Chapter 5

The man still on his knees — his eyes wide with something between hatred and despair — suddenly lunged. I saw the glint of a blade before my brain could catch up. He wasn't going to beg. He was aiming for Adrian.

And then a shot rang out.

I screamed, not because I pulled the trigger — I didn't. But the gun was still in my hand, warm and heavy, and now soaked in blood. I stared at it like it has a life of its own.

The man's body slumped forward, lifeless.

Adrian stood still, blood streaked across his cheek and jaw. He didn't flinch. Didn't move. Just turned slowly to look at me with an expression carved from stone.

His lips curled, every syllable laced with disdain. "Your hands are shaking."

I didn't respond. I couldn't. I was frozen, numb, trembling from the inside out.

He wiped the blood off his face with the back of his hand, then flicked it carelessly to the floor like it was nothing more than wine.

Like someone's life had just ended, and it meant nothing.

"Dispose of his body," Adrian ordered coldly as he walked away, not sparing me another glance.

I stood rooted to the floor, my heart pounding. I couldn't process what just happened. Couldn't wrap my kidney around the fact that someone had died — right in front of me.

And I had been holding the gun.

My knees buckled.

Was this how Miguel died?

A back alley. A fast shot. A man too dangerous to be questioned. And everyone too scared to care?

I walked slowly back to my room, the walls echoing my footsteps like a funeral march. My vision blurred as I reached for the bathroom door. My hands were still red — shaking, stained. I turned on the tap and stepped into the shower fully clothed.

The water was hot, but I couldn't feel anything anymore.

Yesterday, I had muttered under my breath that the water was freezing. One of the maids had shrugged and said, “That’s how it’s always been.”

“If anything changes,” she’d added with a cautious smile, “it has to come from Mr. Di Santi. He doesn’t alter house orders. Ever.”

But tonight, the water was steaming—hot enough to sting.

My lips parted slightly.

He’d heard me.

I sank to the floor as it rushed over me, scrubbing my arms with trembling hands but the blood wouldn't wash off — not from where it mattered most.

I wasn't supposed to become this. I had come to expose monsters. Not turn into one.

Tears slid down my cheeks, hidden by the cascade of water. I clutched my knees to my chest and rocked, overwhelmed by the weight of it all — my guilt, my dear, and the sickening confusion twisting in my chest every time I looked at Adrian.

Before he left, he had looked at me — his eyes colder than the shot that killed that man — and said, "In my world, you don't get to choose what you become. You survive it."

---

I didn't know how long I stayed in that shower. But it was long enough for the water to run cold and my fingers to prune. When I finally stepped out, wrapped in silence and a robe too soft for the way I felt, I saw a tray of food waiting for me.

Steamed rice. Roasted chicken. A bowl of fruit.

My stomach growled. But the moment I reached for the spoon, the image of the blood on my hands came rushing back. My throat closed. I shoved the tray aside and stumbled to the bathroom again.

I emptied everything inside me into the toilet, even though I hadn't eaten a thing.

I couldn't do this

I needed to finish what I came for — gather the evidence. Collect every shred of truth, and give it to the FBI. Then burn the whole damn Di Santi empire to the ground.

For Miguel.

The rest of that day passed in a haze. No one came to my door.

Except Adrian.

I heard him once — his voice low and clipped, ordering the guards and maids to check in on me at intervals. “Every two hours. I want to know she’s still here. And breathing.”

Maybe it was just to make sure I hadn’t run away. Maybe.

But there was something softer threaded through the command — something I couldn’t quite name. A tension. A thread of concern he didn’t know how to untangle.

That evening, I heard his footsteps pause outside my door.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

The tray of untouched food was still by the window.

“I saw the maid bring back the food again,” his voice came through the door — quiet, but not cold. “You didn’t eat.”

I stared at the wall.

“I’m not hungry,” I said, my voice hoarse and barely audible.

There was a pause.

A moment of silence heavy enough to choke me.

His shadow lingered beneath the crack of the door for a second longer… then faded away.

I stayed mostly in my room, pretending to read or rest but mostly I was planning for my next actions.

---

The knock came at noon.

“Lucia.”

His voice was deep, low — too calm to belong to a man who commanded an empire built on blood.

I sat still on the floor beside the bed, knees drawn to my chest, saying nothing.

From the other side of the door, Adrian continued, “You haven’t eaten. Again.”

My heart jumped. He’d noticed. The maids must have told him, or maybe he had been watching, the way he always seemed to know everything.

“You need to stop acting like killing someone is a big deal.”

His tone wasn’t angry. It was distant. Practical.

“He was an intruder. He made his choice the moment he stepped into my territory.”

