Location: Tuscany – De Luca Villa
The vineyard shimmered in gold.
Afternoon sun spilled across rows of grapevines that had witnessed more blood than harvests. The De Luca villa sat at the heart of it all, ancient stone, dark shutters, and silence.
Inside, Don Emilio De Luca poured himself a glass of wine with hands that had broken necks before breakfast.
Across the terrace table, Elena sat with her fingers laced around a china cup she hadn't sipped from. Her gaze was fixed on nothing.
"You heard about the body," she said, finally.
De Luca didn't answer. Just swirled the wine, watching the legs drip down the glass.
She continued, colder, "Lucien's brother, they think. Or close enough to rattle that cold-blooded son of Salvatore."
De Luca exhaled, leaned back in his chair. "The boy was always dangerous. It's his softness that worries me now."
Elena raised an eyebrow. "Lucien Romano doesn't have softness."
"He has Leona."
A pause.
And that silence held weight.
She shifted slightly. "You think he's falling for her?"
"No," De Luca said, taking a sip. "I think he's starting to see her as more than a pawn. Which is worse."
Elena finally drank from her cup. "We should've buried her in silk and saved ourselves the long game."
"I agreed to the marriage because it meant peace."
"You agreed because your sons wouldn't survive another year of bloodshed."
"They still might not."
She gave a humorless smile. "Then maybe it's time we revive the original plan."
De Luca stilled. "Lucien canceled the contract."
"Then write a new one."
He looked at her. Long. Cold.
"She's your daughter."
"I raised a survivor, not a sentimental fool," Elena said sharply. "But if he's going soft.. if Leona's getting too close, we cut her out of the middle before she blinds us both."
She stood, straightening her blouse with razor-sharp fingers.
"If Lucien doesn't destroy her, Emilio," she said without turning, "she might just destroy him."
De Luca didn't rise.
Didn't nod.
Just stared at the vineyard beyond the terrace.
And whispered, more to himself than to her
"Then she becomes dangerous to all of us."
**********
Location: Romano Estate – Northern Italy
The dining room at the Romano estate was a mausoleum in disguise.
Twelve chairs. Two occupied.
White linen. Silver cutlery. Wine that hadn't breathed enough to be arrogant.
Lucien sat in tailored silence, a steak untouched in front of him.
His father, Don Salvatore Romano, cut into his plate with the same precision he used to plan executions.
"Why was she there?" the old man asked, voice low.
Lucien didn't need to ask who.
"She asked."
Salvatore's knife paused mid-air. "You take orders from your wife now?"
Lucien didn't flinch. "No. I indulge her when it benefits me."
Salvatore looked up slowly. His eyes were pale and pitiless.
"Women complicate clean kills."
Lucien poured himself wine without comment.
"She's not a liability," he said.
"She's not an asset either."
"She will be."
Salvatore chewed, then leaned back. "You were colder before. More exact."
Lucien sipped once. "I'm still exact."
"No," the old man said. "You're distracted. The dock stunt proved that. You let her speak. You let her act. That kind of leash slips fast."
"She handled Ferro," Lucien replied. "Better than half the men at that table."
"And what happens when she handles you?"
Lucien met his father's gaze across the table.
Hard. Calm. Clean.
"Then I'll know it's time."
Salvatore studied him.
Then leaned forward, voice like frost.
"You're not your brother. You can't afford sentiment."
Lucien's grip tightened around the stem of the glass.
"I'm nothing like him."
"No," Salvatore said. "He died with hope in his chest. You won't."
Lucien stood.
Left the steak untouched.
And without looking back, said, "If she betrays me... I'll still let her live."
A pause.
"That's the problem."
******
The silence in the guest wing was too neat.
The kind of silence that came after something had been moved.
Leona stood barefoot on polished marble, her reflection staring back at her from a mirror that still hadn't fogged since the last shower.
Amina was gone. No note. No goodbye. Just vanished between sunrise and guilt.
But Leona's mind wasn't on her.
It was on him.
Lucien hadn't returned to her floor since the docks.
And when he did go quiet like this, it usually meant he was either planning something...
