They didn't leave in silence.

That would have been too simple. Too clean for what had just happened inside those walls.

Instead, they walked out of Lucchese's house still wrapped in the aftermath of it—gunpowder lingering faintly in the air, bodies scattered along the corridors like a warning of what had come through, what had passed, what had survived.

Damiano walked ahead, his grip still firm around her wrist—not tight enough to hurt, but enough to guide, to pull, to make sure she stayed exactly where he wanted her to be: behind him, out of reach, out of danger.

Camilla, however, didn't look like someone who needed protection.

She looked annoyed.

"I told you," she muttered under her breath as they stepped over another fallen man, her voice laced with irritation rather than fear, "I was handling it."

Damiano didn't even look back at her. "Yes," he replied dryly, stepping over a body with effortless calm. "I saw. Very impressive. Especially the part where you almost got shot."

"I did not almost get shot."

"There was a gun to your head."

"And I was still alive."

"That's not the argument you think it is."

She scoffed, pulling slightly at her wrist, though she didn't actually try to break free. "You didn't have to come."

He stopped.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Then he kept walking.

"I didn't," he said flatly. "But here we are."

They reached the main hall, the damage more visible now—furniture overturned, shattered glass catching the dim light, the quiet aftermath of violence settling into the walls like it had always belonged there. And still, they continued, their voices cutting through it like nothing had happened, like this was just another argument in another place.

"You act like I asked you to," she added, her tone sharpening.

"And you act like you didn't need me to," he shot back.

She let out a short, incredulous laugh. "God, you're insufferable."

"And you're reckless," he replied, finally glancing over his shoulder at her, his eyes briefly meeting hers—sharp, assessing, still carrying that edge of irritation that hadn't left him since he walked into that room.

For a moment, neither of them looked away.

Then—

they reached the door.

And reality caught up with them.

Lucchese and Luighi stood there, waiting.

Not blocking their path.

Just... waiting.

Damiano slowed, his posture shifting almost imperceptibly—not softer, not weaker, but composed in a different way. Controlled. Calculated. The version of him that belonged to this world entirely.

Lucchese stepped forward slightly, his expression no longer aggressive, but far from relaxed. "Damiano."

Damiano stopped.

Turned.

Looked at him.

"Yes?"

There was no hostility in the word.

But there was no warmth either.

Lucchese exhaled, rubbing his jaw briefly where the bruise had already begun to form. "This... won't happen again."

Damiano didn't answer immediately.

Luighi stepped in, more measured, more diplomatic. "You have to understand the position we're in. What we're hearing, what people are saying—"

"I understand perfectly," Damiano interrupted, his tone calm, but firm enough to cut through whatever explanation they were trying to build. "But this is not the way you handle it."

Silence followed.

Heavy.

Lucchese nodded once. Slowly. "Noted."

Damiano held his gaze for a moment longer before speaking again, his voice quieter now, but carrying something steadier beneath it. "Whatever you heard... you'll have your answers soon."

Both brothers exchanged a glance.

"And you have nothing to worry about," Damiano added, his expression unreadable. "My grandfather does not betray alliances."

That—

that was what they needed.

The tension shifted.

Not gone.

But eased.

Luighi nodded first, more firmly this time. "Good."

Lucchese followed, stepping back, clearing the path. "Then we'll wait."

Damiano didn't respond.

He didn't need to.

He turned.

And walked out.

The night air hit differently—cooler, cleaner, untouched by the suffocating tension of the house behind them. Outside, waiting as if nothing had happened, was the car.

An old Mercedes.

Polished.

Elegant.

Completely out of place—and somehow exactly right.

Damiano moved toward it without hesitation, opening the door with the same quiet efficiency he carried in everything he did. As he leaned slightly into the car, he reached up, grabbing his sunglasses from where he had left them earlier, sliding them back onto his face in one smooth motion.

Then he sat.

Like this was over.

Like this was normal.

Camilla didn't move.

She stood there for a second longer, watching him, trying to piece together what had just happened—what he was, what that room had meant, what those men had seen in him that made them step back instead of push forward.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

He tilted his head slightly, looking at her over the top of his sunglasses, one eyebrow lifting just enough to make the question clear.

"Are you planning to stay there forever," he said, "or are you coming?"

She blinked.

Rolled her eyes.

And walked to the car.

"I have no idea what you're doing," she said as she got in, pulling the door shut with more force than necessary. "But we have a lot to talk about."

He started the engine.

Calm.

Unbothered.

"I'm sure we do," he replied.

She turned toward him immediately, already ready to argue. "Because, just to be clear, I was kidnapped because of something that is entirely your fault."

He let out a quiet breath, like he had expected nothing less. "Entirely my fault?"

"Yes."

He glanced at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "You chose to stay alone with Volkov."

She scoffed. "Because I do not work for the mafia, Damiano. I don't have enemies in this world. I'm not supposed to be part of whatever this is."

"And yet," he said smoothly, turning the wheel as the car pulled away from the house, "here you are."

"Because of you."

"Because of your decisions."

She turned fully toward him now, disbelief written all over her face. "That is not how that works."

"That's exactly how it works."

"No, it isn't—"

"It is."

"You're unbelievable."

"And you're predictable."

She stared at him for a second, genuinely offended. "Predictable?"

"Yes."

"How am I predictable?"

"You don't think before you act."

She laughed—short, sharp, almost incredulous. "That's rich, coming from you."

"I think before I act," he replied calmly.

"You walked into a house full of armed men alone."

"And I walked out."

"That's not the point."

