Chapter 15 – Velvet Shadows and Veins of Glass
The soft hum of the morning traffic echoed through the glass walls of the penthouse, casting silver reflections across the marble floors. Lorenzo Valtieri stood in front of the expansive window, his bare torso catching the golden hues of the rising sun. His eyes were fixed on the skyline of Milan, not seeing the city but something beyond it — something buried deep in the shadows of his mind.
The night had passed in silence after the bloodshed. His men had already cleaned the scene. The broken glass had been swept, and the injured had been transported under tight protection. But the cracks that had formed beneath his skin — those remained untouched.
Behind him, quiet footsteps approached. Soft, unsure.
"Elira?" he called, without turning.
She paused mid-step, surprised he had sensed her.
"I didn't want to wake you," she said softly, dressed in a pale silk robe she had found neatly folded on a chaise lounge in the guest room. Her voice held the tremble of too many unanswered questions.
"You didn't." He finally turned to her. His gaze was calm, but his jaw was clenched. "Did you sleep well?"
"Not really," she admitted. "I kept hearing things. Even the silence felt loud."
His lip twitched at her honesty. "You're safe here."
"That's a hard thing to believe after last night."
He nodded slowly, walking past her toward the espresso machine. "You saw something most people never do. Something I didn't want you to see. But now that you have, there's no use pretending."
Elira followed him, barefoot and hesitant. "I don't understand… Who were those men? Why were they after you?"
Lorenzo didn't look at her. "They weren't after me. Not directly. They were sending a message."
"A message?" she echoed.
"They were hired. Paid to scare me. Maybe take out a few of my men. Show that I'm vulnerable. That's how it starts in this world — the warning shot always comes dressed in chaos."
Elira studied him, the calm way he stirred sugar into his coffee, the elegant way his robe hung open just enough to expose the faint scar over his ribs. "And what world is that, Lorenzo? Are you going to finally tell me who you are?"
He handed her a second cup without a word.
When she didn't take it, he met her eyes. "I'm the man who signs the paychecks of both actors and assassins. I'm the one who can have a movie sold in Cannes and an arms deal sealed in Istanbul on the same night."
"You're Mafia," she said, not asking — just stating the truth.
His silence confirmed it.
"Why did you cast me in your film?" she whispered, stepping back.
He placed the cup down.
"You think it was about control. Or curiosity. But it wasn't. It was instinct. You walked into that studio and brought something with you that no actress had. Not even her."
Her. The word made Elira's stomach twist. "Gianna."
"She's not the woman you think she is. And she's not the one I want anymore."
Lorenzo stepped closer. "You, on the other hand… I want to protect you, Elira. Even if that means breaking every rule I've ever made for myself."
She took a shaky breath, feeling the weight of his words press against her skin. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. She couldn't deny the pull between them. It was like gravity — ancient and irresistible.
"I should go," she whispered.
"You're not going anywhere," he said gently but firmly. "Not until I know you're safe. Not until I know they won't come for you again."
"But what if being near you makes me unsafe?" she countered.
He touched her face then — a rare softness in his thumb as it brushed her cheekbone. "Then I'll burn every bridge between you and the danger. I swear it."
His phone buzzed. Lorenzo stepped away to answer, face hardening the moment he heard the voice on the other end.
"What is it?" Elira asked as he hung up.
"They found one of the men who escaped. He's alive. And talking."
"Talking about what?"
"Someone from the inside. A leak. Someone close to me gave information. That's the only way they knew where we were."
Her breath hitched. "You think it's someone in your studio?"
"No. Worse." His jaw tightened. "I think it's someone from my family."
Hours later, in the shadowed corridors of his underground estate, Lorenzo walked alongside Matteo, his second-in-command. The prison cell was hidden far beneath the villa. Cold stone, damp air, chains. No cameras. No signals. Just raw truth waiting to bleed.
The captured man sat in the center, bruised and restrained. His head lifted as Lorenzo entered. Blood trailed from his lip, but he smiled anyway.
"You came," he rasped.
"I always do," Lorenzo replied.
"What's your plan, Don Valtieri? Kill me? You'll never know who sent me."
"You already told me enough," Lorenzo said, nodding to Matteo.
A steel pipe struck the man's knee, shattering it with a sickening crunch.
He screamed.
"I don't need your loyalty," Lorenzo said coolly. "Just your fear."
The man spat blood. "You'll never see her coming."
Her.
Elira's image flashed before Lorenzo's eyes. No — it couldn't be.
But doubt was a deadly thing. And in his world, one whisper of betrayal could shatter everything.
Later that night, the film studio buzzed with the low hum of sets being prepared. Elira stood in her dressing room, staring at her reflection. She could barely recognize the girl who had stepped into this world just days ago. That girl didn't know fear. This one did.
The door opened and Gianna stepped in without knocking. Her expression was calm, too calm.
"You look tired," she said, feigning concern.
"I'm fine," Elira replied.
Gianna walked to the mirror beside her. "You should be careful, you know. Men like Lorenzo… they devour the very things they say they want to protect."
Elira didn't answer.
Gianna smirked. "You think you're special? You think you're different from the others? Don't be naïve. His world will eat you alive."
"I'll take my chances," Elira said softly.
Gianna leaned in, her perfume like poison. "Then I hope you're ready to bleed for it."
She left without waiting for a reply, her heels clicking like gunshots across the floor.
Elira stared at the door long after she was gone. Her fingers trembled slightly. And in her chest, something darker stirred — not fear. Not love.
But fury.
The flames were no longer hidden.
They were rising.
End of Chapter 15