Chapter 5:44 Hours Left
778 Words
I woke up to silence.
No guards at the door. No Elena. Just sunlight and the open door from last night.
Rule change.
I tested it. I walked out. Down the hall. No one stopped me.
The house felt different in daylight. Less like a prison. More like… a dare.
Elena found me in the kitchen at 9 AM. “Miss Moretti. Mr. Romano is in a meeting. He said you’re to have breakfast. And…” She hesitated. “The library is yours.”
He kept his word.
I ate. I read Caravaggio on page 84 again. Judith’s knife. _Courage is not the absence of fear..._
At noon, the house shifted.
Men in suits. Voices low. The sound of Luca’s voice cutting through everything. Angry.
I shouldn’t have looked.
I did.
The study doors were open a crack. Luca at his desk. Shirt on, bandage hidden. No sign he’d been shot 12 hours ago.
And a woman.
Blonde. Red dress. Hand on his desk. Laughing.
“Luca, baby, you can’t hide in here forever,” she purred. “I heard there was trouble last night. Let me take care of you.”
Isabella. I’d heard the men say her name. His ex. Mafia royalty.
Luca didn’t touch her. Didn’t smile.
“Isabella,” he said. Cold. “You’re in my house uninvited.”
“I’m worried about you.” Her hand moved closer. To his sleeve.
Defiant flared in me. Stupid.
I pushed the door open.
Three heads turned.
Isabella’s eyes narrowed. “And who are you?”
“A guest,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. Much. “Luca said the library is mine.”
“Luca?” She laughed. Ugly. “He doesn’t let guests call him that.”
Luca stood. Slow. His eyes went to me. Then to my bare feet. My paint-stained nightgown from last night that I’d refused to change.
He didn’t look angry. He looked… calculating.
“Isabella,” he said. “Leave.”
“What? She’s—”
“Now.”
She left. Slamming the door.
Silence.
Luca walked to me. Stopped an arm’s length away. Like in the library.
“You were told to stay in the library,” he said. Cold again.
“I was told it was mine,” I shot back. Scared, but not showing it. “So I used it.”
He studied me. The blood on my gown. The defiance on my face.
“You’re jealous,” he said. Flat.
“No.” Lie.
“Yes.” No lie.
I hated him for seeing it.
“You’re bleeding through your bandage,” I said instead. Soft. Because I noticed.
His eyes dropped. A small red spot on his white shirt. He’d moved too much.
He cursed under his breath. Italian.
“Let me,” I said before I could think.
He didn’t answer. He just walked past me. Into his private bathroom off the study. Left the door open.
An invitation. Or a test.
I followed.
He was at the sink, pulling his shirt over his head. The bandage was red. He hissed when the fabric stuck.
I was there before he could tell me not to be.
“Don’t,” I said. I wet a cloth. Dabbed. Gentle.
His abs were hard under my hand. Scars I didn’t ask about. The new wound, angry.
“44 hours,” he said. His voice was low. “Your father.”
“I know.” My fingers were steady. Scared made them steady. “Hold still.”
He did.
I cleaned it. Re-bandaged him with the kit on his counter. My hands were inches from his skin the whole time.
When I finished, I stepped back. “There.”
He looked down at me. Wet hair. No makeup. Blood on my gown. Again.
“You came back for me last night,” he said. Not a question. “You came for me just now.”
“I came because you’re my problem,” I said. Defiant.
His hand came up. Fast. Caught my chin. Not hard. Just enough to make me look up.
His thumb brushed my cheek. Once.
“44 hours, Aria,” he murmured. “If he doesn’t come… you’re not a guest anymore.”
My breath caught.
“Then what am I?” I whispered. Soft.
His gray eyes went dark. “Mine.”
He let go. Stepped back.
“Get out,” he said. Colder again. “Before I forget rule number four.”
I ran.
Back to the library. Heart pounding.
He was bleeding. He was dangerous. He said I was his.
And the worst part?
I didn’t want to run.
- Writer
