Chapter 19
1256 Words
Chapter 19
CASSIAN’S POV
I should have known she’d go behind my back.
The moment Luna told me she was “just going to get some air,” I knew it wasn’t just a walk. There was a look in her eyes—part stubborn fire, part quiet storm—that told me she was done waiting for the truth. She wanted it. Needed it. And she wouldn’t wait for me to give it to her.
So when I got the alert on my phone—unauthorized access to the family archives—I knew exactly who it was.
I drove faster than I should have. The Montalbano estate loomed in the distance, perched on its lonely cliff like a predator. Cold, regal, merciless.
Just like the man inside.
My uncle.
Marco Montalbano had always played the long game. Patient. Calculated. Ruthless. He had built the empire, fed it with blood and bones, and now sat on his throne of silence, watching everyone else dance on the strings he pulled.
And now Luma was inside. With him.
By the time I reached the gates, my hands were clenched so tightly the steering wheel creaked. I didn’t wait for the guards to ask questions—I stormed through the front door like a war.
The butler appeared, startled. “Sir—”
“Where is she?” I snapped.
“In the study,” he stammered. “With Mr. Montalbano.”
I didn’t knock.
I threw open the study door, and there she was—standing across from Marco like a goddamn flame. Chin high, shoulders squared, eyes ablaze with defiance. And she was holding something. A sealed black envelope.
“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.
Luma turned, startled, but not ashamed. “You tell me.”
Marco smiled that serpent’s smile. “Cassian. Always so dramatic.”
I ignored him. My eyes were on her. “You went behind my back.”
“I had to,” she said, voice sharp. “You wouldn’t tell me the truth. So I came looking for it.”
I walked toward her, slow, controlled. “And did you find it?”
She lifted the envelope between us. “Not yet. But he says this holds the answers.”
I glanced at my uncle, fury pulsing through me. “You gave her that?”
“She’s entitled to it,” Marco said coolly. “She is family, after all.”
I stiffened. “Don’t.”
“She deserves to know who she is.”
“She knows who she is,” I snapped. “She’s Luna. That’s all.”
Marco raised a brow. “Is it?”
Luna’s gaze darted between us, confusion and frustration knotting her brows. “Enough games. Someone tell me what the hell is going on.”
I took a step toward her, voice low. “It’s not safe here.”
“I’m not leaving without answers.”
I exhaled hard, rubbing my jaw. “Luna, he’s manipulating you.”
Marco laughed. “Oh, Cassian. You always assume control is manipulation when you’re not the one holding the leash.”
I turned to him, deadly calm. “If you do anything to hurt her—”
“You’ll what?” he said, amused. “Kill me?”
“If I have to.”
Luna stepped between us. “Stop it. Both of you.”
The room simmered with tension, thick as smoke.
Finally, Marco sat down, folding his hands neatly. “Whether you want it or not, the truth is coming. And when it does, you’ll both have to choose which side of this family you want to stand on.”
I looked at the envelope in Luna’s hand. “Don’t open it here.”
She nodded, jaw tight. “Fine. But I will open it.”
We left without another word. The silence in the car was louder than any argument.
Back at the penthouse, Luna paced, the envelope still clutched in her hand.
I watched her, arms crossed. “He’s using you.”
“I’m not an i***t,” she snapped. “I know he has an agenda. But so do you, Cassian. And you’ve been keeping me in the dark.”
“Because I was trying to protect you.”
She whirled on me. “From what? Myself? My blood? Or from falling too deep into your world?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was—all of it.
The more she dug, the more she’d realize how deep the Montalbano rot ran. It wasn’t just money or power or politics. It was blood-stained deals, betrayals, and secrets buried so deep they hummed beneath the floorboards.
“I should’ve told you sooner,” I said finally. “But once I did, there was no going back.”
Her eyes softened, but only slightly. “You already dragged me in, Cassian.”
She was right.
I had kissed her. Touched her. Fallen into her like a man starved for oxygen.
And now we were both drowning.
She moved to the kitchen counter, laying the envelope down. Her fingers hovered over it. “Do you think I’ll regret it?”
“Maybe.”
“Will you?”
My throat tightened. “Every damn second.”
She nodded slowly. “Then let’s not open it tonight.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I want one more night,” she said, turning to face me. “Without secrets. Without bloodlines. Just…you and me.”
I stepped closer. “You sure?”
“No.” She smiled faintly. “But I need it.”
So we didn’t open it.
Not that night.
Instead, I cooked—badly, but she still smiled. We drank half a bottle of wine, played music on low, slow dancing barefoot in the kitchen like two people who had nothing to lose.
She wore one of my shirts.
I memorized her in it.
At one point, I pressed my forehead to hers and whispered, “If I asked you to disappear with me, would you?”
She hesitated.
And that was enough.
“I can’t,” she said. “Not yet.”
I nodded. “Then I’ll protect you from here.”
Later, in bed, she curled into my chest and fell asleep with her fingers tangled in mine.
I stayed awake.
Watching the shadows on the ceiling.
Listening to the sound of her breath.
And knowing—deep down—that we were standing at the edge of something neither of us could walk back from.
The next morning, I woke to find her sitting at the window, the envelope in her lap. The light from the sunrise caught her hair, gilding it in gold, but her face was pale.
She hadn’t opened it yet.
“You still want to know?” I asked.
She didn’t turn around. “I have to.”
I walked over, knelt in front of her. “Whatever’s inside that paper—it doesn’t define you.”
Her eyes met mine. “Maybe not. But it will explain why I’ve always felt like I didn’t belong.”
“You belong here. With me.”
Her lips parted slightly, breath catching.
Then, slowly, she nodded.
“I’ll wait,” she said. “Until tonight.”
I kissed her fingers.
She didn’t let go.
But even as we held each other, I knew what was coming.
A storm.
A reckoning.
And once the truth was out, there would be no more pretending.
Only survival.
- Writer
