The Fire Beneath
The light stung.
Not because it was too bright, but because it touched places she didn't want illuminated—her bare shoulder draped in a silk sheet, her arm stretched across empty space where Luca had been hours ago. His scent still lingered: expensive cologne and smoke, danger and warmth.
Emilia sat up slowly, the sheets whispering against her skin like secrets. Her mind felt heavier than her body. Memories flickered like static: Dante's smirk, Luca's hand at her waist, the look in his eyes when he said, I don't trust you.
Good. She didn't trust herself either.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Cole.
"You're in deeper than planned. We need to talk. Urgent."
She stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen. Then she deleted the message and stood.
---
Later – Gallery Office
Emilia shut the door behind her and locked it. She needed silence. Not just quiet—silence. The kind that let her think without hearing Luca's voice in her head or remembering the warmth of his touch.
She slid open the drawer and pulled out the encrypted USB Cole had given her the night before the gala. She hadn't used it yet. Luca hadn't let her out of his sight long enough.
She inserted it into the gallery's system, watching as black terminal code scrolled across the screen. Inside were intel files—De Rossi shipments, coded banking trails, whispers of alliances forming in the shadows. But something else caught her eye.
A file labeled simply: "The Inferno Protocol."
Click.
Redacted pages. Embedded audio. A clipped voice—male, familiar.
"Once De Rossi moves on the Palermo route, we'll have no choice. Either Moretti bleeds, or the Feds finally step in. Either way, we win."
She froze. That voice.
It was Luca's.
But the timestamp? It was from over a year ago. Before she ever met him. Before her assignment.
Before the blood feud reignited.
She leaned back in her chair, heart pounding. Either Luca was playing a long game—one that ended with De Rossi falling and the FBI getting played—or someone was forging his voice.
Her gut said the former.
And her gut had rarely been wrong.
---
That Evening – Moretti Penthouse
The tension hit her before the elevator doors even opened. Emilia stepped out, heels soft against the marble floor, and saw Luca standing by the glass wall that overlooked Manhattan. He didn't turn around.
"I heard you left early," he said.
"I had work."
"You're not on the schedule today."
She walked closer. "You tracking me now?"
He finally looked over his shoulder. "I don't need to. You were shaking when we got home last night. Then you disappeared by morning."
Emilia folded her arms. "You left first."
He turned fully then, walking toward her like a storm in slow motion. "Don't twist this, Emilia. You knew what last night meant."
She did. That was the problem.
"It meant I'm part of the game now," she said evenly.
Luca stopped inches from her. His voice dropped. "You were always part of the game. You just never asked which side."
Emilia's breath hitched.
"Then tell me," she said. "Which side am I on?"
Luca stepped back, as if that question had struck him harder than a bullet.
Before he could answer, his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen. His eyes sharpened.
"Dante," he muttered.
"What is it?"
He looked at her. "He wants to meet. Alone."
Emilia's stomach dropped. "Don't go."
Luca's voice was cold again. "If I don't, he'll come here. And I'd rather not have blood on my rug tonight."
---
Later – Dante De Rossi's Club
It was called Inferno.
Of course it was.
Luca stepped into the dim, crimson-lit club like he owned the place, ignoring the bouncers and the cameras. Emilia watched him from a hidden corner, earpiece tucked discreetly behind her hair.
Cole's voice crackled softly.
"You're sure this is smart?"
"No," she whispered. "But it's necessary."
Dante sat in a private booth, drink in hand, grinning like the devil who knew the trap had already been sprung.
"Luca," he said as the mob boss sat down. "Glad you could join me. Thought you'd be too busy babysitting your little FBI doll."
Luca didn't flinch.
But Emilia felt her breath catch.
"I'm only here because I want to know what you're playing at," Luca said.
Dante raised an eyebrow. "What I'm playing at? Come on, we both know I'm the only one being honest. At least I admit what I want."
"And what's that?"
"Her."
The silence fractured the air between them.
Luca didn't move. Didn't speak.
Dante leaned forward. "You think she's not going to burn you the first chance she gets? She's a fed, Luca. You think she stumbled into your life by accident?"
Emilia could feel the lie forming in Luca's throat. The denial.
But he surprised her.
He didn't deny it.
"I know who she is," he said quietly. "But I also know who you are."
Dante smirked. "Then you already know how this ends."
Luca stood. "No. I know how it starts."
He walked out without another word.
Emilia slipped out a side door, heart pounding.
She didn't know what was worse: that Luca hadn't betrayed her—or that he hadn't denied her betrayal either.
---
That Night – Emilia's Apartment
She didn't expect the knock.
She especially didn't expect him to be on the other side.
Luca, jaw clenched, soaked from the rain.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
He stepped in. "You're not safe."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not. Dante's going to come for you now."
Emilia met his eyes. "Then why did you admit the truth?"
"Because I'd rather die knowing I didn't lie to your face."
The silence cracked like thunder.
He walked past her, pacing. Then stopped.
"Tell me one thing," he said. "Was any of it real?"
She could lie.
She should lie.
But Emilia Hart didn't lie unless she had to.
"Yes," she whispered.
He turned slowly. "Then run."
"What?"
"Run, Emilia. Because if you stay, I can't protect you anymore. And I won't kill Dante if he touches you—I'll burn everything to the ground."
She didn't remember falling asleep.
One minute, her heart had been beating out of rhythm, panic burning through her like acid as Luca shoved her into his car and barked at the driver to move. The next, she was waking up in an unfamiliar bed, sheets soft as smoke and twice as expensive, with city lights bleeding through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.
It took her a second to breathe.
