Poison and Protection

Marco glanced at her once, then back to the road.

He didn’t say anything.

But his mind was already working.

Piece by piece.

Luca Santoro hadn’t had to show up.
Hadn’t had to call him.
Hadn’t had to walk into a Moretti warehouse knowing he could die there.

And yet he had.

Not for strategy.

For Bella.

Marco tightened his grip on the wheel.

This wasn’t one-sided. Not anymore. If it ever had been.

Bella wasn’t the only one standing too close to the edge.

Luca walked three blocks before he allowed himself to stop.

Rain soaked through him, cold and heavy, but he barely felt it. His pulse was still too loud in his ears. Adrenaline still burned under his skin, sharp and restless.

He dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly.

Alive.

She was alive.

That was all that mattered.

And that was exactly the problem.

He checked his phone. No missed calls. No messages. Good. That meant Don Vittorio didn’t know. Alessia didn’t know.

Yet.

The thought of his father’s eyes on him made his spine tighten. Don Vittorio missed nothing. And Alessia… Alessia noticed changes. She catalogued them. Filed them away.

If either of them learned he had gone after Isabella Valenti, not as an enemy but as a rescue—

There would be consequences.

Severe ones.

Luca straightened, forcing his breathing back into something calm, something controlled. By the time he stepped into Santoro territory, his face was already locked back into place.

The mask returned easily.

It always did.

But beneath it, something had shifted beyond repair.

At the Valenti estate, Bella went straight to her room.

She didn’t let the staff see her shake. Didn’t let anyone fuss over her again. She shut the door and leaned her forehead against it, breathing hard.

Santoro had come for her.

Luca Santoro.

She slid down until she was sitting on the floor, knees drawn to her chest.

Marco’s words echoed in her head.

Not today.

She didn’t know if she hated Luca more for coming… or for leaving without explanation.

Her world felt unstable now. Every line blurred. Every rule compromised.

She was engaged.
He was the enemy.

And still, when the moment came, he had chosen her.

It terrified her more than the gun ever had.

Marco reported to Don Giovanni later that night.

Clean. Efficient. Controlled.

“Bella is safe,” he said. “Alessandro will recover. The Morettis made their move, but it failed.”

Don Giovanni nodded. “Good.”

He didn’t ask how.

Marco didn’t offer details.

But when he left the study, his jaw was tight.

He had seen the way Luca had moved. The way he had covered Bella without thinking. The way Bella had aimed a gun at him and still couldn’t pull the trigger.

This wasn’t a crush.

This was damage.

On both sides.

Marco leaned against the corridor wall, staring into nothing.

He had told Bella to shoot him next time.

But now he knew.

If that moment came again, it wouldn’t just be Bella who hesitated.

And that scared him more than the Morettis ever had.

Because wars were simple.

Hearts weren’t.

And this one was already bleeding on both sides.

Luca didn’t go straight inside the Santoro estate.

He circled first. Old habit. Make sure he wasn’t followed. Make sure no one had noticed the missing car, the gap in his routine, the hours that didn’t quite add up.

Only then did he slip into the house through a side entrance.

His shoulder burned the moment he shut the door behind him.

He pressed a hand there instinctively, fingers coming away slick and dark. The Moretti bullet hadn’t been clean. It had torn, not pierced. Pain flared sharper now that the adrenaline was gone.

“Idiot,” he muttered to himself.

He stayed there for a second longer, palm braced against the door, breathing through the pain.

Get a grip.

This was how it started. One step too far. One decision made on instinct instead of reason.

He closed his eyes briefly.

She was poison.

Not loud. Not obvious.

Slow.

Insidious.

Like something warm slipping into his bloodstream, spreading before he noticed it was there.

She’s like poison running through my veins, he thought. Quiet. Lethal.

And once it was inside him, it didn’t ask permission.

It rewrote him.

He straightened abruptly, jaw tightening.

“No,” he said under his breath.

I can’t allow this anymore.

Not the hesitation.
Not the instinct.
Not her.

Because the next time, saving her wouldn’t just cost him blood.

It would cost him everything.

He went to his room without turning on the lights.

