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The rain had stopped hours ago, but the sky remained a brooding slate of gray, casting a muted light over the estate’s marble floors. The scent of damp stone lingered in the air, mingling with the faint trace of woodsmoke curling from the ornate fireplace in the DeLuca mansion’s library. Elena sat curled in a high-backed velvet chair, her legs tucked beneath her, a leather-bound journal open in her lap. She wasn’t writing—hadn’t in days—but the familiar weight of it grounded her, a relic from a time when thoughts were private and feelings weren’t ammunition. Across from her, Alessandro leaned against the dark wooden frame of a bookshelf, sleeves rolled up, his shirt collar open, revealing the faint shadows of bruises that hadn’t yet faded. For a rare, fleeting moment, the world outside d
- Writer
