The midday sun poured into the Moretti mansion through the towering windows, casting long, warm beams across the marble floors. The house was quieter now. Lucian had left to attend to business, Sofia was away on her trip, and only Marco remained, lounging in a drawing-room chair with that ever-present mischievous grin.
Elena pushed open the door to her room, the hinges barely making a sound. She paused, letting it close softly behind her, and slid down against it, folding her arms over her knees. She missed her brother fiercely—her phone had already been confiscated, leaving her cut off from the only person who reminded her of home. Running her hand through her hair, she felt suffocated, dragged, heavy and relentless.
Running away wasn't an option—she knew that already. Any attempt would make things worse, and in her heart, she realized she was trapped. Slowly, she straightened, taking a deep breath and pushing off the door. She would not let Lucian—or anyone—see her crumble.
Exploring the mansion seemed like the only good distraction. She wandered down the long corridor, her heels clicking softly on the marble, walls lined with portraits of past Moretti patriarchs and influential women of the family. Almost immediately, she noticed the cameras—small, almost like bugs, positioned in corners of doorways. Her eyes narrowed, and she stopped mid-step.
He's always watching, she thought, glaring at the nearest camera as if she could burn it with her eyes. Her pulse quickened. Why does it make my heart race like that?
A faint blush tinged her cheeks. Curse him, she thought, scolding herself. Focus, Elena. He's dangerous, not some perfect god. And yet… her gaze kept flicking to the cameras, almost challenging them. And he saw.
From a distance, in his private office, Lucian's dark eyes caught the flare of her glare. His black gloves rested on the console, fingers poised with the sharpenes of a predator. Leaning slightly forward, his expression remained mostly unreadable, yet beneath the control there was a flicker of amusement, a shadow of pride, and a dangerous curiosity.
Marco's quiet chuckle broke her train of thought. "Ah, it's Elena," he said, grinning. "You look… conflicted."
Elena spun toward him, trying to hide her flustered expression. "What? I—"
Marco shrugged, unfazed. "Non preoccuparti. Relax."
She rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, pouting. "Curse him…"
Continuing down the corridor, Elena reached the grand hall, the city of Milan glittering like molten gold outside the windows. She paused again, noting cameras in every corner. He's always one step ahead… watching. She scowled, imagining herself daring Lucian to notice—and of course he did.
Back in his office, Lucian's gaze lingered on the monitor. The glare she had sent through the camera made a shadow cross his sharp features—a mixture of appreciation, intrigue, and barely restrained amusement. She has fire, he thought. Too much fire to simply bend without effort.
The grand doors of the private office swung open, and a man was shoved roughly inside. He stumbled, straightening his disheveled tie, eyes wide as they took in the room.
Lucian sat behind his massive mahogany desk, gloves on, calm yet radiating menace. Dante and Matteo flanked him, their silent presence filling the room with authority.
"So… you owe me money and expect to walk away?" Lucian asked, voice low, smooth, and razor-sharp. His gaze alone made the man pale. "I am patient… as you know, but patience has its limits."
He leaned forward slightly, the faintest shadow of a smile playing across his lips. "I suggest you honor your debts," he continued, velvet laced with poison. "Or the consequences will be… unavoidable. Capisci?"
The man stammered, shaking violently. "Sì… sì, Signore Moretti…"
Lucian leaned back, studying him with that unnerving calm. "You understand the consequences of failing me, yes?"
"Yes, Signore! I… I will repay everything!"
A faint, dangerous smile touched Lucian's lips. He tapped lightly on the papers in front of him. "Bene. You have one week. Do not fail me again."
Suddenly, a phone buzzed, breaking the tension. A shipment gone wrong. Lucian's serene control slipped for just a moment; he slammed the receiver down. Dante and Matteo exchanged glances, knowing the storm in him would pass—but it was lethal while it lasted.
Meanwhile, Elena wandered into the library, eyes flicking repeatedly to the cameras. Marco followed casually, amused by her constantly shifting expressions—suspicion, irritation, awe, and the occasional blush.
"You know," Marco said quietly, "he has a way of… affecting people. Look at you—every few seconds, you glare, you scowl… you blush…"
Elena huffed, pouting. "I'm not blushing!"
Marco laughed softly. "Ah, la bugia!"
She shook her head, muttering, "Annoying prick…"
Unknown to her, Lucian watched it all, noting the tension in her posture, the fiery spark in her eyes, and the way she could not stop reacting even when she tried to maintain composure. His expression softened, almost imperceptibly, yet the intensity in his gaze remained. That fire, that temper, the stubbornness—it all intrigued him.
Somewhere deep inside, he felt it deserved to burn brighter, not be crushed.