What they take
1654 Words
Chapter Fifteen
What They Take
Lucien did not answer immediately.
The silence after the doorman spoke stretched sharp and thin.
“Eliminate him from the lobby,” Matteo’s sleepy voice said from the phone speaker. He had apparently joined the security line uninvited. “Politely if cameras are present.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened.
“No one touches him yet.”
Elara stared.
“You’re letting him up?”
“No.”
He pressed the intercom.
“Keep him downstairs. Offer coffee. Delay him.”
The doorman sounded terrified. “Yes, sir.”
Lucien ended the call and was already moving.
Trousers. Shirt. Holster.
“Elara, stay here.”
“That phrase has lost all authority.”
“This is not performance. It’s Domenico.”
“I know.”
“He is dangerous.”
“So am I before breakfast.”
Despite everything, a flicker of amusement crossed his face.
Then vanished.
“Lock this door behind me.”
He left before she could answer.
She locked it.
Then unlocked it again out of principle.
⸻
The lobby looked too elegant for family warfare.
Marble floors. Quiet music. Fresh flowers. A receptionist pretending not to witness organized tension.
Domenico Moretti stood near the windows with a cane he clearly did not need.
He was silver-haired, immaculately dressed, and handsome in the way some knives were beautiful. Age had refined him rather than softened him.
He smiled when Lucien approached.
“There you are.”
“You have sixty seconds.”
“Still dramatic.”
“You have fifty-five.”
Domenico looked him over slowly.
“You wear power better than your father did.”
“I wear restraint better too. Use it wisely.”
A low chuckle.
Then Domenico’s gaze drifted toward the elevators.
“She’s prettier than the photographs.”
Lucien moved so fast the older man barely finished the sentence before he was pinned against the marble pillar by his throat.
Security surged forward.
Lucien lifted one hand without looking.
They froze.
“You do not look at her,” Lucien said quietly. “You do not say her name. You do not imagine her. Understand?”
Domenico coughed once, still smiling.
“There you are.”
Lucien released him with disgust.
The older man adjusted his coat.
“I came to help.”
“You came because your money is gone.”
“I came because enemies of ours are aligning.”
“We have no ours.”
“You have my blood.”
“I have your surname. Regrettably.”
Domenico’s smile thinned.
“Your father built an empire. You are dismantling it for a girl.”
Lucien’s eyes went flat.
“I’m improving it despite men like you.”
“Love makes men charitable. Then weak.”
Lucien stepped closer.
“Leave this building. If you contact her, I bury you where no one can charge parking.”
Domenico tilted his head.
“Your mother once said nearly the same thing.”
Then he turned and walked out before Lucien could decide whether murder in daylight was worth the paperwork.
⸻
When Lucien returned upstairs, Elara was dressed and making coffee.
“You went without me.”
“I enjoy life.”
“You look murderous.”
“I met family.”
She handed him a mug.
He accepted it like a peace treaty.
“How bad?”
“He mentioned you.”
Her expression cooled.
“Then I dislike him already.”
“He mentioned my mother.”
“I dislike him professionally now.”
He almost smiled.
Then she stepped closer.
“Did he scare you?”
“No.”
“Did he shake old wounds?”
His silence answered.
She touched his jaw.
“You don’t owe broken men anything because they share your name.”
He closed his eyes briefly under her hand.
“You make everything sound simple.”
“No,” she said softly. “I make it sound possible.”
⸻
For three days nothing happened.
Which was how Elara knew something would.
Lucien became impossible.
He changed routes twice on short drives. Reassigned building staff. Installed additional cameras despite her protests.
“You’re turning our home into a paranoid aquarium.”
“It’s temporary.”
“You said that about the biometric pantry.”
“That remains useful.”
“It judges me.”
“It tracks inventory.”
“It judges me.”
He kissed her forehead to end the argument.
It almost worked.
⸻
On the fourth day, Elara went out alone.
Not truly alone—two discreet security agents trailed at distance because Lucien had the soul of a tyrant—but alone enough to breathe.
She visited a bookstore café three neighborhoods away.
Browsed novels.
Bought tea.
Sat by the window writing a grocery list that slowly became a list of reasons Lucien was unreasonable.
She was on reason number fourteen when the woman sat opposite her.
Elegant. Mid-fifties. Navy coat. Pearl earrings.