The bathroom mirror showed him what he already felt. Blood soaking through his shirt, bruising already blooming beneath the skin. He stripped it off, jaw clenched, movements precise despite the pain.

No doctor.
No staff.
No witnesses.

Especially not Alessia.

He cleaned the wound himself, teeth clenched against the sting of antiseptic. Wrapped it tight. Pulled on a dark shirt that hid everything. Practiced breathing evenly until the pain dulled into something manageable.

By the time he lay down, the mask was back in place.

No one would know.

No one could know.

Because if Alessia saw this, if Don Vittorio put the pieces together—

Bella Valenti wouldn’t just be leverage.

She’d be a death sentence.

Somewhere far less discreet, Don Silvio Moretti stood in a concrete room that smelled of oil, blood, and damp stone.

Three bodies lay covered on the floor.

His men.

He studied them without emotion.

“They fought well,” one of his men said carefully. “But the Valentis and Santoros—”

“I know,” Don Silvio interrupted, waving a hand.

He turned away, walking slowly, thoughtfully.

Don Silvio smiled faintly.

One of the men shifted. “The losses tonight—”

“Were necessary,” Don Silvio finished calmly.

He turned back, eyes sharp now. Alive.

“I needed confirmation,” he continued. “Proof.”

“Of what?”

“That I’m right. People don’t break rules for strategy.”

His smile widened slightly.

“They break them for people.”

One of his men frowned. “You think—”

“I know,” Don Silvio said softly. “The Valenti girl matters to Santoro. And Santoro matters to the Valenti girl.”

He leaned back, satisfied.

“This changes everything.”

Morning came gray and slow.

Bella barely slept.

When she finally left her room, the estate was already awake, moving carefully around her like she might shatter if touched too hard.

She was walking slowly toward Alessandro’s room, as if the weight of her own thoughts was pulling her back.

You’re safe, she told herself. You’re home.

Santoro wasn’t here.
He didn’t belong in this place.

And yet—

Her body remembered something her mind refused to name.

The way Luca had looked at her in the warehouse. Not like leverage. Not like a bargaining chip. Like she was the only real thing in the room. Like keeping her alive mattered more than consequence.

Her hands curled into fists.

No.

This wasn’t longing.
It was danger.

Luca Santoro wasn’t temptation.

He was poison.

Not fast. Not obvious. Slow. The kind that seeps in quietly, drop by drop, until it runs through your veins and alters everything it touches.

If she let herself think of him too long, rules would fracture.
If she let herself feel, control would vanish.

So she stopped.

Breathed in.

Chose.

The moment Alessandro saw her, relief broke through his composed exterior.

“Bella,” he said, standing despite the protest of his injury.

She crossed the room in three steps and hugged him carefully.

“You’re alive,” he said into her hair.

“So are you.”

He pulled back, hands firm on her shoulders, searching her face. “I was worried about you.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

He exhaled, the tension draining from him all at once.

“Good,” he said. “Because if anything had happened to you—”

He stopped himself.

She saw it. The fear. The genuine concern.

And guilt twisted in her chest.

“I’m here,” she said. “I’m really here.”

He cupped her face gently, thumb brushing her cheek.

She let him take her hands. Let him draw her in. Let him kiss her.

Not out of desire.

Out of decision.

Out of the need for silence.

For something familiar. Stable. Safe.

An antidote.

She kissed him back, slow and deliberate, telling herself this was right. This was where she belonged. This was what she was supposed to want.

For a moment, she almost believed it.

Almost.

She pulled back gently, resting her forehead against his.

“We’ll talk later,” she said. “When things are quieter.”

He nodded. “Whenever you’re ready.”

As she stepped back, Bella told herself not to think about Luca Santoro lying in the dark, bleeding quietly so no one would ask why.

She told herself not to think about the way he had come for her without hesitation.

She told herself that this—Alessandro, this life—was enough.

She told herself many things.

Her face was composed, her heart anything but.

I can’t allow this anymore, she told herself.
Not him.
Not the thoughts.
Not the truth he carried with him.

Because if she let the poison spread—

She would lose far more than just a war.

Far away, Don Silvio Moretti poured himself a drink and raised the glass in a silent toast.

To confirmation.
To leverage.
To war made personal.

This was only the beginning.