VELVET CAGE

The garden was quiet again.

Too quiet.

Aria stood near the old fountain, its once-lively waters now nothing but a trickle, worn down by time or neglect—she didn’t know which. The vines curled around the stone like they were trying to suffocate it, and somehow, that felt like a metaphor for everything.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there. Minutes? Hours? The bruised sky above had gone from dusty lavender to an indigo so deep it looked like it could swallow her whole.

She wanted it to.

But then—

“Aria.”

His voice.

Always him.

Always the ghost she could never quite outrun.

She turned slowly, already knowing who she’d see before she saw him.

Luciano stood in the shadows of the colonnade, sleeves rolled, tie discarded, hair a little messier than usual. He looked too human like that. Like someone who could bleed. Like someone who might even have a heart.

Too bad she knew better.

“You followed me,” she said, tone flat.

He didn’t answer immediately, just stepped closer until moonlight touched the sharp planes of his face.

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He stopped two feet away. Close enough to tower, not close enough to touch.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

She let out a dry laugh. “Forgive me if I’m not eager to get tangled up with a man who threatens to lock me inside him.”

His jaw twitched.

She noticed. She always noticed. Even when she didn’t want to.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said lowly.

“No?” she shot back. “Then maybe try saying what you mean without turning it into a threat next time.”

Luciano looked away for the briefest second.

A crack in the armor.

A fracture in the silence.

He exhaled like the truth tasted bitter on his tongue.

“I’ve never had to explain myself to anyone,” he said. “Not once. Not in my entire goddamn life.”

Aria folded her arms, trying to mask the shiver running through her.

“Sounds lonely.”

“It was.”

That surprised her.

Not the honesty. The quiet way he said it. The… absence of menace in his tone.

She watched him carefully. Tried to gauge what was real, what was performance.

“You’re not who I thought you were,” she whispered.

Luciano looked at her now, really looked.

“No one ever is.”

⸻

Back inside, the air was warmer. Softer. Or maybe that was just her. Maybe she was softening in ways she shouldn’t.

Clara’s words came back to her.

“You can survive this, Aria. But don’t lose yourself to it.”

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? She didn’t know who “herself” was anymore.

Luciano moved through the hall like a shadow cast in silk. Silent, but impossible to ignore. He poured two glasses of wine like this was just another night in an Italian villa, not a hostage negotiation wrapped in candlelight.

“Why are you really doing this?” Aria asked suddenly, her voice louder than she meant.

He handed her the glass without answering, his fingers brushing hers for a heartbeat too long.

“Doing what?” he said.

“This. Me. Keeping me here.”

He didn’t blink.

“Because you’re not ready to leave.”

Her heart stopped.

“That’s not true.”

Luciano leaned back against the marble counter, one ankle crossed over the other.

“Isn’t it?”

She hated that he said it like a truth, not a question. Hated that some part of her didn’t know how to argue.

“I didn’t choose this,” she said.

He nodded. “No. But you stayed.”

“For survival.”

“Exactly.”

That one word—so calm, so simple—made her chest tighten.

Survival wasn’t just about staying alive. Sometimes it was about making peace with your captor just long enough to breathe. And sometimes… it became something else.

She sipped the wine, needing the burn to ground her.

“I want to go home,” she said quietly.

Luciano’s eyes flicked to hers. “Where is home now, Aria?”

And that—God, that—was the real question.

⸻

That night, she wandered into the piano room again. The keys were dusty. Untouched.

She sat and lifted the lid.

Her fingers hovered over the ivory like they were waiting for permission.

She didn’t have sheet music. She didn’t even have a plan.

But slowly, gently, she began to play.

It was clumsy at first. Her hands remembered more than her mind did. But the notes came, one by one, like hesitant birds testing the wind.

She played something mournful. Something low and aching and full of things she couldn’t say out loud.

And then—

A shadow in the doorway.

Luciano didn’t speak. Just stood there, arms crossed, watching her like she was the most confusing riddle he’d ever read.

She kept playing.

He didn’t leave.

By the time her fingers fell still, the silence was a third presence in the room—her, him, and the absence of everything they couldn’t say.

“That was beautiful,” he said quietly.

Aria looked up.

“It wasn’t perfect.”

Luciano shook his head. “Nothing worth remembering ever is.”

She stared at him.

And for the first time, she didn’t feel like prey.

She felt… powerful.

Not because she’d broken him.

But because she hadn’t let him break her.

⸻

Later, lying in her too-soft bed, Aria stared at the ceiling and tried to figure out what the hell she was doing.

She wasn’t falling for him. Not exactly.

But she was unraveling in his presence.

And it terrified her.

Because unraveling led to vulnerability.

And vulnerability in this house—this world—could get you killed.

Still, her heart beat louder than her logic.

Luciano Moretti was dangerous. But what scared her more wasn’t his violence.

It was the parts of him that felt real.

The parts that could hurt her without ever lifting a hand.

⸻

Morning came like fog—slow and heavy.

Aria was halfway through dressing when a knock sounded on the door.

One of the guards. Cold eyes. No expression.

“You’re needed in the dining hall.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“No questions.”

She followed him through the halls, past oil paintings and locked doors and silent staff who never met her gaze.

When they reached the dining room, the air was wrong.

Tense.

Too quiet.

Luciano sat at the head of the table, but he wasn’t alone.

A woman sat beside him.

Tall. Elegant. Wearing red like a warning.

She looked Aria up and down like she was dirt tracked across a pristine floor.

Luciano stood.

“Aria. This is Sienna.”

Sienna smiled with her mouth, not her eyes. “So you’re the songbird he’s keeping in the cage.”

Luciano’s jaw ticked.

Aria said nothing.

Luciano gestured to the seat across from them. “Sit.”

She didn’t want to. But she did.

Sienna leaned in, resting her chin on manicured fingers. “I always wondered what kind of girl would catch his eye.”

Luciano cut in sharply. “That’s enough.”

Sienna raised an eyebrow. “Touchy, aren’t we?”

The conversation that followed was a knife fight dressed as brunch. Every word from Sienna dripped with venom disguised as charm. Every look from Luciano was a warning Aria didn’t yet know how to read.

When it was over, Aria left the table feeling like she’d just survived a war she hadn’t prepared for.

In the hall, Luciano caught her wrist.

“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly. “She shouldn’t have been here.”

“Who is she?” Aria asked.

Luciano’s eyes were dark. “Someone who wants what she can’t have.”

Aria swallowed hard. “And what is that?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t let go either.

And in the silence, Aria realized something terrifying.

She wasn’t sure who was holding who anymore.