Elara (First Person POV)
The silence after truth is worse than any lie.
It fills the air, the bones, the spaces where words used to live. It settles in your chest until breathing feels like betrayal.
That's what it felt like standing there in the corridor after he left—Luciano DeLuca, the man I'd trusted just enough to destroy me.
I didn't sleep. I didn't move. I just… existed.
By dawn, the house was awake again. Voices in the hall. Doors opening, closing. Orders being barked. Somewhere, someone laughed—a hollow, distant sound that didn't belong in this place.
My room felt smaller, heavier, as if the walls themselves were judging me for staying. I packed quietly, stuffing clothes into a duffel I'd hidden weeks ago. I didn't think. I just moved.
Because if I thought—if I let myself remember the way he'd looked at me when I said you killed him—I wouldn't have been able to leave.
I zipped the bag and straightened, my reflection in the mirror pale and unfamiliar.
"Run now," I whispered to myself. "Before you forget why."
When I opened the door, the corridor was empty. Morning light spilled through the tall windows, soft and deceptive. I moved fast, silent, the years of surviving in other people's shadows coming back like muscle memory.
Down the stairs. Past the east wing. Toward the garage.
Almost there.
"Going somewhere?"
The voice stopped me cold.
Raffaele stepped out of the archway, his hand resting casually on his gun. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "The boss said you weren't to leave the estate without permission."
I forced a calm breath. "Tell your boss I'm done taking orders."
He tilted his head, studying me. "You're shaking."
"I'm angry."
He gave a slow, knowing grin. "That makes two of you."
I didn't wait for him to move. My hand slipped into my jacket, fingers curling around the small pistol I'd hidden there.
"I'm not warning you again," I said.
For a second, the air thickened—two predators waiting for the other to blink. Then a voice echoed down the hall behind him.
"Stand down."
Luciano.
He stepped into view, immaculate as ever, though the exhaustion in his eyes betrayed him. His gaze flicked to the bag in my hand, then back to my face.
"So it's true," he said quietly. "You're leaving."
"Don't act surprised."
"I'm not," he said, walking closer. "Just disappointed."
The word hit harder than it should have.
"Move," I said.
He didn't. "You think you can walk out of here without every syndicate in Rome noticing? Without the people who killed your brother finishing what they started?"
I froze. "What did you just say?"
His expression hardened. "Daniel's death wasn't just about me, Elara. You've been chasing the wrong ghost."
"Don't." My voice broke. "Don't twist this."
"I'm not twisting anything," he said, tone low but fierce. "The night your brother died, the fire wasn't supposed to touch him. It was meant for a man named Caruso—someone who sold me out to the Moretti syndicate."
"Liar."
"I have proof."
He pulled a small drive from his pocket and placed it on the table beside us. "That's the surveillance feed from that night. The real one. The one I never wanted you to see."
My breath faltered. "Why now?"
"Because I'm tired of being the monster in your story."
He took a step closer. Too close. "But if you watch it, you'll see the truth comes with a price."
The space between us pulsed, alive with everything unspoken—anger, grief, longing.
I shook my head. "You can't fix this with proof."
"I'm not trying to fix it." His voice dropped. "I'm trying to make sure you survive what's coming."
Before I could respond, Enzo's voice cut through the tension. "Boss! We've got movement on the south perimeter!"
Luciano's eyes flicked toward the hallway, then back to me. "Stay here."
But I was already moving. "I'm coming with you."
He gave a sharp look. "This isn't your fight."
"It became my fight the day you killed my brother."
The words stung both of us.
We didn't argue further. We ran.
Outside, the air smelled like smoke again—like that night, two years ago. Men shouted orders, weapons raised. A black SUV was burning near the gate, flames clawing at the sky.
"Who the hell—" Matteo started, but a shot rang out before he finished.
Everyone ducked.
Luciano grabbed my arm and pulled me behind one of the stone walls. "Sniper. North ridge."
"How do you—"
He fired once, clean and precise. The answering silence was deafening.
When he turned back to me, there was blood on his cheek—not his, but someone else's. "You're bleeding," I whispered.
He smirked faintly. "Not mine."
Then, softer: "You should've left when you had the chance."
I looked at him, at the chaos behind him, and felt the truth settle like a knife in my chest.
"I couldn't," I said.
For a heartbeat, something fragile flickered between us—understanding, maybe. Or ruin.
Then another explosion rocked the ground, and the moment shattered.
Luciano pushed me down just as debris rained from the gate. His weight pinned me to the gravel, his breath rough against my ear. "Stay down."
"Luciano—"
He turned his head, our faces inches apart. His voice was barely a whisper. "If I die here, don't waste it."
I grabbed his wrist, fierce. "You're not dying."
He looked at me like he wanted to believe that. Then he rose, gun in hand, and walked straight into the smoke.
And for the first time since my brother's death, I didn't know who I wanted to save more—him or me.
Luciano's POV (Second Person)
The smoke clung to your skin like ash from old sins. Every breath burned. Every sound blurred into a rhythm of chaos — gunfire, shouting, the groan of metal breaking under heat. But through it all, one thought anchored you: Elara.
You moved through the flames like a ghost carved from fury and guilt. Your men took cover behind the pillars, returning fire toward the ridge where the last shot came from. You could smell gasoline, blood, and rain that hadn't yet fallen.
