The drive back to the Rossi compound felt like stepping into a nightmare that refused to end.
Elena sat in the passenger seat of Luca's armored black SUV, fingers twisting the hem of the simple black sweater she'd borrowed from his closet. It smelled like him—cedar and something sharper, like the city rain after a storm. She kept her eyes fixed on the passing streets, the familiar corners where she used to sneak out as a teenager, heart racing with the thrill of meeting him under the old oak tree near the river.
Luca drove in silence, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. Every few minutes his gaze flicked to her, quick and careful, like he was checking if she might shatter. Dante followed in a second car with Sofia and two more men. No one spoke much. The air felt too heavy for small talk.
When the iron gates of the compound came into view, Elena's stomach clenched. The place looked the same—tall stone walls, cameras sweeping the perimeter, the fountain in the courtyard still bubbling like nothing had changed. But everything had. The guards at the gate stiffened when they saw the Moretti plates, hands hovering near their weapons until Elena leaned out the window and gave a sharp nod.
"Open up," she called. "It's me."
The gates creaked open slowly, like they didn't want to let the enemy in.
Luca killed the engine in the circular driveway. He turned to her before she could reach for the door.
"You sure you're ready for this?" His voice came out low, rough around the edges, not the smooth boss tone he used with everyone else. "We can turn around. Send Dante in first."
She shook her head, swallowing the lump that kept trying to rise. "No. I need to see it. And I need to look Gianni in the eye when I ask him where he was that night."
Luca's fingers brushed hers on the center console—just a quick touch, warm and gone too fast. "I'm right here. Whatever happens."
The simple words hit harder than they should have. She nodded, not trusting her voice, and stepped out into the crisp afternoon air.
Uncle Marco met them at the front steps, face pale and lined with exhaustion. His eyes narrowed at Luca, but he didn't pull a gun. Progress, maybe.
"Bambina," he muttered, pulling her into a quick, stiff hug that smelled of cigar smoke and worry. "You look… tired."
"I am." She stepped back. "Where's Gianni?"
Marco's jaw worked. "In the study. Waiting. He says he wants to talk to you alone."
Luca's presence shifted beside her—taller, colder. "That's not happening."
Elena put a hand on his arm without thinking. The muscle jumped under her palm, but he stayed quiet. "We go together," she said. "All of us."
The study door felt heavier than she remembered. When she pushed it open, the scent hit her first—old books, her father's cologne, and the faint copper tang that cleaning crews couldn't quite erase. The desk had been cleared, but the green felt blotter still showed a dark stain no one had dared replace.
Gianni stood by the window, hands in his pockets, trying to look casual. He was only twenty-nine, but the slicked-back hair and sharp suit made him seem older. His eyes flicked to Luca, then back to her.
"Cousin," he said, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Glad you're safe. Though I gotta say, showing up with him…" He jerked his chin at Luca. "Bold move."
Elena didn't smile back. "Cut the bullshit, Gianni. Where were you the night my father died?"
He blinked, caught off guard by the directness. "Here. In the house. I told the others already—working late on the shipment logs."
"Alone?" Luca asked, voice flat.
Gianni's gaze hardened. "Yeah. Alone. Why? You accusing me now, Moretti?"
"Not accusing," Elena said quietly. "Asking. The security footage from the east corridor cut out for twelve minutes right before the shot. You were the only one logged in that wing."
A flicker crossed Gianni's face—too quick to read. Anger? Fear? "Cameras glitch sometimes. You know that."
Luca stepped forward, calm but imposing. "Funny how they only glitched when it mattered. And that gun used on Vincenzo? It was mine. Lost five years ago. The night I left after my old man threatened Elena."
Gianni's laugh came out forced. "Old news. Everyone knew you two were messing around back then. Kid stuff."
Elena felt heat rise in her cheeks, but she pushed it down. Memories flashed—stolen kisses in the back of Luca's Mustang, his laugh warm against her neck, the way he'd promised they'd find a way out of this life someday. Then the morning he was just… gone. No note. No call. Just silence that broke her a little more each day.
"It wasn't kid stuff," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "And someone kept that gun for a reason. If it wasn't you, help us figure out who had access."
Gianni spread his hands. "Look, I loved Uncle Vincenzo like my own father. I'd never—" His voice cracked, but it felt rehearsed. "I want the bastards dead too. But bringing him here?" He glared at Luca. "That's asking for more blood on the floors."
Before Elena could answer, Sofia slipped into the room behind them, quiet as a shadow. She'd grown up running these halls with Elena during secret sleepovers, giggling over boys and dreaming of normal lives.
"Gianni," Sofia said sweetly, but her eyes were sharp. "Remember that time you tried to sell info on the Rossi routes to the Albanians? Three years back? Uncle V shut it down hard. Bet that left a mark."
Gianni's face went tight. "That was business. Misunderstanding."
"Was it?" Luca asked softly.
The room felt smaller suddenly. Elena's heart pounded. She moved closer to the desk, running her fingers over the edge where her father used to sit. A small drawer on the side was slightly ajar—something she hadn't noticed before. She pulled it open.
Inside lay a single folded note, yellowed at the edges. Handwritten. Not her father's script.
"The wolf's tooth still bites. Midnight. Old dock. Bring the package or the princess pays."
Dated two weeks before the killing.
Her breath caught. She held it up. "Anyone recognize this?"
Gianni went very still.
Luca took the note, scanned it, then looked at Gianni with new ice in his eyes. "Old dock. That's Moretti territory. And 'princess'… that was what my father used to call Elena when he mocked me for caring about her."
The pieces clicked too neatly. Betrayal wasn't just possible anymore—it was staring them in the face.
Gianni backed up a step. "I don't know anything about that. You're reaching."
But his voice shook just enough.
Elena felt tears prick again, hot and angry. Not just for her father, but for the family that was supposed to mean something. For the years she'd spent believing blood was thicker than ambition.
Luca's hand found the small of her back—light, supportive, not pushing. The touch grounded her when everything else felt like it was spinning.
"We're taking this," Luca said, folding the note. "And Gianni… you don't leave the compound until we sort this. Dante will make sure of it."
Outside in the hallway, after the others moved to secure the room, Luca pulled Elena aside into the quiet alcove near the old library. Dust motes danced in the slanting light from a high window.
"You okay?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
She shook her head, then nodded, then shook it again. A messy laugh escaped. "I don't know. I grew up thinking Gianni was harmless. Annoying, but family. Now…"
Luca's fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face, lingering a second longer than necessary. His touch was gentle, careful, like he was memorizing the feel after so many years without it.
"I hate seeing you hurt like this," he admitted. The words came out raw, not polished. "All those nights away, I told myself you were better off. Safer without me. But looking at you now… I was wrong. And I'm sorry. For leaving. For not fighting harder back then."
Elena's throat tightened. She stepped closer, close enough to feel the steady beat of his heart through his shirt. Not kissing. Not yet. Just letting the warmth sink in.
"I was so angry for so long," she whispered. "But part of me always wondered if you had a reason. Hearing it now… it doesn't fix everything. But it makes the ache feel different. Less sharp."
His forehead rested against hers for a brief moment—warm skin, shared breath, the faint scent of his aftershave mixing with the old books around them.
"We'll figure the rest out," he murmured. "Together. No more running. No more secrets if we can help it."
She believed him. For the first time in years, she really did.
But as they pulled apart and headed back to the others, the note burned in Luca's pocket like a warning.
Someone wanted the wolf and the princess to tear each other apart.
And they were only just starting to remember why they once fit so perfectly instead.