“May I?”
“You already did.”
The woman smiled faintly.
“You’re sharper than I expected.”
Elara’s pulse shifted.
“Do I know you?”
“No. But I knew Lucien’s mother.”
Every instinct in Elara went alert.
She glanced outside.
One security man was suddenly on his phone, looking confused. The other nowhere visible.
Drugged coffee? Distracted? Bought off?
The woman noticed the glance.
“They’re unharmed. Delayed.”
“Who are you?”
“Isabella Vieri.”
The name meant nothing to Elara.
The woman leaned in slightly.
“I was once promised to Domenico. Then sold instead to one of his allies.”
Cold moved through Elara.
“What do you want?”
“To give you a warning.”
“I don’t accept those from strangers.”
“You should from survivors.”
The woman slid a small envelope across the table.
“He intends to take something Lucien cannot replace.”
Elara didn’t touch it.
“Which is?”
“You.”
Before Elara could respond, the woman stood.
“Tell Lucien ghosts never arrive alone.”
Then she walked out into the street crowd and vanished.
⸻
Lucien arrived twelve minutes later furious enough to distort the air.
He strode into the café, found Elara unharmed, and stopped only long enough to drag her into his arms.
She held him back just as tightly.
“You sent guards who can be distracted by pastry,” she said into his chest.
“They’re fired.”
“They were drugged.”
“They’re still fired.”
He pulled back, scanning her face, hands, throat.
“Did she touch you?”
“No.”
“Threaten you?”
“Not exactly.”
She handed him the envelope.
He opened it.
Inside were photographs.
An old riverside property.
Warehouse style. Private dock.
Lucien’s expression changed.
“What?”
“My father’s first safehouse.”
“Domenico’s using it?”
“Or wants me to think he is.”
She told him everything.
He listened without interrupting, which meant rage was busy elsewhere.
When she finished, he asked only one question.
“Why were you alone?”
She blinked.
“Really?”
“It matters.”
“I had guards.”
“Pastry victims.”
“Lucien.”
He looked away, jaw hard.
“You disappear for an hour and I become someone I hate.”
Her anger softened.
She stepped closer.
“Then stop trying to own what you love.”
His gaze snapped back to hers.
“I don’t own you.”
“No.”
She touched his chest.
“But fear keeps trying.”
The truth hit cleanly.
He said nothing.
Because he had none.
⸻
That night they went to the riverside property together.
No debate this time.
Matteo led a team around the perimeter while Lucien and Elara entered through the front.
Dust. Rotting wood. Broken furniture.
Ghosts of power.
In the central room stood one chair.
And on it, a music box.
Elara frowned.
Lucien went still.
“What is it?”
“It was my mother’s.”
He approached slowly, opened it.
The old melody trembled into the room.
Inside the lid was a note.
You can still be taught to kneel.
Lucien shut the box so hard it splintered.
Matteo entered fast.
“Place is clean. No people.”
Then saw Lucien’s face.
“Oh. We’re at murder levels.”
Elara picked up something glinting beneath the chair.
A small camera.
Recording.
She held it up.
“He wanted your reaction.”
Lucien looked at her.
Then at the camera.
Then smiled.
It was a terrible smile.
“Good,” he said softly.
“Let him watch.”
⸻
Back at the penthouse, Lucien paced while Matteo worked contacts.
Elara sat quietly until she was tired of masculine spiraling.
“Enough.”
Both men looked at her.
She stood.
“He wants panic. He wants rage. He wants Lucien dragged backward by blood and grief.”
Lucien’s expression remained dangerous.
“He has succeeded partially.”
She walked to him.
“Then disappoint him.”
“How?”
“By taking nothing.”
He frowned.
She touched his cheek.
“He thinks I am something to steal. A weakness to threaten.”
Her voice steadied.
“Then let me become the mistake he made.”
Matteo whistled softly.
“I love when she gets strategic.”
Lucien stared at her for a long moment.
Then lowered his forehead to hers.
“This is the part where I should refuse.”
“Yes.”
“I won’t.”
His voice dropped.
“But if anything happens—”
She kissed him once.
“Then you’ll overreact beautifully later.”
For the first time all day, he laughed.
Darkly.
Hopelessly.
In love.
And somewhere across the city, an old predator believed he had baited a frightened girl.
He had not noticed the teeth.
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