The last war
1339 Words
Chapter Sixteen
The Last War
By morning, Elara had a plan.
Lucien hated it immediately.
“That alone recommends it,” Matteo said.
Lucien didn’t look at him.
“Speak again and I’ll reassign you to accounting.”
Matteo paled theatrically.
“I apologize.”
Elara spread photographs across the kitchen island—the safehouse, camera angles, traffic routes, docks, names Matteo had gathered overnight.
“He wants me isolated,” she said. “So we give him confidence.”
“We give him nothing,” Lucien replied.
“We give him bait he cannot resist.”
“You are not bait.”
“I’m the reason he thinks he can control you.”
“That is different.”
“It is the definition.”
Lucien’s jaw hardened.
“No.”
She folded her arms.
“You said we were partners.”
“We are.”
“Then stop promoting me only during speeches.”
Matteo choked on coffee.
Lucien turned slowly.
“Why are you still here?”
“Because history is happening.”
Elara stepped closer.
“You cannot solve every threat by locking me behind glass.”
“I can try.”
“And fail.”
His gaze held hers.
The room quieted.
Finally he exhaled.
“Say the plan.”
⸻
The setup was simple enough to be dangerous.
Word would leak that Elara would attend a charity opening alone that evening while Lucien remained at a board dinner across town.
Domenico, believing Lucien occupied and Elara exposed, would move.
Except Lucien would not be at dinner.
Matteo’s teams would control the venue.
And Elara would know exactly where every exit stood.
Lucien hated every syllable.
“You stay within sight of two agents at all times.”
“No.”
He stared.
“No?”
“If they hover, he won’t approach.”
“One agent.”
“No visible agents.”
“Elara.”
“Trust me.”
“That phrase has historically expensive consequences.”
She softened.
“Please.”
He went silent.
Then muttered something in Italian that sounded like prayer and threat combined.
Matteo smiled.
“Was that consent?”
“No,” Lucien said coldly. “That was despair.”
⸻
The charity opening occupied a renovated art gallery downtown—white walls, glass frontage, tasteful people pretending to understand sculpture.
Elara wore a black dress Lucien selected because it was “less distracting.”
She informed him that was impossible.
Now she entered alone.
Music floated through the rooms. Waiters moved with champagne trays. Donors laughed too loudly.
Tiny earpiece in place.
Matteo’s voice murmured, “North hall clear.”
Another voice: “Rear exit covered.”
Lucien said nothing.
She knew he was listening.
“Breathe,” she whispered under her breath.
“I am breathing,” came his dry reply.
“You sound homicidal.”
“I contain multitudes.”
She almost smiled.
She moved slowly through the gallery, pausing at paintings she barely saw.
Ten minutes passed.
Twenty.
Then a waiter offered champagne she hadn’t seen enter.
Older hand. Too steady.
Eyes that did not belong to catering.
“Miss.”
She took the glass but didn’t drink.
“Thank you.”
A folded note beneath the napkin.
Terrace. Alone. Or he dies first.
Her pulse steadied instead of spiking.
“Matteo,” she murmured.
“We heard.”
Lucien’s voice cut in, low and lethal.
“No terrace.”
“He expects fear,” Elara said softly.
“He can expect disappointment from prison.”
She headed toward the terrace doors anyway.
“Elara.”
“You trusted me enough to hate this plan.”
She stepped outside.
⸻
The rooftop terrace overlooked the river, lights reflecting below. Wind moved through potted trees and expensive furniture.
Domenico stood near the railing, cane in hand, immaculate as ever.
“You came alone.”
“No,” Elara said. “I came first.”
His smile sharpened.
“I underestimated you.”
“Many old men do.”
He laughed genuinely.
“There you are. You suit this family.”
“I’d rather drown.”
He studied her.
“You know, Lucien’s mother had your eyes.”
The attempt was surgical.
Elara gave him nothing.
“You drag dead women into conversations often. It suggests weakness.”
His smile thinned.
“You think you’ve changed him.”
“I think he changed himself.”
“He is Moretti blood. Violence waits under the skin.”
“So does fear, apparently.”
The cane struck tile once.
“Careful.”
“Or what?”
He took a step closer.
“Or I show you what men like us take when denied respect.”
A second voice answered from the doorway.
“No,” Lucien said. “You show me what cowards say when old.”
Domenico turned.
Lucien stood framed in the open doors, coat unbuttoned, gun holstered but unnecessary.
Behind him, Matteo and two agents sealed exits.
For the first time, Domenico’s calm flickered.
“You lied about the dinner.”
Lucien walked forward slowly.
“You lied about being relevant.”
Domenico lifted the cane.
A blade slid from its handle.
Matteo sighed.
“Oh, come on.”
Domenico lunged—not at Lucien.
At Elara.
She moved first.
Weeks of drills with security, angry practice sessions, and pure instinct answered in one motion.
She stepped aside, caught his wrist, and drove her knee hard into his side.
The blade clattered across tile.
Domenico staggered.
Lucien crossed the distance like violence made human and slammed him to the ground.
Agents surged in.
“Hands!” Matteo barked.
Domenico coughed, still trying to smile through pain.
“There he is.”
Lucien’s fist tightened in the older man’s collar.
Every old lesson stood in his eyes.
Every dark inheritance.
Elara saw the exact second murder became possible.
She walked to him and touched his shoulder.
“Lucien.”
He didn’t move.
“Look at me.”
Slowly, he did.
“Do not let him choose who you become.”
Wind moved around them.
Sirens wailed faintly below.
Domenico laughed weakly.
“She commands beautifully.”
Lucien never looked away from Elara.
Then, with visible effort, he released the man.
Matteo signaled agents, who hauled Domenico upright in cuffs.
“You’re making a mistake,” the old man spat.
Lucien’s voice was quiet enough to chill bone.
“No. I’m ending a tradition.”
Police burst through the terrace doors moments later.
Domenico shouted threats all the way out.
No one listened.
⸻
After the chaos, the rooftop emptied.
Only city wind remained.
Elara stood by the railing, adrenaline shaking loose from her hands.
Lucien approached slowly.
“You disobeyed three direct instructions.”
“You had many.”
“You kneed an elderly man.”
“He was armed.”
“He was seventy-two.”
“He was rude.”
Despite everything, he laughed once.
Then pulled her into him so hard she felt the tremor he’d been hiding.
“You terrified me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I am serious.”
“So am I.”
She drew back enough to meet his eyes.
“You let him go.”
“I wanted to kill him.”
“I know.”
“I still do.”
“I know.”
He exhaled sharply.
“I hate that mercy feels unfinished.”
She touched his face.
“It isn’t mercy.”
“What is it?”
“Freedom.”
The word hit deeper than any bullet ever had.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Then kissed her under the open night sky—long, fierce, grateful.
When they parted, Matteo called from the doorway:
“Very moving. Also, the press is downstairs.”
Lucien didn’t turn.
“Burn the building.”
“Excellent,” Matteo said. “He’s healing.”
Elara laughed against Lucien’s chest.
Below them, the city moved on.
Above it, the last war had ended not with blood—
but with a choice.
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