A THIEF AND A FIRE

The estate felt colder the next morning.

Maybe it was the lingering storm, or maybe it was Luciano himself—too quiet, too still, like a man holding his breath underwater.

Aria kept her distance.

Something about last night had shifted the air between them. She hadn’t touched him in any seductive way, hadn’t said anything romantic. But something had passed between them in the silence. Something she couldn’t name.

And it scared her.

Because she wasn’t sure who was unraveling faster—Luciano, or herself.

—

She found Clara in the greenhouse.

That’s what the guards called it, though it looked more like a glass castle growing vines and secrets. Clara was tending to a dying orchid, her sleeves rolled up and dirt smudging her cheek.

“You’re early,” Clara said without looking up.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Aria replied.

Clara glanced over, eyes sharp. “Or didn’t want to dream?”

Aria managed a smile. “You always see too much.”

“It’s what kept me alive in this place.”

There was silence between them—safe, companionable.

Then Aria whispered, “He told me about his brother.”

Clara didn’t flinch. “He doesn’t talk about Adriano.”

“I think he’s breaking,” Aria added. “And I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a warning.”

Clara’s hands stilled in the soil. “You’re not here to fix him, Aria.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But what if I already started?”

—

That evening, the piano called to her again.

She didn’t resist.

But this time, she didn’t play quietly. She played like she meant it—every note a thread tugging at something inside her. Not for Luciano. Not for anyone.

For herself.

She didn’t notice him enter.

But when the song ended, his voice was there, low and rough.

“Play it again.”

She turned, startled. “You scared me.”

He didn’t smile. “Good.”

She frowned. “Why?”

Luciano moved closer. “Because I can’t afford to forget what fear looks like on people. It reminds me I’m dangerous.”

“You don’t need reminding,” Aria said, standing. “You carry it like a second skin.”

He watched her closely. “And yet you stay.”

“I never said I wasn’t afraid.”

Luciano stepped closer, until the piano was the only thing separating them.

“But you want something from me.”

Aria’s fingers curled on the edge of the keys. “Maybe I want to know if there’s still a man behind the monster.”

Silence.

Then he said, “There is. But you’d burn yourself trying to touch him.”

—

Later that night, Aria paced her room.

Restless. Unsettled.

She opened her drawer and pulled out the sketchpad she hadn’t touched in weeks. Her fingers were clumsy, but the lines came anyway—shapes, shadows, pieces of a face she couldn’t stop thinking about.

Luciano.

Not in a suit. Not cold and calculating.

But younger. Raw. Vulnerable.

Half-formed.

Like someone trying to become whole again.

—

She didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep with the pencil in her hand.

Until the door creaked open.

Luciano.

He stood in the doorway, his voice quiet. “You left the hall light on.”

She blinked at him, disoriented. “You could’ve sent someone else.”

“I didn’t want to.”

There was a pause. Then he walked in, slow, deliberate, like he was crossing a line.

He stopped at the edge of her bed and looked down at her.

“I don’t know what this is,” he said.

“Me neither,” she whispered.

“But I keep thinking about you. And I don’t know if that means I’m healing… or losing control.”

Aria’s breath caught.

Then, softly: “What if it’s both?”

Luciano reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“I’ll hurt you, Aria. I know how to destroy things. That’s all I’ve ever done.”

Her eyes didn’t leave his. “Then maybe let me teach you something else.”

He didn’t kiss her.

Not yet.

But he stayed.

And in that silence, something dangerous and delicate began to bloom.