Luciana Russo had never accepted defeat easily. The humiliation of kneeling before Lorenzo De Luca burned through her veins like acid. Her business destroyed, her accounts frozen, her pride shattered—she had nothing left but vengeance.
And vengeance, she decided, would begin with her daughter.
"Clara," she said through gritted teeth, her red-rimmed eyes glinting with malice, "if you want to prove you're truly my daughter, you'll do exactly as I say."
Clara hesitated. "Mother, he's dangerous—"
"So was your father, and I tamed him. You'll do the same with Lorenzo. He's only a man. Give him what he desires, and when Elena sees it, she'll hate him. Their perfect little love will die the same way Isabella died—broken by betrayal."
Clara didn't understand all of her mother's words, but she nodded anyway. Greed and jealousy were her inheritance, and she would wear them proudly.
That night, Lorenzo returned from a meeting, exhaustion in his eyes. The day had been long—he'd spent hours hunting for a lead on the men who once tried to kill him. His only wish was to find Elena, to hold her, to forget the darkness for a while.
But she was nowhere to be found.
"Where is she?" he asked one of his guards.
"In her room, sir. She said she was tired."
He nodded, loosening his tie as he entered his private lounge. A bottle of wine sat open on the table—one he didn't remember asking for.
"Compliments of Miss Clara, sir," the maid said nervously.
Lorenzo's brow furrowed. "Clara?"
Before he could respond, Clara stepped out from the shadows. She wore a silk dress that shimmered under the chandelier, her hair loose, her lips painted the same shade as her mother's cruelty.
"What are you doing here?" his tone was sharp, commanding.
She smiled softly, holding a glass of wine. "I came to apologize… for what my mother did. Please, don't send us to ruin. I wanted to thank you—for sparing her life."
Her words were honey laced with poison. Lorenzo looked at the glass suspiciously but took it from her hand. He didn't drink, yet the faintest scent of the drug already clung to the air.
Clara stepped closer, too close. "You work too hard, Lorenzo," she whispered, fingers grazing his chest.
"Enough." He caught her wrist. "Don't test me."
But his grip trembled. A strange warmth spread through his veins, his vision blurring around the edges. He dropped the glass, the wine staining the carpet like blood.
"What—what did you—"
"Just relax," she said, trying to touch him again. "You'll forget everything soon."
He shoved her back, stumbling against the sofa, fighting to stay conscious. His heart pounded wildly, his body burning from within. "What… did you put in the wine?"
She didn't answer. She only smiled—just before the door flew open.
"Elena!"
Her voice sliced through the haze. Lorenzo looked up, vision swimming, seeing the one face that still mattered.
But Elena froze. Clara was standing too close, her dress torn slightly, the wine glass shattered near Lorenzo's feet. It looked wrong—so terribly wrong.
Her heart cracked. "Lorenzo…"
He tried to speak, but his words slurred. "Elena, it's not—what it looks—"
Before he could finish, her palm met his cheek with a sound that silenced the room.
The sting didn't hurt as much as the look in her eyes.
Betrayal.
"Elena, wait!" He reached for her, but his limbs felt heavy, his mind spinning from the drug.
She turned to Clara, rage igniting. "You did this."
Clara backed away, her smile fading. "It's not what you think—"
Elena slapped her so hard the sound echoed through the hallway. "You disgust me."
Then she ran—past the guards, past the stunned maids, through the heavy mansion doors and into the night.
Lorenzo tried to stand, but the world tilted. "Find her!" he roared, voice breaking. "Find Elena—now!"
His men scattered immediately, but he barely made it two steps before falling to his knees. The drug still clawed at his veins, but his anger burned hotter. He grabbed Clara by the throat, dragging her closer.
"What did you give me?" he hissed.
She struggled, gasping. "I—it was just—something to make you—"
"Make me what? Lose control? Betray her?" His eyes were wild, dangerous. "You and your mother made the biggest mistake of your lives."
Within minutes, his men returned. "Sir, she's gone. The car she used was unregistered—she might be headed toward the coast."
Lorenzo's blood ran cold. The coast was crawling with enemies—rivals who had been waiting for a chance to strike.
He pushed Clara toward his guards. "Lock her up. No food, no water. I'll deal with her when I find Elena."
Clara fell to her knees, crying, "Please, Lorenzo, forgive me! I didn't mean—Mother forced me!"
He didn't look back. The sound of her sobs followed him down the hall, but his heart was somewhere else—out there, with the woman who didn't believe him.
As the rain began to fall outside, Lorenzo stopped at the doorway of their shared room. The scent of her still lingered—faint vanilla and lavender. Her scarf was still on the chair.
He gripped it tightly in his hand, whispering under his breath. "If anything happens to you, Elena, I'll burn the world down."
Behind him, Clara screamed as the guards dragged her away, her voice echoing through the mansion.
But Lorenzo didn't hear her anymore. His entire being was focused on one thing—finding Elena before his enemies did.
Because for the first time in his life, the Devil himself was terrified.
Terrified of losing the only woman who made him feel human.