Twinned lies のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 21 - チャプター 30

The west wing was quieter than it should’ve been.No voices. No footsteps. Not even the faint hum of the boiler that usually kicked on around this hour. Emilia's boots echoed against the parquet floors as she moved quickly, trying not to run. Running would make it worse—make it real. But every creak, every shadow made her skin itch.The house had shifted in her absence. She felt it immediately—like waking to find someone’s moved all your furniture, just slightly. Enough to be disorienting. Enough to feel like a warning.She passed the library. Dark. The light Luca always left on—off.He wasn’t here.She swallowed hard and made her way to the room, but heard or saw no one.Still nothingThen—A sound. Sharp. Distant.Metal on stone?The cellar.Her pulse jumped.Of course he would’ve looked there. If he thought she’d run. If he thought—Then another sound. This one closer. Behind herHer name. Low. Rough. Wounded.“Emilia.”She froze.Luca stood at the bottom of the stairs, a flashligh

Luca’s black SUV screeched to a halt in the driveway of his villa, its tires skidding on the gravel. The gates swung open, and he practically tore himself from the car before it had even fully stopped, his rage an inferno burning everything in its wake. His mind raced with violent thoughts, desperate for a way to fix it, to find Emilia before it was too late.The villa, a fortress of glass and steel, stood in stark contrast to the chaos swirling inside him. He barely noticed the grandeur of the place as he stormed into the entrance hall.Isadora was already there, pacing in the large living room, her face pale with fear. When she saw Luca, her breath hitched, the weight of the situation settling on her like a suffocating blanket. She opened her mouth to speak but was stopped by the explosion of Luca’s voice.“Dimitri’s got her, Isa,” he spat, his voice like gravel, raw with anger. “Emilia’s gone. He took her from the hospital. Dimitri has her.”Isadora froze, the words slicing through

The silence in Luca’s office was not quiet—it throbbed. Dim light poured from the antique lamp behind his desk, carving sharp shadows across his face. He sat in his leather chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, the weight of war and heartbreak pressing against his spine.Then the door creaked open.Noona Peppi stepped in slowly, the soft click of her heels against the marble floor echoing like a countdown. She wore black, always black, as if mourning something long buried but never forgotten.Luca didn’t look up.“I thought you’d never come back,” he said, his voice a low, cold rasp.Peppi studied him for a beat—this boy she’d once cradled after nightmares, now grown into a man with blood on his hands and a storm in his eyes. The don. Her son in every way but blood.“I didn’t come back for me,” she replied, shutting the door behind her with finality. “I came for her.”His eyes flicked upward—icy, alert. “Her?”Luca poured two glasses of whisky but only set one down. The second rem

Snow fell in a muted hush over Moscow, coating the broken warehouses by the river in a pale shroud. The night smelled of gunpowder and oil, and somewhere in the dark, wolves howled. Luca adjusted the collar of his black coat, his gloved fingers tightening around the trigger of his rifle. His men spread out like shadows, silent killers against the endless white.The warehouse smelled of rust, salt, and stale air — the kind of place where things were hidden, not stored. Sunlight leaked through the broken slats above, casting narrow golden stripes across the dusty concrete floor. It was almost beautiful, in a cruel way.Dimitri stood still, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, eyes fixed on the entrance. He had arrived first, as promised. Five days since that last phone call with Luca — five days of silence, delay, and games. Now, it was time to end it.Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Then came the low creak of the warehouse door.Luca entered, flanked by two of his men. His wa

Luca sat in the quiet of Cece’s room long after her words had settled into him. Kill him. For our father. The sentence gnawed at his chest, dragging him back through years he had tried to bury.And then the memory rose, unbidden—He was ten years old again, barefoot on the marble floors of their villa. His father sat at the long oak table, maps and ledgers spread before him, his sharp eyes softened only when they turned to his son.“Pay attention, Luca,” his father had said, voice steady, warm but commanding. “A man can build an empire with steel and blood, but he keeps it with loyalty. Without loyalty, everything rots.”Beside him, Zio leaned lazily against the table, a glass of wine in his hand. His dark eyes flickered with amusement as he ruffled young Luca’s hair.“And sentiment makes you weak,” Zio added smoothly. “Remember that, ragazzo. Trust too much, love too much, and you give your enemies the knife to cut you with.”His father had chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t fill his