She expected the dining room to be empty.
It was early. The sun barely touched the marble through the tall windows. Everything was too quiet, too gold, too calm.
But Lucien was already there.
Not brooding.
Not commanding.
Just… eating.
He sat at the far end of the long black table, one leg crossed, no jacket, shirt sleeves rolled, collar open, and in front of him
A bowl of ice cream.
Vanilla.
She blinked.
That was the only word for it, blinked.
Leona stepped forward slowly, arms crossed, her tone cool but laced with curiosity.
"Who eats ice cream at seven in the morning?"
Lucien didn't look up right away.
When he did, he said, "Men who don't sleep."
She smirked faintly. "So your solution to insomnia is dairy."
"It's comfort food."
"You eat comfort?"
"I'm allowed."
That silenced her for half a second.
Just enough to realize something was different.
His posture was loose. His voice wasn't defensive. He wasn't performing power this morning, he was just existing.
And maybe… letting her see it.
She walked around the table, not toward him but not away either.
"You promised me an answer," she said.
"I said ask again, if you're still brave."
"I am."
He set his spoon down. Looked at her with something unreadable less like a threat, more like a memory.
"I didn't lose him to blood," he said. "I lost him to silence."
Leona tilted her head. "That's not an answer."
"It's the start of one."
She leaned forward slightly, bracing her hands on the back of the chair across from him.
"So what comes next?"
He didn't answer.
Because his phone buzzed.
One glance at the screen. His entire face changed.
Gone was the loose tension.
Back was the devil in armor.
He stood.
"Stay here."
"What happened?"
"Body."
She followed him to the doorway, unbothered by his command.
"You're taking me."
Lucien's tone didn't rise. "No, I'm not."
"I'm not asking."
His gaze snapped to hers.
They stared.
The heat in the room shifted, no longer soft.
Something sharper slid between them.
Finally, he exhaled once through his nose.
Then turned on his heel and walked out.
She followed.
*********
The car was black, sleek, and silent.
Like him.
Lucien said nothing when Leona slid in beside him.
She wore black slacks again, no dress. No silk. Just clean lines and deliberate confidence. Her hair was tied back this time, tight and precise, a refusal to play soft.
He didn't look at her.
Not at first.
But as the engine hummed to life and the city slid past their windows, his hand reached across her
Quick.
Effortless.
He clicked her seatbelt into place.
His fingers grazed her ribcage.
She didn't flinch.
Neither did he.
But the space between them thickened.
Her voice came quiet, dry.
"If I'd known you were such a gentleman, I would've worn heels."
His eyes flicked to hers.
"I prefer weapons to heels."
"Then maybe you should stop dressing me like a hostage."
Lucien didn't respond.
But his hand lingered on the center console a second longer than necessary.
When they arrived, the docks were crawling with quiet power.
Unmarked cars.
Men in coats.
Steel crates and sea wind.
But it was the two figures waiting near the edge of the pier that made Leona's stomach go still.
One stood tall, lean, with the kind of charm that always came with danger.
Dante Romano.
Lucien's cousin.
His smile was warm.
Too warm.
"Cousin," Dante said, arms open like a priest at confession. "You brought your wife. I thought she was just a rumor."
Leona stepped forward before Lucien could speak.
"She does that. Disproves things."
Dante's smile deepened. "Sharp tongue. I like her already."
Lucien's hand slid to her back. Not a caress.
A warning.
"Dante," he said flatly. "You're early."
"And you're late," said a new voice, female silken, accented, and cold as marble.
Amina Velasquez.
She stepped out from behind a column, dark dress flowing like spilled ink, red lipstick perfectly cruel.
She kissed both of Lucien's cheeks.
Deliberate.
Slow.
And then she turned to Leona.
"You must be the leash."
Leona smiled. "Only if you need walking."
Lucien said nothing.
But his hand tightened at her waist.
Not possessive.
Protective.
Just slightly.
And Amina noticed.
She always noticed.
The warehouse smelled like rust and ocean rot.
The body lay on a metal table beneath a plastic sheet. Already bloated. Already broken. The water had taken its toll swollen features, grey skin, skin like melting wax.
Lucien stood on one side of the table.
Dante and Amina on the other.
Leona didn't hang back.
She moved beside Lucien, close enough for her shoulder to brush his.
The contact was brief.
But he didn't pull away.
One of Lucien's men peeled back the sheet.
Leona didn't flinch.
The face was ruined. Unrecognizable.
But the arm..
She caught it.
"Wait."
Lucien looked at her.
So did Dante.
Leona stepped in closer, then reached gently rolled the corpse's left forearm toward her.
There.
A faint, deliberate carving. Old. Thin lines.
It hadn't been made by accident.
Not by the sea.
A symbol.
A triangle over a circle, split with a single vertical slash.
She stared.
Her blood ran cold.
"Someone marked him," she said quietly. "This wasn't random."
Lucien moved to see.
He stiffened.
Dante's voice came easy. "Could be a cult. Could be a warning."
Amina raised a brow. "Or a signature."
Leona looked at Lucien again.
But his face had gone blank.
Steel over glass.
She touched the edge of the table.
Then glanced toward the others.
"You all knew this wasn't just a body," she said. "You came dressed for war."
Lucien didn't deny it.
Instead, he looked at the corpse one last time.
Then said, "Burn it."
"Lucien.. " Dante started.
Lucien's voice sliced the air.
"Now."
No one argued.
No one moved.
Except Leona, who stepped back, silently replaying the symbol.
The triangle. The circle. The slash.
It wasn't just a signature.
It was a message.
And maybe
It wasn't meant for Lucien.
It was meant for her.???
They didn't speak in the car.
Lucien drove this time himself.
No driver. No guards. No sound but the engine and the thrum of questions between them.
Leona didn't ask anything. Not until they stepped into the estate, past the double doors, through the cold silence of the marble corridor.
Then, finally when the lock clicked behind them
She turned.
"What did the symbol mean?"
Lucien walked past her.
She followed.
"You knew it. You didn't even flinch."
"Let it go."
"No."
He stopped halfway up the stairs.
Turned.
His eyes burned into hers dark, sharp, restrained.
"Not everything's yours to know."
She took a step up, two stairs below him, fire in her throat.
"I'm not asking for secrets. I'm asking why a mutilated body showed up with a mark you recognized."
Lucien's jaw twitched.
Still, he said nothing.
"You think keeping me in this house keeps me safe?" she pushed. "Then why does danger keep showing up with your name on it?"
He moved faster than she expected.
Down two steps.
Hand braced beside her head.
Leona didn't move.
Not when he leaned in. Not when his breath hit her lips.
Not even when his other hand found her waist tight, not tender.
"Stop asking questions you're not ready to hear answers to," he said, voice low.
She didn't blink. "Try me."
His grip tightened just enough to feel. Just enough to shake her without violence.
Their bodies were close now.
Too close.
Her lips parted, but not in fear.
And his gaze dropped there for a second.
That second stretched.
Dangerous.
Hot.
Then Lucien let go.
Turned.
Walked up the stairs like nothing had happened.
And all she could do was stand there.
Heart pounding.
Skin burning.
Mind racing.
Because that hadn't been a threat.
That had been restraint.
And next time, he might not pull back.