Luciana sat in silence on the car ride back from Villa Morani, her hands clenched in her lap. The leather seats were cold against her skin, but nothing matched the frost in her veins after Kevin's words.
Damian sat beside her, watching her every breath like a man ready to shatter the world at her command.
"He touched you?" he asked.
"No," she whispered. "But he tried to touch something worse—my mind."
"Then he'll regret letting you walk away."
Luciana turned toward him. "He's not done. He's planting seeds. He wants me to doubt you. To hate you. To stand with him."
Damian looked forward, his expression unreadable.
"And will you?" he asked quietly.
Luciana blinked. "Do you really think I could?"
"I think…" He swallowed. "...we're standing on two sides of a war neither of us asked for. And eventually, one of us might have to fall for the other to rise."
She took his hand, threading their fingers together. "Not if we burn the whole damn battlefield."
A slow smile spread on his lips. "That's my Lisichka."
---
The villa pulsed with tension.
That night, a council of the Bratva's inner circle arrived from Moscow—dangerous men with colder eyes than the Russian frost. Anton, loyal as ever, briefed them on the Italian moves. Maps were spread. Targets marked. Blood was coming.
Luciana watched from the shadows of the war room. She wasn't one of them. Not Bratva. Not Italian.
Not yet.
But she would be.
---
At dawn, Elena cornered her in the garden. A silver dagger glinted in her hands—not drawn, just... present.
"I know Kevin," she said, pressing the blade into the soil beside them. "Better than most. He doesn't offer power without cost."
Luciana nodded. "He wants me to take over the Italian syndicate."
"And he'll kill anyone in his way—including you—if you don't become what he wants."
"I'm not his puppet," Luciana said.
"No," Elena said. "But you are his blood."
Luciana rose, her voice firm. "So were you once. Yet you chose to raise me in love."
Elena stood, brushing her dress off. "Then remember what love costs in this world, child."
---
Later that day, Luciana and Damian walked through the town square of a neighboring village, unguarded, like a couple chasing fragments of a lost life. They stopped for espresso in a quiet café.
"Tell me," Luciana said, watching the steam rise from her cup, "why did you really marry me?"
Damian stilled.
"You've said it was because you wanted me. That you chose me."
"I did," he said softly. "But not for the reasons you think."
She looked up, surprised.
"I married you because you reminded me of the only part of myself I didn't hate."
Luciana's breath caught.
"You smiled at me like I wasn't a monster," he continued. "Even when I was covered in blood. Even when I wanted to burn the world. You made me want something more."
Silence stretched between them.
"And then," he added, voice low, "you told me you were pregnant with Mikhail. And I knew I was done. You owned me after that."
Luciana felt her chest tighten, a strange ache blooming behind her ribs.
"I don't remember any of that," she whispered.
"But I do," he said. "And I'll remember for both of us."
---
That night, an explosion ripped through the side of the villa.
Luciana was thrown from her bed, glass shattering as alarms screamed.
"DOWN!" Damian shouted, tackling her to the floor.
Gunfire. Shouts in Italian and Russian. Flames licking the windows.
Luciana's ears rang as she scrambled to her feet.
"Get to the safe room!" Anton yelled, covered in blood but standing firm.
"I'm not hiding!" Luciana snapped.
"She stays with me," Damian growled, dragging her behind him.
They moved through the smoke-filled corridors like ghosts, Damian shooting precisely, every bullet a promise.
By the time the flames died, five men were dead. Two were Bratva. Three wore the sigil of the Italian underboss—Kevin's lieutenant.
Luciana stood in the ruins of the study, breathing hard.
"This was a message," Anton said. "He's not waiting. He's starting."
Luciana looked at the scorched painting of a Roman villa on the wall.
"No," she said. "He's already started. We're just late to realize it."
---
A week later, the war was official.
Cities picked sides. Arms deals fractured. Blood soaked the streets of Naples, Palermo, and parts of southern France.
And Luciana?
She stood in the eye of the storm.
---
One afternoon, as she reviewed intelligence files in her villa study, a letter arrived in blood-red wax.
From a woman named Serafina Moretti.
Luciana frowned. The name meant nothing to her.
Until Elena stormed in, face white as bone.
"Where did you get that?" she demanded.
Luciana handed it over.
Elena's hands shook.
"Serafina is… your grandmother."
Luciana stared.
"She was the matriarch of the Moretti bloodline. She disappeared twenty years ago. Rumor was, she fled the family. Others said Kevin killed her."
Luciana took the letter back, opened it.
> Luciana,
If you are reading this, then you are ready to know the truth. Kevin is not just your father. He is your enemy. And he was mine, too.
I am alive. And I will help you take back what he stole.
Come to Sicily. Come alone.
—S.
Luciana folded the letter.
"This changes everything," she said.
Damian entered behind her, gaze sharp.
"What now?" he asked.
Luciana turned to him, eyes steel.
"Now… we go find the woman who disappeared from history."
"More ghosts?"
"No," she said. "This one's still breathing. And she has the key to end Kevin's reign."
---