "Even if I did, why would I tell you?"
"Because," he said, standing, "I'm the only thing keeping you alive."
I laughed bitterly. "You think I'm scared of dying?"
"No." His voice dropped, dangerous and quiet. "But you're scared of being forgotten."
He was too close now. I could feel the heat of his body, the scent of smoke and expensive cologne wrapping around me.
My pulse betrayed me.
He noticed.
"Careful, cara mia," he murmured. "Hate can turn into other things when you're not looking."
I glared up at him, refusing to step back. "You disgust me."
"Good." His smile was sharp. "That's how all beautiful stories start."
He turned to leave, but this time, I found my voice. "Luciano!"
He stopped.
"I'll never help you."
For a second, his expression shifted — unreadable, maybe even amused. "We'll see."
Then he walked out again, leaving me with nothing but my pounding heart and the whisper of my brother's name echoing through the dark.
Luciano's POV
When the door shut, I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.
I should've broken her spirit already.
I'd done it before.
But something about her made me hesitate — like hurting her would hurt something in me I'd long buried.
I poured myself a drink, the burn of whiskey grounding me.
"Boss," Dante's voice came from the hall. "You sure you're not getting too close?"
I didn't answer.
Because maybe I was.
And maybe… I didn't care.