The rain came softly that night.
Not the violent kind that tore at windows and roared against rooftops, but a quiet, persistent drizzle that soaked the marble courtyards and cloaked the De Luca estate in a humid hush. The air was heavy, as if holding its breath—like the walls knew something was about to shift.
Aria stood by her bedroom window, arms wrapped around herself. She wasn’t cold, not exactly, but something inside her trembled. Maybe it was the memory of Luciano’s last words. Maybe it was the way her pulse still hadn’t settled since their conversation that afternoon—if you could call it that.
He’d touched her again.
Not cruelly. Not even intimately.
But with that devastating control he always carried—fingers brushing the small of her back as he passed, like she was his to guid
