Bound to the Devil

Chapter 8: Under the Devil’s Lens

The next morning, the sun felt like an intruder.

I woke up with the phantom weight of Luciano’s hands still marking my skin. Every inch of me felt sensitized, a raw nerve exposed to the cold air of the suite. But as my eyes fell on the vase of white lilies on the vanity, the warmth of the memory vanished, replaced by a chilling realization.

He’s watching.

I sat up slowly, pulling the silk sheets to my chest. I stared at the flowers. They were beautiful, their petals translucent in the morning light, but now they looked like porcelain eyes. I wondered if he was watching me right now—if he saw the way my breath hitched or the way I checked the bruises on my arms from where he had held me.

I forced myself to move with a calm I didn't feel. I went to the bathroom, showered, and dressed in a dark, form-fitting dress that covered my neck but left my arms bare. I didn't look at the lilies again. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing I was afraid.

When I walked into the breakfast nook, Luciano was already there. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal those powerful, scarred forearms. He was reading a newspaper, a cup of black coffee in front of him. He looked like the picture of a sophisticated businessman, not the man who had fired a silenced weapon into the dark only hours before.

"Sit," he said without looking up.

I sat across from him, my back straight. A servant immediately placed a plate of fruit and pastries in front of me, but the scent of the food made my stomach turn.

"I know about the lilies, Luciano," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet of the room.

He lowered the paper slowly. His grey eyes were unreadable, like a fog-covered mountain. "I told you last night that you knew. Why are we discussing it again?"

"Because it’s a violation," I snapped, leaning forward. "You talk about protection and loyalty, but you treat me like a prisoner in a glass cell. Do you watch me when I sleep? When I dress? Does it turn you on to see me when I think I’m alone?"

Luciano set the paper down and leaned in, his shadow stretching across the table. "Everything in this house is mine, Siena. I told you that. I watch because knowledge is the only thing that keeps people like us alive. And as for what 'turns me on'..." He paused, his gaze dropping to my lips. "I don't need a camera to know how your body reacts to me. I felt it last night at the fountain. You were desperate for me, even while you were screaming about my cruelty."

I felt my face heat up. "That was adrenaline. Nothing more."

"Was it?" He stood up and walked around the table. He didn't touch me, but he stood so close I could feel the heat of him. "If I go to your room right now and take you against that vanity, will you tell me it's just adrenaline? Or will you admit that you’re just as obsessed with this fire as I am?"

"You're a narcissist," I hissed, though my heart was already beginning its frantic dance against my ribs.

"And you're a liar," he countered. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "But a beautiful one. Finish your breakfast. We’re going to the city. I have a meeting with your father."

My heart stopped. "My father? Why?"

"There are rumors of a leak in the Russo organization," Luciano said, his tone turning clinical. "Dante Moretti didn't get onto my estate by accident. Someone gave him the patrol schedules. If it was a Russo, your father needs to handle it. If he doesn't, I will."

The threat was clear. If my father couldn't control his men, Luciano would burn the Russo family to the ground to protect his own.

The drive into the city was tense. We were followed by two SUVs of armed guards, their presence a constant reminder of the war simmering beneath the surface of Naples. When we arrived at my father’s villa, it felt strange to be back. Only a few days had passed, but it felt like a lifetime.

Luciano didn't let go of my hand as we walked into my father’s study. His grip was a statement of ownership.

My father looked older. The stress of the merger and the constant threat of the Morettis had carved deep lines into his face. He stood up to greet us, but his eyes stayed on Luciano.

"Luciano. Siena," he said, his voice shaky. "To what do I owe this visit?"

"We have a rat, Marco," Luciano said, bypassing the pleasantries. He sat in the chair across from my father's desk, pulling me down to sit on the arm of his chair. It was an intimate, dominant position. "Dante Moretti was on my grounds last night. He had the bypass codes for the West Gate. Codes that only you and I possess."

My father’s face went pale. "That’s impossible. I haven't shared those with anyone."

"Then someone stole them from your office," Luciano said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Find out who. Now. Before I decide that the Russo family is more trouble than it’s worth."

As they began to argue about logistics and security, I felt a strange pull toward the bookshelf behind my father’s desk. It was where he kept the family records—and the old journals of my grandfather.

"I need some air," I whispered to Luciano.

He looked at me, his eyes searching mine for a moment before he nodded. "Don't leave the villa grounds. My men are at the doors."

I walked out, but I didn't go to the garden. I circled back through the servant’s entrance and slipped into the library from the side door. I knew my father’s secrets were hidden in plain sight. I reached for a heavy, leather-bound book titled The History of the Neapolitan Trade.

I pulled it, and a small, concealed drawer in the shelf popped open.

Inside was a single, old photograph and a handwritten letter. I pulled them out, my hands trembling. The photograph showed two men shaking hands—my father and Luciano’s father. But it was the date on the back that made my blood run cold.

It was dated two days before Luciano’s father was murdered.

And the letter... it was in my father’s handwriting. 'The serpent must be beheaded for the eagle to fly. I will provide the coordinates for the hit.'

My breath hitched. My father hadn't just been a partner to the Costas. He had betrayed Luciano’s father. He was the reason Luciano had grown up an orphan under the thumb of a cruel uncle.

If Luciano ever found this, he wouldn't just kill my father. He would kill me. He would see our entire marriage as a lie, a trap set by the family that murdered his blood.

"Find what you were looking for, Siena?"

I gasped, shoving the letter and photo into the pocket of my dress as I turned around.

Luciano was leaning against the doorframe, his expression unreadable. He had followed me. Of course he had.

"I... I just wanted a book," I said, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would burst. "Something to remind me of home."

He walked toward me, his steps slow and measured. He stopped just inches away, his gaze dropping to the pocket of my dress where the paper was visible.

"You're a terrible liar, cara mia," he whispered. He reached out, his hand sliding over my hip toward the pocket.

I froze. If he took that letter, the world would end.

I did the only thing I could think of to distract him. I reached up, grabbed his lapels, and pulled his mouth down to mine.

It was a desperate, feverish kiss. I poured everything into it—my fear, my guilt, and the very real desire that I couldn't suppress. Luciano stiffened in surprise, but then he groaned, his hands leaving my pocket to wrap around my waist, pulling me flush against him.

He backed me against the bookshelf, his kiss turning hungry and possessive. He didn't care about the book or the drawer anymore. All he cared about was the woman in his arms who was finally, seemingly, surrendering.

But as I clung to him, tears pricked my eyes. I was kissing the man I was starting to love, while holding the proof that my family had destroyed his.

I was a Russo. He was a Costa. And our foundation was built on a bed of skeletons.