The last thing she remembered was the gunfire echoing from somewhere nearby—maybe the rooftop across from her building, maybe the alley below. She hadn't had time to ask. Luca had shown up like a shadow given form, face harder than steel, voice low and urgent.
"You have to run. Now."
No explanations. No choices.
And she'd gone with him, because everything in his eyes said this isn't a test anymore.
Now, the adrenaline had burned off, and in its place came the unease. She sat up slowly, her head pounding, the oversized t-shirt she wore unfamiliar. Luca's, probably. There was no sign of him in the room—but his scent lingered. Clean linen. Smoke. A whisper of expensive cologne.
Emilia got out of bed, bare feet pressing against polished floors, and padded toward the massive window. New York was waking up below her. So was she.
And she had questions.
---
An Hour Earlier – Somewhere Near Midtown
Luca hadn't spoken during the ride. Emilia watched the shadows play across his face, the tension in his jaw, the way his hand rested near the gun holstered beneath his jacket. Not a word, not a glance. Just silence and danger coiled around him like a second skin.
The car moved fast, took turns she didn't recognize. It didn't stop until they were inside a secure garage beneath a skyscraper. One of Moretti's holdings, probably.
He opened her door, didn't wait for her to ask anything. Just said, "Come on."
She followed.
---
Back in the Present – Penthouse Kitchen
She found him standing at the stove, barefoot, wearing dark sweatpants and a black t-shirt that stretched tight across his chest. He didn't look like the devil she'd seen last night. He looked tired. Human.
But his voice was still cold when he said, "You should've stayed asleep."
Emilia leaned against the doorway. "I tried. Your five-star panic room isn't as relaxing as it looks."
He turned then, slow and deliberate, eyes dark.
"Someone tried to kill you last night. You think this is a joke?"
"I think I don't know what the hell is going on," she snapped. "You showed up at my door, dragged me into your car, and now I wake up here like it's normal?"
He stared at her. Long. Hard.
Then, quietly, "There was a sniper on the building across from yours. Scoped in. Safety off."
Her mouth went dry.
"You're sure?"
"I don't guess about that kind of thing."
A long silence stretched between them.
Luca turned back to the stove. "Eat something. Then we talk."
Eggs. Toast. Coffee.
Normal, except it wasn't. Not with Luca sitting across from her like a storm waiting to break.
She sipped her coffee, finally saying, "So what was that? A warning? A hit?"
"Both. De Rossi's message was loud. Subtlety's never been his strong suit."
Her stomach clenched. "You think he knows? About me?"
Luca looked at her, unreadable. "He suspects. He doesn't have proof. Yet."
Yet.
"So what happens now?" she asked.
"Now," Luca said, pushing his chair back, "you disappear. You're not going back to your apartment. You stay here. Until this is over."
She folded her arms. "You think locking me up will keep me safe?"
"I think not dying is a good place to start."
Dante De Rossi stood at the edge of his study, ice clinking in his glass, gaze fixed on a live surveillance feed. Emilia Hart, blurry and far away, moving through Luca Moretti's penthouse like she belonged there.
He smiled.
"So the spider finally caught something."
Behind him, one of his lieutenants spoke. "We've confirmed it. She doesn't work in art. Doesn't exist on any gallery registry before Moretti hired her."
Dante turned slowly. "And the accent?"
"Neutral. Midwestern, probably trained out. Background's scrubbed, but we're working on it."
He downed the rest of his drink, jaw tight with satisfaction.
"She's FBI. Or CIA. Doesn't matter. She's not his. And that means she's mine.
Later — Luca's Study
The room was dim, illuminated only by the glow of multiple monitors displaying maps, photos, intercepted calls, and streaming security cameras.
Luca motioned Emilia forward. "This is Moretti Intelligence. My eyes and ears."
She scanned the screens. Surveillance footage from around the city, phone taps, encrypted messages—everything converging on one thing: De Rossi's moves.
"You see this?" Luca pointed to a cluster of dots moving near the docks. "De Rossi's men making pickups and drop-offs. Shipment tonight—illegal arms. If we catch this, we get leverage."
Emilia nodded. "Then we stop it."
"Exactly." He leaned back, tension easing just enough for a ghost of a smile. "You ever work a sting like this?"
She shrugged, the familiar surge of adrenaline returning. "More than once. But not with the devil himself by my side."
He cocked an eyebrow. "I'm not all bad."
"Some days, you're worse."
---
Evening — Luca's Penthouse Balcony
The city skyline stretched endless and glittering below them, a sea of lights masking shadows darker than night.
Luca lit a cigarette, smoke curling around his fingers like a living thing. Emilia watched him quietly, the silence between them heavier than words.
"You're going to want to get some rest before tonight," he said, exhaling smoke. "We hit the docks at midnight."
"I'm not exactly the 'rest and relax' type." She glanced at the sky, fading from twilight to star-studded night. "And I don't trust sleeping while De Rossi's hunting me."
He slid closer, voice low enough to be a whisper. "Then stay awake with me."
Her heart hammered—not just from fear, but something else. Something dangerous.
---
Midnight — The Docks
The air was thick with salt and fog, the distant cries of seagulls mingling with the low hum of machinery.
Luca and Emilia crouched behind stacked crates, watching De Rossi's men unload crates stamped with black ink—guns, ammo, something heavier.
Emilia's phone was in her hand, ready to call for backup at the first sign of trouble. But she hesitated. The plan was to gather evidence, not start a firefight.
Suddenly, a shadow moved. Another shadow answered.
She felt a gun press against the small of her back.
"Freeze."