The air inside the De Luca estate did not clear after the execution in the subterranean vaults. It thickened, weighted down by a raw, unspoken psychological warfare that simmered between us every hour of the day.
Lucien began seeking me out.
He didn't break his rules. He didn't cross the threshold into my private quarters, nor did he offer a warm word or a soft touch. But his presence became a dark, ambient constant. Where he used to remain locked inside his western wing command post for days at a time, managing his syndicate's multi-million-dollar distribution networks, he now gravitated toward whichever room echoed with my music.
If I sat in the grand library reading, I would look up to find him standing near the tall mahogany bookshelves, pretending to inspect financial dossiers whil
