HIS RULE,HER FIRE

I didn’t see him the next morning.

The silence in the penthouse stretched like cold steel, and every tick of the clock made my chest tighter. For a moment, I wondered if he’d gotten bored already. If this twisted little game had ended before it even began.

But when I stepped into the kitchen, a note waited for me on the marble counter.

Neat. Cold. Typed.

“You’ll find clothes in the guest room closet. Be dressed by 8 PM. We have dinner guests.

I crumpled the note in my hand.

No “please.” No “thank you.” Just another order wrapped in silk and steel.

I walked into the guest room. Sure enough, a black box sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in silver ribbon.

Inside, a gown — midnight blue, slinky, and clearly custom-made.

He’d never asked my size.

Somehow, he just knew.

When I walked into the dining room at 8 PM sharp, I wasn’t sure what to expect. But I wasn’t expecting him to look like that.

Luciano stood near the window, a glass of scotch in hand. His black dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing veins and ink and a body built for violence.

He didn’t smile when he saw me.

He stared.

And stared.

Like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Turn around,” he said softly.

I blinked. “What?”

“Turn. Around.”

I did — slowly — heat rushing to my cheeks.

The gown clung to me like a second skin. It dipped low in the back, revealed more than it hid, and shimmered in the low light like water.

He walked toward me.

“Did you pick this to humiliate me or seduce me?” I whispered, unsure if I wanted the answer.

His voice was gravel.

“Both.”

The guests arrived ten minutes later.

Two men. One woman.

All dressed like sharks. All with eyes that spoke in code.

Luciano introduced me simply as “Aria.” No title. No label. Not girlfriend. Not prisoner.

Just Aria.

The woman, Liliana, smiled at me with eyes as sharp as stilettos. “He never brings women to these things,” she said, sipping red wine. “You must be… special.”

“Lucky me,” I said flatly.

The men laughed. Luciano didn’t.

He just watched.

The dinner was a game of power dressed up in cutlery and crystal. They spoke in metaphors — about “shipments” and “clients” and “contracts” that I had a sick feeling weren’t legal.

I played silent doll.

Until Liliana leaned over and whispered, “You know what they say about men like him, don’t you?”

I raised a brow.

“They don’t just own you,” she said. “They *consume 

   

Luciano didn’t sleep in the same room as me.

Not last night. Not the night before.

But I knew he watched me.

There were cameras—tiny, well-hidden, probably tucked into corners behind vents or false lights. I’d spent hours pretending not to notice, but now I stared directly into one, voice clear.

“You enjoy this?” I said. “Watching without touching? Controlling without caring?”

No answer, of course.

Just my own voice echoing off cold walls.

Still, I had the sickening feeling he was listening. That every word I spoke painted his next move.

At breakfast, the dining table was filled—fruit, croissants, salmon, espresso—and one single red rose in a glass vase.

No chef in sight.

Just him.

He sat at the far end of the table, black-on-black, collar open, sleeves rolled, like power was just another part of his skin.

I hesitated in the doorway.

He didn’t look up. “Sit.”

I didn’t move.

“I said—”

“Yeah, I heard you,” I interrupted, voice flat. “But you keep giving orders like I’m some pretty doll you wound up. What if I say no?”

He met my eyes, and something dangerous flickered across his face.

Then he smiled.

God help me, it was devastating.

“You won’t.”

I sat.

Not because he was right.

Because I was starving. And I hated that he knew.

We ate in silence—except I noticed he watched me more than he ate. Like my every gesture was a puzzle he was trying to solve.

“I’m not a spy,” I said finally, pushing my plate away. “If that’s what you think.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why keep me here?”

His eyes darkened. “Because I want to.”

“That’s not a reason. That’s an obsession.”

“And what if it is?”

His voice was low, almost gentle.

And suddenly I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff with wind howling behind me—and Luciano De Luca was the storm waiting to swallow me whole.

Later that afternoon, I found the piano.

It sat in a dim-lit music room with velvet curtains and polished floors—clearly untouched, yet pristine. Like someone had cleaned it obsessively, but never dared play.

I slid onto the bench.

I hadn’t played in years—not since before Mom got sick, before everything fell apart. But my fingers remembered.

Soft notes filled the room.

I closed my eyes, let the music carry me to somewhere far from marble floors and cold mafia eyes.

When I opened them, he was leaning against the doorframe.

Watching.

Always watching.

“You play beautifully,” he said softly.

I stood. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

“You shouldn’t hide what makes you human.”

The way he said it…like it hurt to admit I was human.

“Do you play?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. I only destroy things.”

A pause.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Then you don’t know me.”

“I’m trying to,” I whispered.

Another pause. He stepped forward. Slowly.

“Careful,” he said. “Curiosity gets people killed in my world.”

“But I’m already in it,” I said.

And for the first time, his armor cracked.

Just for a second.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

His voice. His presence. That tiny flicker of something under his skin—it haunted me more than his threats.

I wandered back into the music room.

But someone was already there.

Luciano stood at the window, half-lit by city lights, cigarette in hand.

I froze.

He didn’t look at me.

“You don’t knock,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t think I had to. Thought I didn’t have privacy.”

A faint smile.

“Touche.”

I crossed the room.

“No guards tonight?”

“They know not to interrupt.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re afraid of what I’ll do to them.”

His honesty chilled me more than threats ever could.

I stopped inches from him.

“Why me?”

His jaw flexed.

“Why not?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Fine,” he said. “You want the truth?”

He turned to face me, eyes blazing.

“Because you don’t beg. You don’t simper. You don’t look at me like I’m some broken god to worship.”

“I look at you like you’re a monster.”

He stepped closer. “Exactly.”

“And you like that?”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “I crave it.”

My pulse thundered.

He reached out—fingers brushing my jaw—but didn’t kiss me.

Didn’t pull me close.

Just looked.

Like he was trying to remember something from a life before blood and sin.

“I’m not scared of you,” I lied.

“You should be,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know how to let go of things I want.”

Then, just like that, he turned and walked away—vanishing into the dark like a storm receding.

And I stood in the silence, heart hammering, wondering if I had just won a battle… or started a war I couldn’t survive.