Chapter 7 SEVEN

Morning in the estate was like waking up inside a museum.

No clatter of dishes. No voices drifting in from the kitchen. Just sun spilling through tall windows and dust particles dancing in silence.

Emilia wandered the halls, dressed in soft linen a maid had laid out for her. She hadn't seen Luca since the piano.

She wasn't sure if she was disappointed or relieved.

The house was massive, each hallway leading to another set of doors, more opulence, more emptiness. And yet, something buzzed beneath the surface-like the place was holding its breath.

She turned a corner she hadn't noticed before.

At the end of the corridor: a locked wooden door with deep scratches near the handle.

Strange.

She tugged the knob gently. Locked.

She stepped back, curiosity blooming. No one had mentioned off-limit areas. But something about this door felt deliberately hidden.

As she turned to leave, a low voice startled her.

"Don't open that door."

Luca stood behind her, his shirt undone at the collar, shadows under his eyes.

She straightened. "What's inside?"

He didn't answer immediately. "Memories. The kind that rot if left alone too long."

She raised an eyebrow. "So you lock them up instead?"

"It's safer than the alternative."

"Safer for who?"

He looked at her-really looked at her. "You're braver than I thought."

"I'm not brave," she replied. "I'm just not stupid enough to pretend this house doesn't keep secrets."

A pause. Then, surprisingly, he said, "Come with me."

She hesitated, but followed.

He led her through another set of hallways, this time toward the back of the house, where the sunlight barely reached. They stopped at a door made of dark glass.

Inside-files. Maps. Monitors. A full surveillance and operations room.

"This is where I work," Luca said calmly. "Where your father's debt turned into a marriage."

Emilia took it in, silent. There were faces pinned to the wall. Notes scribbled in red ink. Schedules. Weapons in locked drawers.

"This isn't just about money, is it?" she asked.

"No," he said. "This is a war. One I've been fighting alone for years."

Emilia met his eyes. "Why show me this?"

"Because eventually, you'll have to decide where you stand."

Her stomach twisted. "And what if I decide I want out?"

He stepped closer. "Then I'll let you go. But you should know... people who leave rarely do so alive."

Her breath caught.

Not a threat.

A warning.