Close Enough to Break

Bella stood near the window, half-turned away from him. The garden lights spilled in softly, outlining her silhouette. Calm. Controlled. Too controlled.

Luca watched her in silence. He’d noticed it hours ago—not when she moved, but when she thought he wasn’t looking. The subtle shift of her shoulder. The unconscious angle of her stance. The way her hand hovered near her waist, just a second longer than necessary.

A weapon. Hidden well. Not by a civilian.

“You’re armed,” he said quietly.

Bella didn’t flinch. She turned slowly, eyes meeting his without surprise. No denial. No theatrics.

“In this house,” she replied, “everyone is.”

That wasn’t the answer.

He studied her face, searching for something. Fear. Guilt. Calculation. He found resolve instead.

“You don’t trust me,” he said.

“I trust that you saved my life,” she answered. “That’s not the same thing.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Recognition.

“Good,” he murmured. “Blind trust gets people killed.”

Something shifted in her gaze. Not warmth. Not softness. Respect.

“And yet,” she said, “you’re still here.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be,” he replied. “And you haven’t decided to kill me. Yet.”

Her lips pressed together. Almost amused. Almost troubled.

“You noticed the gun,” she said. “Most people don’t.”

“I notice what keeps me alive,” Luca said. Then, after a beat, “Or what might end me.”

Silence stretched between them. Heavy, but not hostile. Two people standing too close to danger to pretend they were innocent.

Bella broke eye contact first. “That gun isn’t for you.”

He believed her. That scared him more than if she’d lied.

“Then we’re even,” he said softly. “I don’t know what I am yet. But if I were a threat… you wouldn’t be standing this close.”

She looked back at him. “Neither would you.”

Marco stood alone in the hallway, phone still in his hand long after the call had ended. The house breathed softly around him, guards shifting, doors murmuring shut—the usual controlled order of the Valenti estate.

One sentence replayed in his head: the Santoro heir vanished during the gala. No body. No confirmation. Just absence.

Marco exhaled slowly and slid the phone into his pocket. He did not turn toward Bella’s room. She had already dragged enough danger home with her bleeding heart and stubborn loyalty. This would only tighten the noose around her neck.

Instead, his gaze drifted to the closed door down the corridor. The injured man. The one with no name. The one who didn’t ask questions like civilians did. Marco had seen men like him before. Not soldiers exactly. Worse. Men shaped by decisions made in seconds.

He knocked once and entered without waiting.

Luca was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed. Still. Alert. Like rest was something he tolerated, not trusted. Their eyes met. Marco studied him carefully. No fear. No confusion. Only restraint.

“You’re healing fast,” Marco said evenly.

“Not fast enough to run,” Luca replied.

Marco crossed his arms. “Do you realize where you are?”

A pause. Then a quiet nod.

“This isn’t a normal house. Too many exits. Too few windows left unguarded. People don’t stand like your men unless they expect violence.”

“And does that frighten you?”

Luca lifted his gaze slowly. “It would be stupid not to be at least cautious.”

“But?”

“But fear is loud,” he continued. “And loud things don’t survive long in places like this.”

Marco watched him closely. That instinct wasn’t learned overnight.

“You could be anyone,” Marco said. “You know that.”

“Yes.”

“You could be dangerous.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you sit here.”

Luca’s jaw tightened slightly. “Because moving without information is suicide. And because your sister hasn’t decided I’m a threat.”

Marco’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t told him that much.

“Don’t mistake her protection for blindness,” Marco warned.

“I don’t,” Luca replied. “I’m counting on her caution as much as your suspicion.”

Silence stretched. Marco finally turned toward the door.

“Rest. Don’t wander.”

“I won’t. Not without permission.”

Marco paused, his gaze lingering. “And if it turns out you’re the one I think you are… the bullet won’t miss.”

He left without another word. The door closed softly behind him, the sound lingering longer than it should have.

Luca sat still on the edge of the bed. Shoulders relaxed. Breathing even. Not moving until he was sure he was alone. Not just unseen. Unobserved.

Then he exhaled. Not relief. Calculation.

Your sister hasn’t decided I’m a threat.

The words replayed, slow and precise. Not they. Not the family. Your sister. That wasn’t accidental.

Luca leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, fingers loosely interlaced. Strong hands. Steady. Hands that knew how to apply pressure without wasting motion. He scanned the room again—placement of furniture, line of sight to the door, blind spots near the window. Already mapped it. Without thinking.

Marco’s words echoed, quieter now, more dangerous: You could be anyone. You could be dangerous.

Yes. The answer had come too easily.

He walked to the window, careful not to rush. Outside, the garden lay calm beneath lantern light. Beautiful. Ordered. Guarded.

Later, Luca couldn’t sleep. He left the room and walked down the corridor.

Bella moved down the corridor, noticing the shadow before the sound. A shift of darkness at the edge. Too solid. Too deliberate.

Her hand moved on instinct. Luca felt it at the same moment. Too late.

Bella spun, fingers already reaching for the weapon hidden at her side. Her eyes widened. Recognition hit her like a shock—it was him. Her fingers froze, then slowly relaxed around the weapon.

“Don’t,” he said sharply.

His gaze flicked to her face at that same instant. The weight of the moment hit them both. Too close. Too fast. Too many things unspoken.

They were already too close to fix. Footsteps echoed—a guard.

Luca shifted subtly, turning his back to shield her completely. From the hallway, they were only overlapping shadows. Bella grabbed the front of his jacket, pulling him closer. One shape. One silhouette.

The guard passed. Light skimmed the wall. Gone. Silence returned. Neither moved. Her breath hitched near his ear. Tension held tight in his shoulders. He hadn’t touched the gun.

Slowly, he leaned back just enough to look at her.

“You almost shot me,” he said quietly.

“You almost disarmed me,” she shot back.

“I almost saved us both,” he replied.

Her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t know it was me.”

“No,” he admitted. “But I knew it wasn’t safe.”

They stayed there another second too long. Too close. Stepping away would admit something neither wanted to name.

In the half-light, they looked at each other. A slow, dangerous recognition passed.

Bella pressed to the wall. Luca’s arm braced beside her. The corridor was quiet again, but neither trusted it. Her eyes lifted to his. Dark. Focused. Too aware.

He memorized her. Threat and promise at once. She meant to look away. She didn’t. Her gaze slipped to his jaw. His mouth. A faint cut she hadn’t noticed before.

Idiot, she thought. Focus.

But her body hadn’t gotten the memo. He noticed. Her breath changed. Barely. Enough.

His jaw tightened—not hunger, restraint. Eyes followed hers, briefly to her lips, then snapped back up.

For a heartbeat, neither hid it. Tension, not heat. Recognition, not desire.

This is dangerous, Bella realized. Not the gun. Not the house. Not him. This.

Finally, he broke the space between them. One step. Then another.

“You move silently,” she said.

“So do you,” he answered.

“I won’t touch the gun,” he said quietly. “Unless you make me.”

Her fingers curled. “You already did.”

“No,” he said. “I stopped you. That’s different.”

She nodded sharply. “Next time, warn me.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Next time, don’t assume the shadow wants to hurt you.”

She stepped past, shoulder brushing his chest just enough to be intentional.

“Everyone here does,” she said.

He watched her go. The echo lingered like a bruise you keep pressing. It did.

He thought she was just someone he saved. Irritation flaring. He thought that made things simple. Nothing about her was simple.

The old instinct stirred. Not memory. Whispered: Careful. She’s closer than she should be.