"That's exactly the point."

She opened her mouth—

paused—

then shook her head, looking out the window for a second before turning back to him again, refusing to let it go. "You didn't even have a plan."

He didn't answer immediately.

And that—

that was the first crack.

Because it was true.

For a few seconds in that room—

he hadn't.

"...I had enough of one," he said finally.

She narrowed her eyes. "That's not convincing."

"It wasn't meant to be."

She let out a frustrated breath, leaning back in her seat. "You're impossible."

"And you're alive," he replied.

That—

that shut her up.

Not completely.

But enough.

The car moved through the dark roads, quiet settling between them in fragments—never fully still, never fully calm. The argument didn't end.

It just... softened.

Turned into something else.

Something that didn't need to be said out loud anymore.

And still—

neither of them admitted the one thing that had actually mattered:

He came.

And she noticed.

The drive stretched longer than either of them acknowledged.

Not in distance—but in everything that filled the silence between them.

The Tuscan landscape unfolded slowly around the car, golden light spilling across endless rows of vineyards, the hills rolling softly into one another as if the land itself had no urgency, no violence, no memory of the kind of world they had just walked out of. It was peaceful in a way that felt almost unreal—like stepping into a painting after surviving a war.

Inside the car, however, the tension hadn't fully left.

It lingered.

Quiet. Subtle. Persistent.

Camilla sat turned slightly toward the window, her expression still tight, still threaded with irritation that hadn't quite dissolved. He hadn't admitted fault. Not once. Not even slightly. And for reasons she refused to examine too closely, that bothered her more than it should have.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together.

Then, almost out of nowhere—

she rolled the window down.

The wind rushed in immediately, warm and soft, carrying the scent of earth, sun, and something faintly sweet from the vineyards. It caught her hair, pulling loose strands across her face, brushing against her skin in a way that felt... real.

Grounding.

For the first time in what felt like days—weeks, maybe—she didn't think.

She leaned slightly toward the window, letting the air hit her fully, closing her eyes just for a second as if testing whether the moment was safe enough to exist in. Then she pushed her hand out, letting it cut through the wind, her fingers shifting, rising and falling like waves as she played with the current.

A small thing.

Insignificant.

And yet—

it felt like freedom.

Not complete.

Not permanent.

But enough to remind her that it existed.

Damiano noticed.

Of course he did.

He didn't say anything.

But his grip on the steering wheel eased, just slightly, his gaze flickering toward her for a brief second before returning to the road. He didn't interrupt the moment. Didn't comment. Didn't ruin it.

He let her have it.

And that, in itself, was something.

The road shifted after a while, turning from smooth pavement into something narrower, more hidden. The main path disappeared behind them, replaced by a less obvious route—one that curved deeper into the land, cutting through the vineyards and trees like it wasn't meant to be found unless you already knew where to look.

Camilla straightened slightly, the air still brushing against her face, but her attention returning.

"This doesn't look like a road," she murmured.

"It's not," he replied simply.

That was all he said.

The path continued, winding further until—

the house appeared.

Or rather—

the hint of it.

Set deeper into the land, partially hidden, protected not just by distance but by design. And before they even reached it fully—

the gates.

And the cars.

Four of them.

Black.

Old.

Italian.

The kind of cars that didn't need to be modern to be intimidating—because their presence alone already said enough.

Damiano slowed the car.

Then stopped.

He didn't move.

Didn't open the door.

Didn't even turn the engine off.

For a second, he just sat there, looking ahead at the vehicles lined up like a quiet warning.

Then—

"Cazzo," he muttered under his breath.

Camilla turned her head toward him immediately, catching the shift in his tone. "Great," she said, dry. "Seems like you're in trouble."

He didn't answer.

He took off his sunglasses instead, slow, deliberate, folding them in one smooth motion before placing them down.

Then he opened the door.

The moment he stepped out, the atmosphere changed.

Men approached.

Not rushing.

Not aggressive.

But purposeful.

"Capo wants to see you," one of them said.

Damiano didn't hesitate. "She's not involved."

The man didn't even look at Camilla. "Capo wants to see both of you."

"She has nothing to do with this," Damiano repeated, his tone sharper now. "There's no reason for him to see her."

The response came just as calm.

"Capo's orders."

A pause.

Then—

"And if she doesn't go?" Damiano asked.

The man met his gaze this time.

"If she doesn't go comfortably," he said, "she will go uncomfortably."

Silence.

Heavy.

Clear.

Damiano held his stare for a second longer before nodding once, short, controlled. Not agreement—but acknowledgment.

He turned.

Walked back to the car.

Camilla was already watching him.

He leaned slightly toward the open door, one hand resting on the frame. "We need to go with them."

Her expression didn't soften. "I don't know them."

"It's fine," he said. "I'll be next to you. They just want us to talk to someone."

She let out a quiet, humorless breath. "Is this someone part of your group too?" she asked, already knowing the answer. "Because, of course it is. And here I am—again—right in the middle of it."

He didn't argue.

Didn't deny it.

And somehow, that was worse.

She rolled her eyes, pushing the door open before he could say anything else, stepping out on her own terms.

One of the men moved slightly toward her, as if to guide—or grab—her.

She stopped him instantly.

Hands raised.

A clear warning.

"Don't," she said.

Not loud.

Not aggressive.

But enough.

The man paused.

Then stepped back.

She didn't wait for permission.

She walked to the car they had come with, opened the door herself, and got in like she had decided this—not them.

Control.

Even here.

Damiano watched her for half a second longer.

Then followed.

And the door closed behind them.