My throat was tight.

“You did what you had to do.”

Even the guards and the maids standing nearby looked stunned — as if they, too, weren’t used to hearing him explain anything, especially not to someone like me.

“I’m fine,” I finally said, voice hoarse.

“I’m just trying to take the image out of my head.”

A pause.

Then, quietly:

“Fine.”

I heard his footsteps retreat, followed by a brief order: “Bring the tray. Come.”

An hour later, another knock.

“Miss Lucia?” It was one of the younger maids. Her voice was nervous but kind. “Please open up.”

I hesitated, but finally unlocked the door.

She stepped in carefully and set a new tray down on the small table near the window.

Then turned to me with wide eyes, as if she couldn’t believe what she was about to say.

“The boss made this himself,” she whispered. “He cooked it. Said it’s an order that you eat. His words.”

I blinked, stunned. “He… cooked?”

The maid just nodded. “Don’t let it get cold.”

And with that, she slipped out, leaving the scent of warm, spiced food behind her.

I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

But hunger didn’t care about pride. I was starving.

I sat, took one bite—

—and froze.

It was delicious. Balanced. Rich. The kind of food made by someone who didn’t just know how to cook, but who cared about doing it right.

I didn’t want to admit how fast I finished it.

Later, after washing up, I walked downstairs, just needing air.

I moved through the corridor slowly, past tall windows and oil paintings older than I was. As I reached the corner near the hallway mirror, something stopped me.

Movement.

I turned slightly — and there he was.

Adrian.

Standing half in shadow, a drink in his hand, talking to someone on the phone. But even as he spoke, his eyes lifted — and in the mirror, our gazes locked.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile.

But there was something in the way he looked at me.

My fingers curled around the edge of the wall. I looked away first this time, with my heart racing.

"We need to talk." He said as I walked back to my room.

He didn't wait.

I followed him down the hall, past silent guards and heavy oak doors, into his private study — dimly lit, lined with dark leather books and walls that had seen things they'd never confess.

He gestures toward the chair across from his desk. I sat, my pulse thrumming.

Adrian stood by the bar cabinet, pouring himself a drink, the crystal decanter catching the light like a blade.

I hesitated, then cleared my throat.

"Thanks for the other time," I slowly said.

He didn't turn.

Didn’t pause.

Just took a sip, then finally spoke—flat, unbothered.

“I need you functioning,” he said. “Not sulking around like a ghost.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

He glanced at me then, eyes unreadable. “Don’t read into it.”

Silence bloomed between us.

I nodded, the tightness in my throat returning. "Of course." This was business. Just business.

But then he turned his back again, and I caught it—his fingers tightening slightly around the glass, a flicker too quick for anyone else to see.

"There's a matter I want you to look into," he said, folding his hands together like a king briefing his most trusted soldier.

"What kind of matter?" I asked.

"An investigation. Internal." His voice was casual, but his eyes weren't. "years ago, someone leaked financial data — serious data. Cost us money. One of ours was killed because of it. I want to know who betrayed us."

My breath hitched. "Why me?"

He raised a brow. "It's all in your portfolio, isn't it? Investigation. Forensics. Crime scene analysis. Said you were the best. You're more than just a pretty face, aren't you, Lucia?"

The lie in my file laughed in my face.

I swallowed hard and nodded. "Of course."

He handed me the file. Our fingers brushed, just barely. But my skin tingled from the contact.

"I've included everything we have. Paper trails. Names. Incidents. I'll help you with whatever you need," he said, his voice low now, almost softer than usual. "But this is your assignment now. Prove your loyalty."

Loyalty.

The word tasted like rust in my mouth.

I held the folder with shaking fingers and opened it slowly.

And then I froze.

The first page was a photo .

Miguel Fernandez.

My brother.

I blinked hard, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

Below the photo:

Subject: Miguel Fernandez - suspected mole - deceased.

I couldn't breathe.

No. No. No.

Was this some kind of cruel joke?

I turned the page — documents, timelines, details. A full report of his death, labeled as "internal security matter." The last location he was seen. Names of men who questioned him. A note about a possible leak... and a silenced witness.

It wasn't speculation.

This was a hit.

Adrian didn't know Miguel was my brother.

He didn't know why I was really here.

And he had just handed me the file that could destroy him.

My hands gripped the edges of the folder, my knuckles turning white against it.

Adrian leaned back, watching me suspiciously with those unreadable eyes. "You look pale. Is everything okay?"

I forced a nod.

"Yes," I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Everything's fine."

But it wasn't.

Because if Adrian was asking me to investigate Miguel...

Then maybe — he wasn't the one who pulled the trigger.

Someone else did.