Luciano couldn’t sleep.

Not because of threats or business or the men waiting for orders downstairs.

But because of a single kiss.

A taste of her. Defiant. Addictive. A challenge made of lips and silence.

She’d walked away like she won. And maybe she had.

He hated that.

Hated how he wanted more.

Down the hall, Serena wrote with a vengeance. The red ink soaked through the pages, bleeding onto the desk below. She’d never written like this before.

Not about love.

Not even about revenge.

But about him.

A man made of steel and scars. A man who collected control the way others collected sins. A man who kissed like he wanted to ruin her and looked at her like he already had.

She named him Leone in the story.

He was cruel. Strategic. Terrifying.

But he had a flaw.

He couldn’t stop watching the girl he trapped.

And that’s how Serena planned to break him.

Not with bullets. Not with secrets.

But with vulnerability.

With herself.

Luciano found her the next morning, curled in the library chair, red ink staining her fingertips.

He picked up the paper she hadn’t hidden in time. Read a single sentence before she could stop him:

“He didn’t fall in love. He fell into obsession. And when he realized the difference, it was already too late.”

His jaw clenched. “That one’s about me too, isn’t it?”

Serena didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

He dropped the page, stepped closer.

“You think you’re in control here?” he whispered.

She met his eyes, unwavering. “No. I think neither of us is.”

Silence stretched like a blade between them.

Then he did something unexpected.

He reached for her hand. The one stained in red ink.

His thumb traced over it, slow and deliberate.

“Stop writing me like I’m human,” he said, voice low. “You’re going to get hurt.”

Serena’s lips curled. “And you think pretending you’re not is going to protect you?”

For once, Luciano didn’t have a response.

Because deep down, he feared she was right.

And that terrified him more than any enemy ever had.