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The wind howled outside the tall windows of the DeLuca mansion, rattling against the stained glass like a warning whispered by the night. Inside Elena’s quarters, the air was heavy, too still. Shadows curled along the walls, long and restless, like ghosts pacing behind her back. She stood barefoot near the window, arms wrapped around herself. The silk of her robe did little to chase away the chill seeping into her bones. It wasn’t the weather—it was the dread curling in her gut like smoke from a fire that refused to die. A week had passed since the assassination attempt. Since Alessandro had almost bled out in her arms. And in that week, the silence had grown louder than any gunshot. The mansion no longer felt like a prison; it felt like a powder keg. She pressed her forehead against th
- Writer
