Il Lupo’s Hunt
1022 Words
Bianca couldn’t breathe inside the villa anymore.
After the attack, after the endless questions that got her nowhere, after Lorenzo’s cryptic answers, the walls felt like they were closing in on her. Every corridor whispered secrets she wasn’t allowed to know. Every locked door made her feel like a prisoner instead of a guest.
And worst of all, every time Lorenzo looked at her, she felt… trapped.
Trapped by the weight of his gaze.
Trapped by the invisible leash he’d placed around her.
Trapped by the fact that she wanted answers — and he wasn’t giving them.
So she made a decision. A stupid one.
She waited until midnight, until the villa was quiet except for the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below, and she slipped out through the servants’ entrance.
The plan was simple: find someone in town, someone who knew her father, someone who could tell her why the Rossettis wanted her dead.
But plans don’t mean anything when the wolves are already waiting for you.
She didn’t even make it three streets away before she realized she was being followed.
Two men. Then three. Then five.
The streets were empty, the alleys dark. She quickened her pace, heart pounding, until a hand grabbed her from behind and yanked her into the shadows.
“Look what we have here,” a voice sneered, thick with a southern Italian accent. “La figlia del traditore.”
Bianca struggled, nails clawing at rough hands, but they only laughed.
“Boss’ll pay us good for this one,” another man said. “Alive or dead.”
Her blood turned to ice.
This wasn’t random. This wasn’t bad luck.
This was a hunt.
It happened fast.
A low, feral growl cut through the night, and then gunfire erupted like thunder.
Three of the men dropped instantly, clean shots to the head.
The last two turned — but they didn’t stand a chance.
Lorenzo moved like a predator, stepping out of the shadows with his pistol steady and his gaze burning cold.
“Mine.”
Just one word. But the way he said it made the men hesitate — right before Lorenzo put them both on the ground without blinking.
The silence that followed was louder than the gunshots.
Bianca was trembling, breath ragged, her back pressed against the wall.
Lorenzo turned to her slowly, his expression carved from stone, but his jaw… his jaw was tight enough to c***k.
“Do you have any idea,” he said softly, dangerously, too calmly, “what I would’ve done if they touched you?”
She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.
“You don’t get to walk out of my house, Dolcezza.” His voice was low, vibrating with restrained fury.
“Not when there are men putting bullets in my walls to get to you.”
“I— I just wanted to know the truth—”
Lorenzo stepped forward, backing her to the wall until his shadow swallowed her whole.
“You think you want the truth?” he hissed.
" The truth is blood. It’s a betrayal. It’s your name written in ledgers that get men killed. And you…". He paused, his voice dipping into something darker, rougher. “…you are too f*****g naïve to survive it.”
His hand slammed against the wall beside her head, making her flinch. But he didn’t touch her.
He didn’t need to. His proximity burned hotter than fire.
“From now on,” he growled, “you don’t breathe without me knowing where you are.”
“You can’t—”
“I can,” he snapped. “And I will.”
His voice dropped lower, quieter, deadlier.
“You’re mine to protect, Bianca. That means you’re mine. Don’t make me prove it.”
Back at the villa, Lorenzo dragged her into his office.
“You don’t leave this house again unless I say so.”
“You’re treating me like property—”
“I’m treating you like a woman whose name is written in blood.” He slammed the ledger onto the desk, flipping to the page with her name circled in red.
Bianca stared, frozen, as her father’s name stared back at her too.
“Why is my name there?” she whispered.
Lorenzo said nothing. He just watched her, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.
“Lorenzo,” she tried again, softer this time. “Tell me.”
He looked away, and that silence said everything.
“My father…” Her voice broke. “What did he do?”
Finally, Lorenzo’s gaze snapped back to hers — sharp, merciless.
“Enough,” he said. “Not tonight.”
Later, when the house was quiet again, Bianca sat on the balcony, staring out at the restless waves.
She didn’t hear him come up behind her until his jacket dropped over her shoulders.
“You’ll catch a cold,” he muttered.
She looked up at him, startled. “I thought you were angry with me.”
“I am.”
“Then why—”
“Because even when I’m angry,” he said, stepping close enough that his breath brushed her ear, “I don’t want you to freeze.”
Her heart stuttered. She hated that her body reacted before her brain did.
He lingered there for a long moment, then finally added, softly:
“Don’t make me choose between keeping you safe and keeping my sanity, Dolcezza.”
And just like that, he left, leaving her drowning in questions she didn’t have answers to… and feelings she didn’t want to name.
Downstairs, Matteo was waiting for Lorenzo.
“Boss,” he said grimly, holding up a small black envelope. “This came from the Rossettis.”
Lorenzo ripped it open, scanning the contents. His jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening.
Inside was a single photo.
Bianca.
Taken tonight.
And written in red ink across the bottom:
“La figlia morirà.”
The daughter will die.
Lorenzo crumpled the photo in his fist. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a promise carved from ice:
“Over my dead body.”
- Writer
