Knife

“Loving him killed her. Still, I can’t stop.”

I watched the video again.

And again.

And again.

Her voice was low. Barely more than a whisper. Like she knew someone might be listening.

“It was Vittorio,” she said. “He wants me gone… and he’s watching Silas.”

Her eyes flicked toward the hidden camera, wet with fear she’d never let me see in real life.

My mother. De Luca steel in public. But in that recording, she looked… human.

She’d always told me to be careful what I loved.

Now I know why.

This marriage — to Dante — wasn’t some last-minute political stunt.

It had been decided long before my body filled out a dress. Before I was even old enough to know what loyalty meant.

And Silas?

He was the casualty.

A knock at the front doors pulled me out of my spiral.

Rafa. Uninvited, but not unexpected.

“Nice of you to not call,” I muttered, arms crossed, blocking the entrance to my study.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said, glancing over my shoulder. “Which usually means trouble.”

“I’m fine.”

He smirked. “You’re a De Luca. That means you’re lying.”

I didn’t answer.

Rafa stepped inside without permission — he never needed it anyway — and dropped something onto the desk.

A crumpled cigarette wrapper.

“Found this outside the east gate. Imported. Russian label. Guess who used to smoke these?”

I kept my expression neutral. “Not interested in guessing games.”

“Silas,” Rafa said anyway. “I saw him.”

My spine stiffened. “Where?”

“Just past the old chapel. Slipped through the trees like a ghost. Thought maybe you’d want to know.”

“I don’t,” I said. Too fast.

Rafa raised a brow. “You sure? I could track him for you.”

“No.”

It came out sharper than I meant.

He studied me for a long moment, then nodded like he understood something I hadn’t said. “Whatever this is… don’t let it kill you too.”

I didn’t watch him leave.

I couldn’t.

That night, I slipped away from the estate. No guards. No Luna. No shadows clinging to my heels.

Only silence.

I knew where to go.

Madame Fiora still lived near the cliffs, in a crooked little house that smelled like herbs and grief. She’d delivered half the De Luca inner circle. She’d stitched my lip when I split it at seven, climbing where I wasn’t supposed to. My mother trusted her. That was enough for me.

She opened the door before I knocked.

“You’ve been seeing ghosts,” she said.

“Just one.”

She stepped aside. “Come in.”

We sat by the window, moonlight spilling across the floor like confession. I didn’t waste time.

“Silas. I need to know what happened to him after… after she died.”

Fiora didn’t pretend not to understand.

She reached into a drawer and pulled out a bloodstained rag. Yellowed now. Old.

“He came to me that night. Bullet in his side. Half-dead. Wouldn’t say who did it.”

I stayed still.

“But I knew,” she continued. “It was Vittorio. No one else would shoot him and still let him live.”

My throat tightened. “Why didn’t he fight back?”

Fiora’s eyes — so used to seeing pain — finally softened.

“Because he wasn’t protecting himself,” she said. “He was protecting your memory of him.”

Silence fell between us like a dropped blade.

I couldn’t breathe.

“He begged me to keep it from you,” she whispered. “Said you needed to believe he walked away by choice.”

My hands curled into fists.

He didn’t run. He was pushed.

He didn’t abandon me. He bled for me.

And still, he said nothing.

He let me hate him if it meant I wouldn’t have to hate the man who raised me.

My father.

I rose from the chair slowly, the weight in my chest heavier than before.

“Aria,” Fiora said, voice gentle. “You can still walk away from this.”

I looked at her.

Older. Wiser. Tired.

“No,” I said. “I can’t.”

Because I remembered the way Silas looked at me.

Like I was the only thing he couldn’t kill.

And maybe that’s what makes me dangerous now.

Because I loved him back.

And I don’t care if it kills me too.

I didn’t make it five steps past Fiora’s gate before I knew something was wrong.”

The scent of metal hung too heavy in the air. And Fiora never left her garden untended. The last time I was here, she made me tea with crushed verbena and muttered something about poison being ‘an underappreciated art.

Then came the sound.

Boots. Gravel. Fast.

I turned—

Too late.

A hand grabbed my arm. Another closed over my mouth. Cloth — rough, chemical-scented — slammed down over my head.

I fought. Kicked. Bit.

Didn’t matter.

Four of them, maybe five — masked, gloved, trained. I was dragged into the trees like prey, the night swallowing my screams.

My heart pounded against my ribs like it was trying to break out. My wrists were bound, knees hitting dirt. I heard the click of a weapon being cocked.

“Hold her down.”

I froze.

It wasn’t fear that hit me first.

It was rage.

And then—

The sharp crack of bone.

A thud. Then another.

A body dropped beside me — still. Fast.

Someone cursed. “What the f—”

Gunfire. Short. Controlled.

Someone screamed.

Not me.

The bag ripped off my head.

I gasped for air, blinking against the moonlight and smoke and blood — not mine, this time.

And then I saw him.

Silas.

Standing there, chest heaving, blood streaked across his temple, his shirt, his knuckles. Not a scratch on him that wasn’t from someone else.

He didn’t speak.

He just cut my wrists free and hauled me to my feet like I weighed nothing.

“Move,” he said.

I wanted to scream.

But I moved.

—

I don’t remember the drive. Just blood on my palms. The metallic tang of fear still in my mouth.

The safehouse was cold. Concrete and shadows and silence. Far enough from the city to be invisible. Close enough to still burn.

Silas tossed a first aid kit on the table and finally looked at me.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

I slapped the gauze out of his hand.

“Don’t,” I hissed. “Don’t act like you care now.”

His jaw clenched. “Sit down.”

“No.”

I stood there, shaking, hair wild, dress torn, heart unraveling by the second.

“You said nothing. You let me think you vanished. You let me think—”

“I had to.”

“No, you chose to.” My voice cracked. “You let me bury her alone.”

Silas didn’t flinch. He never did.

But something in his eyes shifted. A crack, small and sharp.

“I watched your mother die,” he said. “Because if I didn’t, you’d be next.”

Silence.

A single sentence. A blade.

I stared at him like he’d just confessed to murder.

Because in a way… he had.

“What are you talking about?” I whispered.

His voice dropped lower. Like gravel in a storm.

“Your father gave the order. Not to kill her directly. Just to send a message. She was going to leave. With you. That was the threat.”

I swallowed the scream clawing up my throat.

“She knew,” I said. “She left me a note. A video.”

He nodded once. “I found it the night after she died. I was supposed to disappear. I did — just not far. I stayed close enough to keep you alive.”

“By staying away?”

His hands curled at his sides. “By keeping him from suspecting how much I cared.”

I blinked back the tears, but one slipped anyway. I didn’t wipe it.

“You could’ve told me.”

“If I had,” he said quietly, “he would’ve used you against me. Or me against you. Or worse — you wouldn’t have believed me.”

A thousand memories hit me all at once.

The kiss. The silence. The coldness that wasn’t ever really cold.

“You broke my heart.”

He didn’t deny it.

But his voice cracked on the next words.

“And I kept you breathing.”

Silas stepped back, hands up, like he needed space from his own guilt.

I turned away.

Not because I wanted to.

But because I didn’t know what would happen if I didn’t.

I wasn’t ready to forgive him.

But for the first time in three years… I didn’t want him gone either.