I step out of the shadows like death itself.
She doesn’t hear me coming. The pistol clatters against the marble as she sets it down, and I almost smile at the poetry of it.
Aria DeLuca, in person at last, finally laying down her arms in my house.
I move with silence, closing the distance between us. She senses me at the last second—her spine stiffens, her head starts to turn—but it’s too late.
My arm wraps around her waist gently from behind, pulling her back against my chest. My other hand covers her mouth before she can scream into that walkie-talkie.
“Shh,” I whisper against her ear, my lips brushing the shell of it. “No need for dramatics, dolcezza. We both know how this ends.”
She struggles against me, her body bucking and twisting, but I have fifty pounds and eight inches on her. Plus the advantage of not being pregnant.
I drag her backward through the foyer, her shoulders scraping against marble as she fights. Into my den. Toward the steel table I use for… less pleasant business meetings.
The kind where blood needs to be easily cleaned away.
“You really thought you could beat me?” I murmur as I spin her around, forcing her back against the cold metal surface. The impact knocks the air from her lungs in a rush. “With your little army? Your weeks of planning?”
Her hazel eyes blaze with fury and humiliation. The recognition that she’s been played. That every move she made, I saw coming from miles away.
“Fuck you,” she gasps, her hands coming up to push against my chest.
I catch her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand. The position arches her back, pressing her body against mine. Even now—especially now—my blood sings with the ache of her.
“Now, now, wife,” I chide, leaning closer, my hips pressing into hers. “That’s no way to greet your lover.”
“You’re not my lover.” The words come out breathless, defiant. “Not anymore.”
“No?” I shift my weight, letting her feel exactly how much I disagree.
Color flushes her cheeks, a war of emotion raging beneath the surface. I see her pulse flutter in her throat. I feel the tension winding through her body like a drawn bow.
“I hate you,” she whispers.
“I know.” I release her wrists, but keep her caged in, my arms braced on either side of her. “But tell me something, dolcezza. When you planned this assault—when you dreamed of my ruin—did you ever stop to wonder what would happen when you lost?”
She doesn’t answer. Her chin lifts in that stubborn, proud way that makes me want to both kiss and break her.
“I didn’t plan on losing.”
“Didn’t you?” I lower my voice to a whisper, dragging it across her skin like a blade. “Because every step led you here. To me. Alone. Defenseless.”
I trail my lips along her jaw, not quite touching, just close enough to make her breath catch.
“Tell me,” I murmur, lips at her ear. “Were you going to kill me?”
Her sharp intake of breath is answer enough, but I want to hear her say it. Want to drag the truth from those lying lips.
“Tell me,” I whisper. Again. “If you won, Aria. Would you have brought me down with my empire?”
“Stop,” she gasps, her voice sharp, defiant—but her breath is shaky.
I ignore it.
“I think about you,” I murmur, keeping my tone low, steady. “Every fucking night.”
She stands her ground, but I can see the storm behind her eyes—fury, pain, fire.
“I dream about the night we made our child,” I whisper, my gaze dropping briefly to the place between us, my hand moving to rest over her still-flat stomach.
“Marco—” she warns, her voice trembling, not with desire but restraint.
“You can lie to yourself all you want,” I say, moving closer. Close enough that the air tightens between us. “You can gather armies and declare war and spit hatred in my face. But deep down, you know the truth.”
Her jaw sets. Her hands flex at her sides.
Then—she moves.
In a single, clean motion, her fingers dart to the holster at my side. I feel the shift a half-second too late.
And suddenly, my gun is in her hand—pressed flat against the center of my forehead. She steps back, just enough to put space between us, just enough to make me feel the distance. But the barrel never wavers.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Her grip is steady. Her voice is like ice.
“You say you love me? Then why is the only version of me you can live with the one who kneels?”
I step forward like I’m still in control.
“Drop another inch and I shoot,” she says, voice like splintered steel.
“Still dramatic, I see.”
She tilts the gun upward, barrel pointed at my forehead.
“Don’t come closer. I swear to God, Marco—”
“Or what?” I take a step forward. “You’ll kill me?”
“Yes,” she says, voice shaking. “If you make me.”
“Funny,” I murmur, “I thought you already tried.”
Her hands tremble. Just enough for me to see it. Not enough for her to admit it.
“You think this is some game?” she spits. “You watched me build an army just so you could burn it down.”
“I never wanted to win,” I snap, suddenly angry. “I wanted you back.”
“By breaking me? By turning everything I built into a trap?”
I move closer. Her finger twitches on the trigger. One wrong word and she ends me.
“You walked into my house with a loaded gun, Aria. What did you expect me to do? Serve you tea?”
“I expected you to be a man,” she says, her voice cutting like glass. “Not a coward hiding behind illusions. You needed me to fall to feel powerful. That’s not love, Marco. That’s fear.”
The words hit harder than any bullet. For a moment, I don’t speak.
She blinks fast, trying to clear the tears. But they fall anyway.
“I came here ready to die,” she whispers. “Not because I wanted to kill you. But because I couldn’t live in a world where you still owned me.”
Owned.
God, that word.
I shift my weight.
Her eyes flicker.
And that’s all I need.
I knock the gun aside and grab her wrist in one fluid movement. She gasps, twisting against me as the weapon skitters across the floor. I pin her to the wall, chest heaving, my own breathing just as ragged.
In the silence that follows, I lift the gun she dropped. Point it at her.
Her eyes don’t flinch. She stares straight into the barrel.
“Do it,” she whispers.
God help me.
I lower the gun.
“No,” I say. “If you love someone, you have to know when to let them go.”
Her lip trembles.
“You’re letting me go?”
“Go, Aria. Take your people and leave. The east gate will be open. No one will follow.”
She blinks, stunned.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to destroy you. And I won’t become my father just to keep you.”
She swallows hard, and for the first time tonight, she looks unsure.
“And what about you?”
I offer a faint smile.
“I’ll still be here. Waiting. Hoping. But not forcing.”
I hand her the gun.
She takes it slowly, eyes locked on mine.
I step back. One last look. One heartbeat longer than I should.
Then I turn and walk out—each step louder than the last.
I don’t look back.
Because loving her means surrendering the war—even if it breaks me.
