The devil unveiled
768 Words
Chapter 4
The crimson threat lingered in Bianca’s thoughts like smoke in her lungs.
The girl dies first.
She couldn’t erase the words. Couldn’t erase the way Lorenzo’s expression had hardened into something deadly the moment he read them. That night, the estate’s atmosphere shifted. Guards multiplied. Shadows seemed thicker. Even the silence carried weight, like a storm crouched on the horizon.
Bianca tried to retreat into her work, but the art could no longer soothe her. Every frame seemed a prison, every sculpture a sentinel watching her movements. By evening, she could no longer bear it. She needed answers.
She found Lorenzo in his private lounge — a room dimly lit by a fire that painted gold across the planes of his face. He was pouring whiskey into a cut-glass tumbler, his jacket discarded, sleeves rolled back to reveal the tension carved into his forearms.
“You’re avoiding me,” Bianca said, more accusingly than she intended.
He looked up, one brow arching. “On the contrary. I am keeping you alive.”
She stepped further inside. “Alive, yes. But ignorant. I need to know what’s happening. Who are these people? Why are they after me?”
Lorenzo’s gaze sharpened, cutting into her. “They are after me. You are only the message.”
“That’s not an answer.”
His jaw clenched. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he set the glass down, the sound sharp against the table.
“My enemies do not strike me directly. They know I am untouchable. So they reach for what they believe I care for.”
Bianca’s chest tightened. “But I’m nothing to you. Just a historian.”
He crossed the room in two strides, towering over her, his presence consuming. “You are in my house. You bear my name on their lips. That is enough.”
Her pulse skittered, but she refused to look away. “That’s not fair. I never asked for this.”
His hand brushed against her cheek, almost tender, though his words carried the edge of command. “No one asks to be claimed by fire, Bianca. It simply burns.”
Her breath caught, heat flooding her. The world seemed to narrow to the space between them — the roughness of his fingers against her skin, the storm in his eyes, the dangerous pull that had been growing between them since the moment she walked into his gallery.
She should have stepped back. Instead, she whispered, “And if I don’t want to be burned?”
His lips curved, dark and possessive. “Then why are you still here?”
Bianca’s heart pounded as his mouth descended, claiming hers in a kiss that was not gentle, not cautious, but fierce. His taste was whiskey and smoke, his grip unyielding at her waist as though daring her to resist.
And yet, she didn’t resist. She melted into him, her fingers tangling in his shirt, her body betraying every logical thought. It was madness — but in that moment, she didn’t care.
When he finally tore away, his breath ragged, he pressed his forehead to hers. “You are playing a dangerous game, piccola,” he murmured. “And I do not lose.”
Bianca’s knees trembled. “Maybe I don’t either.”
The fire crackled, heat wrapping around them, but before anything more could ignite, the door burst open. One of his guards rushed in, face pale.
“Signore—” he began, then hesitated at the sight of Bianca in Lorenzo’s arms.
Lorenzo’s voice was a low growl. “Speak.”
The guard swallowed. “There’s been… a breach. The outer wall. Someone left a mark.”
Lorenzo stiffened. “What mark?”
The guard held up a phone, screen glowing. A photo. Bianca’s blood ran cold as she saw it: the symbol from the crimson envelope — a circle crossed with a dagger — spray-painted across the stone in dripping black.
But that wasn’t all.
Beside it, painted in blood-red strokes, was her name.
Bianca.
Her legs nearly gave out, but Lorenzo’s grip tightened, steadying her. His eyes blazed with fury, darker than she had ever seen.
“They are no longer sending warnings,” he said, his voice like ice over steel. “They are inside my gates.”
Bianca’s heart hammered. “What does that mean?”
Lorenzo looked down at her, his gaze fierce and unrelenting.
“It means,” he said slowly, “you will not leave my side. Not for a single moment. From this second forward, you belong entirely to me.”
- Writer
