Chapter 5 Glass Walls, Burned Bridges

The estate was on fire-

Not with flames, but with movement, alarms, chaos.

Isadora clung to the edge of reality as Luciano dragged her through hidden corridors built centuries ago, his grip firm around her wrist. The air was thick with tension, smoke, gun oil, and the undeniable electricity of what they'd almost done hours ago.

"I thought this place was impenetrable," she panted, heels long discarded, heart pounding like a war drum.

"It was," he muttered. "Until someone on the inside opened the door."

The words hit her like ice water.

"A traitor?"

Luciano didn't answer. That was answer enough.

They reached a concealed steel door behind a tapestry of Saint Michael, tucked near the chapel ruins. He scanned his palm on the biometric lock.

"You built a panic tunnel in your family's church?" she asked.

He glanced at her. "God's not the only one who saves."

The door hissed open. Cold air slapped her face. They descended into darkness.

Ten minutes later, they emerged into a dim safehouse hidden in the hillside vineyards. It was modest, secure, but not untouched.

There were already signs of disturbance. A broken chair. A trail of blood-dry, but recent.

"Stay behind me," he said, gun drawn.

Isadora's body tensed. She wasn't afraid of death. She was afraid of his.

Luciano checked every corner before lowering his weapon. "Clear."

He turned to her then-eyes sharp, voice low. "We'll only be safe for a few hours. I have to make a call."

She grabbed his arm before he could turn. "Luca."

He froze.

"You said... if anything happened, I should run."

His expression twisted like her words wounded him. "I meant it."

"No," she said, stepping closer, voice fierce. "You don't get to save me and throw yourself into hell without me. That's not how this works anymore."

His jaw clenched. "This isn't a fairytale, Isadora. You don't get to love the monster and come out clean."

She swallowed hard. "Then I'll bleed with you."

He stared at her, breathing hard.

"You don't know what you're saying."

"Yes, I do."

She took his hand and placed it over her heart.

"Feel that? That's yours."

Luciano closed his eyes. Like it hurt him to feel. Like it was the first warmth he'd allowed in years.

When he opened them again, everything inside him had shifted.

"Isadora..." His voice was broken glass and reverence. "This shouldn't happen."

"I don't care."

And then-he kissed her.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet.

It was war.

Years of pain, restraint, denial, and want all colliding in one moment. He crushed her against him, mouth demanding, hands desperate, like he didn't know how long he had left.

She kissed him back with equal fury, her fingers clawing into his shoulders, her body molding into his like she was meant to be nowhere else.

She moaned into his mouth as he pressed her back against the wall, one hand in her hair, the other gripping her thigh, lifting her like she weighed nothing.

"I shouldn't want you," he breathed against her skin, lips brushing her neck.

"But you do," she whispered, eyes wild, lips swollen.

He rested his forehead against hers, trembling. "I'll never be able to stop."

And in that moment, it didn't matter that her father was the enemy or that death loomed outside.

It was just them.

Two souls broken in all the same places, trying to fit together before the world tore them apart.

Later, curled beside him on the floor of the safehouse, wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket, she whispered, "Who's Crow?"

Luciano's entire body tensed.

"You said that name before," she went on. "He was in the file."

He didn't answer.

"Luca?"

Slowly, he turned to face her. His voice was so cold it didn't sound like him anymore.

"Crow," he said, "is the man who killed my mother."

Her breath caught.

"And," he added, "he's working for your father."

Boom. The stakes just skyrocketed.