Setting: A night before the cathedral showdown. They’re hiding out in a safehouse, tension between them thick and unspoken.

The room was dimly lit, walls soaked in shadows. Serena sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, her pen dancing over a page, but her thoughts were miles away.

Luciano leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her.

“You’re writing again,” he said, voice cold but eyes too loud.
“What is it this time—another way to kill me off?”

She didn’t look up.

“Not everything is about you, De Luca.”

His jaw flexed. The way she said his name now—it wasn’t laced with fear. It was rebellion. It was fire.

He moved toward her, slow and dangerous.

“You think you know what you're playing with?” he asked, stopping just inches from her.
“You think I won’t drag you back to hell with me?”

Finally, she looked up—those wide, innocent eyes flashing with challenge.

“Maybe I’ve already been there. And maybe... I didn’t hate it.”

That was it.

Luciano grabbed the journal from her lap and threw it across the room, pages scattering like broken promises. She shot up, furious.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

He grabbed her wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to silence. To warn.

“You don’t get to write your way out of this,” he growled.
“You married me. You’re mine.”

She yanked her hand free. “I’m not a possession.”

“No,” he said darkly. “You’re a weapon. One that cuts deeper every time you speak.”

She stepped back, heart racing, torn between anger and something deeper. Something she hated admitting.

Desire.

Luciano stared at her, breathing hard, like he was barely holding back.

“You hate me,” she whispered.
“But you can’t stay away.”

He took a step closer. “I don’t hate you.”

His hand found her waist. Not rough—deliberate.

“I hate how much I want you.”

And then, without asking, without giving her time to think—

He kissed her.

Hard. Desperate. Possessive.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was war.

And Serena kissed him back like she’d already surrendered.