The mansion did not sleep that night.
It waited.
The hallways were too quiet — the kind of quiet that comes after something breaks.
Guards moved like ghosts, shadows crossing marble.
Somewhere in the east wing, glass was being swept off the floor, the faint clinking echoing like small reminders that peace had a price.
Zara sat in the study. Alone.
The fire burned low — gold and orange, restless.
She didn't remember walking here. Only the need to be where it was warm, where she could think.
Her hands were still trembling.
She could still hear it — the gunfire, the sound of Lucian's voice, the way Lorenzo's name had felt like a weapon on someone else's tongue.
It wasn't fear that sat in her chest now. It was knowing.
Knowing that she had crossed a line she couldn't uncross.
That she'd seen Lorenzo De Luca not as the man behind the mansion… but as the man the mansion was built to protect.
The door opened.
She didn't turn immediately. She knew the sound of his steps now — measured, deliberate, like each one came with the weight of a decision.
"Couldn't sleep?" Lorenzo's voice was quiet. Controlled.
Zara exhaled. "Did you?"
"No."
He walked past her, toward the decanter by the fire. Poured himself a glass of whiskey. His hand was steady, but his eyes were not. The reflection of the flames made them look too alive.
He took a sip, then another, before asking, "Are you hurt?"
Zara shook her head. "You should've asked that hours ago."
"I did," he said. "Just not out loud."
That made her look at him.
There was something fragile in his expression, buried beneath the usual steel — not weakness, but exhaustion from always having to be strong.
She gestured to his arm. "You didn't let me finish bandaging that."
"It's nothing."
"You're bleeding through your sleeve."
Lorenzo glanced down. The makeshift cloth was dark now, soaked through. He sighed, set the glass aside, and rolled his sleeve up.
Zara stood and crossed the room before he could stop her.
"Sit," she said softly.
He did.
The wound wasn't deep, but it was raw. Her hands worked in silence — slow, careful, wrapping a clean piece of gauze she'd found in a drawer.
The firelight brushed against their faces — gold against shadow.
"You're good at this," he murmured.
Zara's lips curved faintly. "I'm studying nursing, remember?"
He smiled — briefly, tiredly. "Right. I keep forgetting you had a life before this."
She paused. "And what is this exactly?"
His smile faded. He looked into the fire instead of at her. "Temporary."
"That's a lie," she said quietly.
He said nothing.
Zara tied the last knot, then leaned back, meeting his eyes. "You said Lucian wanted to see what could break you. I think he already knows."
Lorenzo's jaw tightened. "He's guessing."
"He's right."
Lorenzo looked up sharply — but there was no anger in his gaze, only truth.
Zara swallowed. "You told me once I wasn't your weakness."
"You're not."
"Then why does it feel like I am?"
The words hung there, heavy and alive.
Lorenzo stood, turning away from her, as if the distance could make the truth smaller.
"I can't afford to care about you," he said finally. "Not in this world. Not when every choice I make has a body attached to it."
Zara rose too. "Then stop pretending you don't."
He turned back, eyes sharp. "You think this is simple?"
"No," she said. "I think it's real."
Lorenzo's chest rose and fell — once, twice — before he closed the space between them in two steps.
"You don't understand what he'll do," he said, voice low. "Lucian doesn't kill to win. He kills to send messages. He wants me to watch everything I value burn."
"Then stop giving him something to burn," Zara whispered.
"I can't."
"Why?"
He hesitated — just long enough for the silence to say what he wouldn't.
Zara looked up at him. "Because you already love me."
It wasn't a question.
It wasn't even accusation.
It was truth dressed like a wound.
Lorenzo's breath caught. He didn't deny it. He couldn't.
Instead, he said, almost brokenly, "You don't know what love looks like in my world."
Zara's voice trembled. "Then show me."
The fire cracked. The sound filled the space between them — a sound like surrender.
Lorenzo stepped closer until her back met the edge of the desk. The air was thick — with fear, with want, with everything neither of them had said.
He raised a hand, fingers brushing her jaw — hesitant, reverent. "You should hate me for what I've dragged you into."
"I should," she breathed. "But I don't."
He smiled, small and tragic. "That's what scares me."
She felt his pulse under her fingers when she touched his wrist — fast, human, unguarded.
"You keep trying to protect me from your world," she whispered. "But maybe I'm supposed to be part of it."
Lorenzo closed his eyes, forehead resting lightly against hers.
His voice was barely there. "If you stay, you'll lose pieces of yourself you won't get back."
"Maybe they were never mine to keep."
A silence followed — deep and raw and alive.
Then he kissed her.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't even gentle. It was everything restrained finally breaking — desperation turned into touch.
The fire roared louder.
Her hands gripped his shirt.
His breath shuddered against her lips.
For a moment, the world outside — Lucian, power, danger — disappeared.
When he pulled back, his eyes looked almost haunted. "This shouldn't have happened."
Zara searched his face. "Then why did it?"
Lorenzo exhaled shakily. "Because you make me forget I'm supposed to be alone."
She felt something twist in her chest. "You're not."
"You don't know that yet."
He stepped back then — as if distance could undo what just happened.
His voice was cold again, but only because it needed to be.
"I need to meet with Ricco and the others," he said. "We'll strengthen the perimeter. Lucian won't strike again so soon."
"And me?" Zara asked quietly.
Lorenzo's eyes softened just enough to break her. "Stay where I can find you."
Then he left.
---
Zara sat back down slowly, her pulse still unsteady. The room smelled of smoke and whiskey and something she couldn't name.
She stared at the fire until her eyes burned.
What scared her most wasn't what had happened.
It was what she wanted to happen again.
Outside, thunder rolled — distant, warning.
---
Later that night
Mia found her on the balcony.
"You should be asleep," Mia said, leaning against the railing.
Zara smiled faintly. "You sound like him."
Mia snorted. "God forbid."
Zara looked at her. "You've known him longer than I have. Tell me the truth — is there any part of him Lucian hasn't touched?"
Mia was silent for a while. Then she said, "Lucian didn't create Lorenzo. He just burned the softness out of him."
Zara nodded slowly. "Then maybe it's time someone reminded him how to be soft again."
Mia studied her — not unkindly, but with something like pity. "Be careful, Zara. Men like Lorenzo don't fall in love. They fall into possession."
Zara's voice was steady. "Maybe I'll change that."
Mia shook her head. "Or maybe he'll change you."
Then she walked away.
Zara stayed, the night air brushing her skin.
In the distance, the city lights looked like constellations — close enough to touch, far enough to burn.
Somewhere below, she heard Lorenzo's voice — low, commanding, talking to Ricco in the courtyard.
His tone was calm again. Controlled. The mask was back on.
But she'd seen what was underneath it now.
And that was the problem.
She turned back to the sky and whispered, to no one in particular,
"If this is what fire feels like… I don't think I want to be saved from it."
---
In the basement below the east wing
A shadow moved.
One of the guards on duty was slumped against the wall — breathing, but barely.
A door that hadn't been opened in years now stood slightly ajar.
Inside, the dark smelled like dust and memory.
A voice echoed — faint, amused.
"So this is where he hides his ghosts."
Lucian's hand trailed along the old stone as he stepped inside, eyes glinting.
"Let's see what secrets my dear brother keeps from his pretty little weakness."
He smiled.
And above them, unaware, Zara shivered — as if her body already knew something her mind didn't.