"Matteo!" you barked. "Status!"
He ducked behind a smoking SUV, coughing. "Two down on the east wall! Sniper's gone quiet — but whoever's behind this, they're organized."
Of course, they were. You knew who they were before he even finished. Caruso's men — or what was left of them. The ones who'd slithered through the cracks after the fire that killed Daniel Moretti. The fire Elara thought was your fault.
You had let her believe that. Because lies were sometimes safer than the truth.
Now, the past had come back with guns and fire.
A sharp whistle split the air — the warning signal of another incoming strike. You turned just as a grenade arced from the shadows. Without thinking, you grabbed Matteo by the collar and dragged him down behind a concrete barrier. The explosion tore through the courtyard, rattling the windows of the mansion.
When the dust cleared, you rose, deafened but alive. Matteo wasn't so lucky — he was clutching his side, bleeding, eyes wide with pain.
"Stay with me," you growled, pressing your hand to the wound. "You'll make it."
He gave a faint, grim smile. "You always say that."
Then his eyes flicked past you. "Boss—behind you!"
You turned.
A man stepped out from the smoke — dark coat, scarred face, gun steady. Caruso's lieutenant. You remembered him from the warehouse years ago. You'd spared him once. Mistake.
"You should've finished the job, DeLuca," the man sneered. "But mercy doesn't suit you."
You raised your weapon, jaw tightening. "You're right."
The shot rang clean.
He fell.
And for a second, silence returned — until you realized Elara was no longer behind the wall.
Panic surged through you, sharp and sudden. You turned, scanning the wreckage. "Elara!"
No answer.
You cursed and started running, past broken glass and bodies, calling her name again — louder this time.
Then you saw her.
She was on the ground near the north gate, crouched beside a fallen guard, blood streaked across her sleeve but her grip still steady on a handgun. She was covering Enzo as he tried to drag another man to safety.
You had never seen her like this. Not fragile. Not furious. But alive — fiercely alive.
"Elara!" you shouted.
She turned, startled — relief flashing in her eyes before something else took over. Fear.
You followed her gaze and saw why.
A black van had smashed through the outer fence, three men spilling out, rifles raised. You sprinted toward her, firing as you moved. Two dropped. The third kept coming, shouting in Italian, bullets slicing the air between you.
Then — click.
Your gun jammed.
You cursed under your breath and dove, tackling Elara just as a bullet grazed your shoulder. Pain flared, white-hot, but you didn't stop. You rolled her beneath you, shielding her with your body as you pulled a knife from your boot.
When the gunfire stopped, all that was left was your ragged breathing and the smell of burned fuel.
She blinked up at you, trembling. "You're hit—"
"It's nothing."
"Luciano—"
You pressed your palm to her cheek before she could finish. "You shouldn't have followed me out here."
Her voice shook. "You think I could just stand by while you—"
"Die?" You smiled faintly, grimly. "That's the part I was trying to avoid."
Something inside you broke then — or maybe it was the wall you'd built around yourself finally cracking. You didn't think, didn't reason. You just leaned in, forehead resting against hers, the chaos fading to a distant hum.
"Elara," you murmured, her name tasting like confession. "When this ends — when they're gone — you'll see the truth. About Daniel. About everything."
Her hands curled into your shirt, desperate. "And what if I don't want the truth anymore?"
You drew back just enough to meet her eyes. "Then you'll never forgive me."
A beat. A breath. Then another explosion thundered from the east side of the estate, shaking the ground beneath you both.
You stood, wincing, and extended your hand. "Come on. We're not safe here."
She hesitated, then took it.
Together, you ran through the courtyard toward the secondary exit — a narrow tunnel hidden beneath the fountain, built years ago for moments like this. You punched the code into the control panel, the stone grinding aside to reveal the metal door.
"Inside," you said.
Elara's voice was low, wary. "Where does this lead?"
"To the docks. We can disappear if we have to."
She stared at you. "You've planned this."
"Always plan for betrayal."
"Even mine?"
You looked at her then — truly looked — and let the truth sit unspoken between you.
"Especially yours."
For a moment, neither of you moved. The world burned around you, and yet this small, fragile space felt heavier than war.
Then she stepped past you into the tunnel, her shoulder brushing yours — light, fleeting, enough to make your pulse stumble.
You followed, sealing the door behind you. The sound of battle dimmed, replaced by the echo of your footsteps and the distant drip of water from the ceiling.
After a long silence, she said softly, "When you said the fire wasn't meant for Daniel… was that true?"
You exhaled slowly. "Yes."
"And if I watch that footage?"
You looked ahead into the darkness. "You'll hate me for longer than you already do."
Her laugh was bitter. "That's not possible."
You didn't answer. You couldn't.
Because deep down, you knew — the ruin between you wasn't just built on lies. It was built on the kind of truth that could kill love before it ever learned to breathe.
When you reached the end of the tunnel, the faint light from the exit washed over her face — pale, resolute, stained with soot.
She looked like someone who had already chosen her war.
And you knew then that whatever came next — the syndicate, the secrets, the ghosts — you would burn every last empire before letting her be taken again.
Even if it meant losing yourself.