The war room felt smaller after Marco's body was removed.
Raven stood near the end of the long table, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The black silk dress clung to her skin, now damp with sweat from the rising tension. Her pulse hadn't eased since they zipped the bag shut. Every time she blinked, she saw the carved word—TRAITOR—staring back at her.
Vincent remained at the head of the table, one hand resting lightly on the surface. He was steady and unmoved, as if a dead man on his table was just another data point.
The guardians moved with low efficiency. Lucian was back at the console, his fingers flying across the keys. Dante paced along one side of the table. Sebastian leaned against the wall with his arms folded, watching everything with sharp eyes. Matteo stood calculating in silence. Leonid remained near the door like a taut shadow.
No one spoke for several minutes.
Then Lucian's voice cut through the low hum of the room.
"Movement on the perimeter. Three vehicles. Approaching from the east service road."
Dante stopped pacing. "Ours?"
"No." Lucian's tone dropped. "They're using our routes. They have the same access codes and the same transponders."
Raven's stomach dropped.
Vincent didn't react. He simply looked at Lucian. "Details."
"Two SUVs. Black. Armored. One motorcycle escort. They're inside the outer fence already. Security systems aren't flagging them as hostile."
Raven's breath caught. Cold dread moved through her veins. "That's impossible unless—"
"Unless someone inside gave them the codes," Matteo finished, his voice flat.
No one moved.
Raven registered it immediately. Eyes turned toward her. Not accusing. Not yet. Weighing and measuring.
Her fingers dug into her arms. "You think I did this?"
Vincent's gaze finally moved to her, dark and steady. "No."
The single word should have been a relief. It wasn't. Because his tone said he already knew exactly what was happening.
Lucian's fingers moved faster. "They're heading for the south wing. Direct path to the residential corridors."
Dante pushed off the table. "That's where her room is."
Her pulse hammered hard in her chest. The press of every gaze landed on her: suspicion, calculation, readiness.
Vincent straightened. "Lock it down. Non-lethal if possible. I want one alive."
It was already too late.
The first explosion rocked the mansion, not loud, but controlled and precise, the kind that breached a wall without collapsing the whole structure. Alarms stayed silent. The attackers were using De Luca protocols, overriding the system from inside.
Raven moved before she thought.
She grabbed the nearest weapon—a sleek black pistol from the table's edge—and checked the chamber in one fluid motion.
Vincent was already moving toward her. "Raven—"
Another blast. Closer this time. The lights cut out for a second.
Then the doors to the war room burst open.
Three men in tactical gear poured in. Their gear was De Luca issue: identical plates, identical markings, identical suppressed rifles. Their movements were wrong, though. Too aggressive and too desperate.
One raised his weapon toward her. Raven fired first.
The shot caught him in the shoulder. He staggered but didn't go down.
Chaos erupted.
Dante slammed into the second attacker like a freight train. Leonid moved like smoke, silent and deadly, his knife flashing. Sebastian dropped the third with a precise shot to the leg.
The first man recovered faster than he should have.
He lunged straight for Raven, ignoring the others.
She sidestepped, but the room was too crowded. His rifle butt caught her in the ribs. Pain exploded through her side. She gasped, her vision flashing white.
Vincent was there in an instant.
He grabbed the attacker by the throat and slammed him against the table with terrifying ease. The man's rifle clattered to the floor.
Raven clutched her side, breathing hard. Blood trickled from a split lip where she'd bitten it. Sweat poured down her face. Her dress was torn at the shoulder now, exposing more skin.
The attacker gasped under Vincent's grip, his eyes wild behind the balaclava.
Vincent ripped the mask off.
The face underneath was unfamiliar, but the tattoo on his neck wasn't. A small Caruso crest sat there, half-hidden under fresh ink.
Vincent's voice was ice. "Who sent you?"
The man laughed through the pain. "You did."
Raven's blood went cold.
The attacker's eyes found hers. "De Luca routes, De Luca weapons, De Luca codes. Looks like the husband wants the wife gone after all."
Vincent's grip tightened. The man choked, and the seed was planted.
Raven stared at the attacker. Then at Vincent. Each heartbeat felt like a hammer strike in her chest. Doubt crashed over her like ice water.
Did he know? Had he allowed this? Was this the real plan: make her his wife publicly, then eliminate her in silence so Caruso took the blame?
Vincent turned his head toward her. His dark eyes locked onto hers, steady and unshakable.
And for the first time, she saw something flicker there. Something she couldn't name as guilt.
He released the attacker. Leonid stepped in immediately, zip-tying the man with brutal efficiency.
Raven's side ached. Her lip stung. Blood and sweat mixed on her skin. The torn dress hung off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her breast. She didn't care.
She stepped closer to Vincent, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that the others gave them space.
Her voice came out low and rough, trembling with barely contained rage and something far more dangerous.
"Did you know about it?"
Vincent didn't look away. Didn't flinch.
"It happened."
Three words. Not a denial, not an explanation, not an apology.
Raven's breath shuddered out. Her skin burned despite herself, not from heat or want, but from the particular humiliation of standing this close to someone she couldn't fully read. Her chest heaved. The doubt burned hotter than the pain in her side. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to drive the pistol in her hand into his chest and pull the trigger.
Instead, she stood there, inches from him, their bodies almost touching. The air between them—thick with suspicion, fury, and that same dark, aching pull that refused to die.
Vincent's gaze dropped to her torn dress, to the blood on her lip, to the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
Then back to her eyes.
His voice dropped, low and intimate, meant only for her.
"You're still breathing, Raven."
He lifted one hand and brushed his thumb across her split lip. The touch was gentle and possessive. His finger came away with a smear of blood.
The contact landed: the heat, the way her body held despite everything screaming at her to step back.
She hated him and wanted him in the same breath.
The contradiction tore at her.
Vincent leaned in closer, his breath brushing her ear.
"Trust is earned. Not given."
He straightened, his hand dropping away.
The room watched them in heavy silence. The attacker groaned on the floor. The screens kept cycling data. The mansion's systems came back online.
Raven couldn't look away from Vincent.
The question hung between them, unanswered and heavy:
Could she trust him?
Or had she just married the man who wanted her dead?
The doubt pulled tight in her chest, mixing with the heat his touch had left behind.
And for the first time, Raven wasn't sure which one scared her more.