Ethan had already spoken to his superior, he already had permission, he already had the green light to dig, to uncover, to press where everyone else preferred to look away and now, after a night of half-sleep on Clara's couch, Leo and Damian collapsed like two statues chewed up by rage, they were back on their feet. Back in Palermo, back in the chaos. Back to searching for Naiara but what they found was worse than silence: they found indifference, witnesses who whispered about missing women, disappearances brushed aside. Files that had been "lost," reports rewritten, testimonies erased.
Every time Ethan pushed, every time Leo demanded answers, the same truth emerged: someone powerful, too powerful, was erasing every trace.
"We're dealing with a ghost," Ethan murmured.
Leo shook his head. "No. A monster."
Damian let out a bitter laugh. "Maybe someone finally worse than me, huh?"
Clara shot him a freezing look. "This isn't a competition, Damian."
But inside Leo… Leo burned with one thought only: Naiara was out there, alone and she didn't know who was fighting for her.
He clenched his jaw. "We find her," he said, "or I'll burn the world down." No one doubted he meant it.
Naiara woke with a shock running down her spine, she had dreamt of grey eyes.
Of hands that could destroy or protect, of a gesture that made no sense, bringing her mother to her, safe, unharmed, cherished.
She sat up in bed, confused by the heaviness in her chest.
Why? Why would a man who called himself a monster treat her mother like a queen?
Before she could decide what to think, the three blonde women entered.
The one who always spoke held a large box and something in her expression was different.
Almost… curious, almost human.
"For you," she said, handing her the box.
Naiara took it, suspicious. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
The woman hesitated. "Because… the Lord has never behaved this way. Not with anyone."
A shiver ran through Naiara.
When they left, she opened the box: inside was a gown of deep cherry-red silk and velvet. Breathtaking, dangerous and matching heels that could ruin a man's life.
On top of the dress sat a small card:
Have breakfast with me.
Her stomach twisted, a fevered heat shot through her chest, her neck, her cheeks.
That's all it took… A few words.
She hated how easily he could do that to her, hated it… and still wanted more.
On the bed sat a simple workout outfit: black leggings, white top. She changed, tied her hair, inhaled deeply, and walked to the grand dining hall.
He wasn't there yet. She sat, trying to steady her pulse, then she saw him: tracksuit, dark-blond hair slightly messy, effortlessly elegant. Eyes that could command an army with a glance.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
He sat across from her, crossed his arms on the table… and smirked. "You look disappointed," he said.
"I don't look anything," she replied, too fast.
He chuckled. "Little strawberry , if you wanted me dressed like last night, you should have said so."
Her face heated instantly. "I didn't… I wasn't…"
"Oh, you were," he cut in, leaning closer. "Your pulse is faster today. Interesting."
"Maybe it's because you scare me," she muttered.
"Or maybe," he murmured, "you like the way I scare you."
Her breath hitched.
He tapped his fork against the table, amused. "After breakfast… you'll train with me."
"Train?"
He tilted his head. "You need to know how to hurt someone who tries to cage you. Even me."
Her heart skipped violently.
The room was enormous: private gym, mats, weights, a fighting ring. Impressive and intimidating.
He walked ahead, confident, predatory, beautiful in a way that made her nerves riot.
"Stand here," he said, pointing to the mat.
She obeyed.
"Feet apart. Hands up. Don't think, react."
He moved fast… Too fast. One second she stood tall. The next, she was pinned to the floor beneath him.
His body didn't crush hers, barely touched but his warmth, the closeness… It was a different kind of danger.
"Right now," he murmured, "you'd be dead."
She swallowed. He wasn't lying. She glared up at him. "That's because you didn't give me time or technique."
"I'll give you both," he replied. "If you learn."
She stared into his eyes furious, trembling.
"Why are you doing all this?" she whispered.
"Training me. Protecting me. Treating me like I matter. Why?"
He frowned. "All this? What do you think all this is?"
"You're teaching me to fight," she said softly.
"Why? I'm just a trophy to you, right?"
His gaze darkened. A shadow crossed his features, raw, dangerous, intimate.
He moved one hand slowly, deliberately, letting her see every motion.
Then he placed his palm over her scar.
Naiara froze. Her breath vanished.
"Because," he said quietly, "unlike every other woman I've known… you've already suffered. But you didn't break."
A tear slipped down her cheek. He caught it with his thumb… Too gently.
"Didn't you say I shouldn't expect kindness from you?" she whispered.
He exhaled long, tense. Then, softly:
"What am I to you, little strawberry ?"
Her heart lurched painfully, because she didn't know.
After a long silence, she whispered:
"I can tell you what you're not anymore."
He tilted his head, not like a predator, but almost… confused.
"You're not a monster anymore," she said. "Not… to me."
For a single second, she thought his eyes changed color. Then he got up abruptly.
"Tonight there's an important gathering here. I want you to wear the dress you received. And come with me."
Her pulse raced. She forced a smirk.
"Is that an invitation to dinner, sir?"
His lips curled into a slow, devastating smile.
"Depends," he murmured, "on how hungry you'll be, little strawberry ."
The shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with food.