Or hiding it.
She moved toward his study. Not the grand office, his study. The smaller one behind the wine wall, where he kept real files, not curated ones.
Locked. Of course.
But the cleaning staff hadn't reset the keypad.
She'd watched enough. Learned enough.
Four digits. 1107.
The day of their "wedding."
She almost laughed.
Inside, the room smelled like paper and cologne. Subtle. Precise.
She didn't go for the obvious drawers.
She went for the locked case beneath the decanter shelf.
It wasn't locked.
Not completely.
Inside: a folder marked only by one word in block lettering.
BRIAR.
She flipped it open.
Inside: a photograph.
A man with his back turned. Dark hair. Half-visible profile. Military posture.
And beneath it..
Target acquired. Scheduled: March 6th.
The photo wasn't Lucien.
Wasn't her father.
But next to the man in the image, circled in red, was a familiar face.
Hers.
Her breath caught.
She stared.
And then her eyes dropped to the second page.
No details.
Just a name.
Cain.
*Cain*.
She whispered the name like it might shatter glass.
The photo wasn't perfect. It was grainy, caught from behind, but the profile…
She remembered that jawline.
That shoulder.
That voice in the hallway weeks ago, the one who'd warned her.
"You're not safe in this house, even when he's touching you."
Leona sank onto the arm of the nearby chair, eyes still fixed on the file.
He was the hitman.
But he hadn't taken the shot.
She closed the folder slowly.
Tried to breathe.
She failed.
Cain had been assigned to kill her. Before the wedding. Before the contract. The hit had been called off. By Lucien?
No.
By someone else?
Or maybe...
She paused.
What if Cain hadn't disobeyed?
What if this was the job now?
Protecting her long enough to finish something else?
She stood and began pacing.
Back.
Forth.
Each step sharper than the last.
Someone had planned her death.
Lucien knew.
Maybe even stopped it.
But he hadn't told her.
And Cain?
Cain had looked her in the eye and walked away.
Like a man who wasn't finished.
Just waiting.
She ran a hand through her hair, looked up at the ceiling
And whispered, "What are you really after?"
Because suddenly, it wasn't just her marriage that was rigged.
It was the whole damn board.
And someone had moved Cain to a square where she couldn't see him.
Yet.
The file didn't belong in her hands.
Which meant it couldn't stay in them.
Leona returned to her room quietly, walking like someone who knew how sound betrayed intention.
The folder went under silk.
Deep in the lining of her suitcase.
She closed it quickly. Too quickly.
Forgot one thing.
The red light blinking in the corner of the ceiling.
Watching.
Recording.
She stared at the camera for a long moment, jaw clenched.
"Go ahead," she whispered. "Watch."
---
The knock came hours later.
She didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
Lucien had already unlocked the door.
It clicked open. Smooth. Quiet.
He stepped inside wearing black.
Black shirt. Black slacks. No tie. No smile.
He didn't speak.
He didn't look at her.
He walked straight to the minibar, poured himself something sharp.
Then turned eyes cool, unreadable.
Leona didn't move from the chair by the window.
Lucien's gaze flicked once not toward her.
Toward the suitcase.
Toward the exact pocket she'd tucked the folder into.
No words.
No accusations.
He set his drink on the nightstand.
Then crossed to her.
Not fast.
Just… unhurried.
Until he was close enough to touch.
But didn't.
"I installed fourteen cameras in this room," he said quietly.
Her pulse jumped.
He smiled, just faintly.
"Four are obvious. Two are decoys. The rest?"
He reached out.
Grazed her jaw with the back of his fingers.
"They're for nights like this."
She didn't flinch. "So you saw."
"I see everything."
He leaned in closer than he had in days.
Close enough to kiss her.
Close enough not to.
"I don't care that you opened it."
His voice dropped, soft as a blade sliding home.
"I care what you'll do next."
Then he stepped away.
Walked to the door.
Paused.
And said without looking back:
"Don't give me a reason to decide who you are."
The lock clicked behind him.
From the outside.
Again.
And the red light blinked once.
Still watching.