The sun poured into the private villa, filtered gold over white sheets tangled at the edge of the bed. Rose stirred slowly, the scent of ocean salt and Silvio's cologne still clinging to her skin. Her body ached, but in a delicious, remembered way — every bruise a reminder of the night before. Silvio hadn't just touched her. He had claimed her again, fiercely, like she was the only thing grounding him in a world made of shadows and blood.
And she had let him.
She turned her head.
Silvio was already up, sitting shirtless by the balcony, his phone resting on the table beside untouched espresso. His eyes were fixed on the horizon — but his mind, she knew, was elsewhere. He was always watching something only he could see. Another threat. Another betrayal. Another plan.
He looked tired.
But the moment his eyes shifted and landed on her, the cold melted. "La Fiora," he said, the voice low and rich. "You always wake like poetry."
Rose slid out of bed, wrapping one of his shirts around her. "And you always look like you haven't slept."
He stood and crossed the room, the tiredness in his face retreating behind steel. He touched her jaw. "I didn't. There was a call last night. Another trail leading to Moore's private informant. Someone who sold your father's location all those years ago."
Her breath hitched. "Do you know who it is?"
"I'm narrowing it down." His fingers trailed over her collarbone, like he needed the contact as much as the information. "But Rose, I need you to promise something."
She met his eyes. "What?"
"No more secrets. If you find something — anything — about Eleanor or the past… you tell me."
Rose nodded. But in her chest, guilt fluttered like a caged bird. Because she had already dug. Last night while he slept, she had quietly unlocked the encrypted drive she'd found hidden in his study. And inside were names. Locations. A file labeled Isobel Carter: Asset or Liability.
Her mother.
She hadn't opened it yet.
Instead, she kissed him. "Okay. No more secrets."
He didn't reply immediately. His hand slid behind her neck, drawing her closer until her lips were brushing his. The kiss he gave her then was not hungry, not furious — but slow, grounding, tender. The kind of kiss that said I believe you even when I shouldn't.
But she still felt the unspoken tension.
Later, they walked through the garden outside the villa — lemon trees, stone paths, ocean wind in their hair. Rose leaned into him, her fingers laced with his. She felt his protection around her like a cloak, heavy and constant. But with it came the reminder: she wasn't just his wife now.
She was also bait.
They returned to the villa just before sunset. The staff was gone, dismissed for the evening. It was just the two of them — and the silence.
"I'll start dinner," Rose offered, walking toward the kitchen.
But Silvio pulled her back. "No. You'll rest. I'll cook tonight."
Her brows rose. "You, in the kitchen?"
"Careful, cara. I can kill a man in silence. I think I can handle pasta."
She laughed — really laughed — and kissed him on the cheek. "Alright. Impress me."
As he cooked, Rose sat on the counter, legs swinging, watching the man who once terrified her now move with domestic ease, sleeves rolled, expression focused.
There was something heartbreakingly beautiful about this side of him — the Silvio who sautéed garlic while humming under his breath.
She wanted this version to be real. But she knew better.
They ate by candlelight, the food good, the wine better. She felt warm, glowing under his gaze. Every look he gave her was a vow unspoken. But still, something pulsed at the edge of her thoughts.
He was hiding something too.
Later, when they lay in bed, Rose turned on her side, tracing circles on his bare chest. "Do you ever wonder," she whispered, "if we're just pretending to be normal?"
He looked down at her. "Every second. But the illusion is sweet."
She smiled faintly. "Silvio?"
"Hm?"
"If something ever happened to you…"
He stopped her with a kiss, soft, lingering. "Then you'd become fire. And I'd be the one who lit the match."
Their kiss deepened — not lustful this time, but hungry for something quieter. For peace. For safety. For something neither of them had ever known.
As his arms wrapped around her and their bodies moved together again, Rose felt it — that ache inside her, not just for him, but for answers, for truth.
For justice.
And she knew: Moore was still out there. Watching. Waiting. Rose didn't know when she would strike again. But when she did, Rose wouldn't just be ready.
She would be dangerous.
And this time, she wouldn't run.