The Line They Shouldn't Cross

Serena:

The storm had broken overnight.

Rain battered the windows with relentless hands, and the wind howled like wolves circling the walls. Most of the estate was asleep or pretending to be. But I couldn't.

Not after what happened yesterday.

Not after Luca's hand in mine.

Not after the way he looked at me—like I was both the problem and the answer.

I couldn't get the chill off my skin, so I pulled a sweater over my slip and wandered the halls barefoot. The west wing was always quiet, but tonight, it felt… too quiet.

Like something was waiting.

I passed Matteo's room on instinct, thinking he'd be inside with his laptop or a book spread open in his lap. The door was slightly ajar.

Dark inside.

But no Matteo.

I should've kept walking.

But something about the silence felt wrong.

Further down the hall, a door I hadn't noticed before caught my eye. No number. No marking. The handle is made of cold brass and is barely used.

I tried it.

Unlocked.

Of course, it was.

Inside, the air was colder.

The light from the hallway barely reached past the threshold. I stepped in.

Bookshelves lined the walls. Floor-to-ceiling. Old, worn, curated. A desk sat beneath the far window, covered in neatly stacked papers and strange drawings—some mechanical, some anatomical, some…

Of me.

My breath caught.

I moved closer.

The sketches were soft—detailed to the point of obsession. The shape of my eyes. The way my hair curled after rain. The tilt of my mouth when I was tired. One page showed me curled on the bed in a fetal position, hand tucked under my cheek.

It wasn't just memory.

It was surveillance.

There were timestamps in the corners.

Dates.

Times.

I backed away.

But I didn't leave.

Not yet.

In the far corner was a wall of monitors—off now but still humming faintly. The wires led into a locked cabinet beside the desk. Tools on hooks. A soldering kit. Small hard drives stacked like bricks. Matteo's world, hidden behind quiet smiles and too-long stares.

And I was the center of it.

The door behind me clicked shut.

I turned—

Matteo.

Barefoot. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. My eyes were not surprised. Not guilty.

Just watching.

"How long have you been in here?" he asked, voice quiet.

I didn't answer.

He stepped closer.

"Did you touch anything?"

My pulse thudded in my throat. "How many cameras do you have on me?"

He didn't blink. "Enough."

"That's—insane."

"No." He took another step. "It's insurance."

"Against what?"

He tilted his head. "Losing you."

I laughed—shaky, bitter. "You never had me."

His expression didn't change. But something dark flickered beneath it. Like the match had been lit, but he hadn't decided whether to drop it.

"You think I don't see how they look at you?" he said.

I froze.

"They want you loud. Quick. Fire and teeth. But I…" He stepped so close I could feel the weight of his stare on my lips. "I'll wait. I'll watch. I'll study. And when you fall—because you will—you'll fall into me."

"I'm not falling for anyone," I whispered.

Matteo reached out and gently brushed a curl from my cheek.

"No," he murmured. "You're already falling. You just don't know where you'll land."

I left the room without looking back.

But the sketches stayed with me.

And that feeling in my chest—the one that was half fear, half heat?

It didn't go away.

It bloomed.

Nico knocked on my bedroom door at midnight.

Not with words.

With music.

The bass throbbed low outside my window, pulsing through the floor like a heartbeat too fast to be safe. I looked out and saw him leaning against a black Ducati, helmet hanging from one handlebar, mouth tilted into that maddening smirk.

He held up a hand with a single word written on his palm:

"Ride?"

I didn't know why I said yes.

Maybe it was the tension that had been eating me since I found Matteo's secret gallery.

Maybe it was the way Luca had been avoiding me—like he was afraid one more look would snap the leash he kept wrapped around his own throat.

Or maybe it was the truth I didn't want to admit:

Nico was dangerous.

But not in the way that hurt.

In the way that made you forget what hurt.

He didn't tell me where we were going.

Didn't say a word the entire ride. Just handed me a helmet, waited until I wrapped my arms around his waist, and took off like he'd been waiting all day to feel the wind peel back his skin.

We ended up at the city's edge.

Down back alleys, through a steel door, past two guards with tattoos and dead eyes. A red hallway pulsed with light like we were being swallowed by a heartbeat.

The club was underground.

Low ceilings. Velvet shadows. Smoke curling from cigars and candles, the scent of expensive perfume clinging to every breath. Red lights. Black eyes. Gold teeth.

And everyone looked at him.

Nico was known here.

Feared.

Wanted.

He led me to a booth in the back where the light didn't quite reach. Ordered drinks without asking me what I liked. Put his arm along the back of the seat like he wasn't already too close.

"Why did you bring me here?" I asked.

He didn't answer right away.

Instead, he leaned in, breath brushing my ear.

"To show you," he murmured, "what it looks like when people obey me."

I turned, heart, rattling against my ribs. "You think I need taming?"

"I think," he said, eyes falling to my lips, "you're starting to like being watched."

My throat went dry.

A waitress in black lace brought two crystal glasses. Nico didn't break eye contact when he took a sip. I did the same, trying not to flinch when the whiskey burned all the way down.

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering too long.

"You've got all of us losing our minds," he said, voice low and raw. "Luca's snapping. Matteo's unraveling. And me?"

He smiled, slow and wicked.

"I'm ready to light the match and watch it burn."

My pulse stuttered.

"I'm not your toy."

"No," he said. "You're our fuse."

Later, as we walked back through the alley, I stopped him.

"You brought me here to scare me?"

Nico's eyes glittered in the dark.

"No," he said. "I brought you here to show you what's coming."

"What is coming?"

He stepped close.

So close.

"The moment you stop pretending you're not one of us."

I didn't sleep that night.

Not because of what he said.

But because I wanted to find out so badly if he was right.