Chapter 25 – Boundaries And Breathless Nights

• A soft mist blurring the estate’s view as Alina padded quietly down the hallway. She hadn’t meant to come this far—her mind was still swimming with the journal, her mother’s voice inked into every page, the tangled confessions of a woman torn between love and loyalty.
• Luciano hadn’t said much after his final words: “I tried.”
• She hadn’t pushed. Not then. The weight between them had felt… different. Not heavy in a way that crushed, but something else.
• Something she didn’t want to walk away from just yet.
• Her steps slowed as she reached the door to their bedroom—ajar, quiet. She hadn’t meant to come here. And yet her fingers pushed it open.
• Luciano stood inside.
• His back was to her, his shirt half-off, arms raised as he pulled it over his head. The room was dim, lit only by the low amber of the bedside lamp, and the glow caught on the ridges of old scars etched deep into his skin. They ran like white rivers across his shoulder blades, down his spine. Faint tattoos crawled around them—symbols she didn’t understand. A language of pain, survival.
• She didn’t pay attention to it that night in the rooftop. She blushed as she remembered it.
• He turned just as she started to back away.
• Alina froze.
• He didn’t flinch, didn’t cover himself. His eyes met hers—unguarded, unmasked.
• “Stay,” he said. His voice was quiet. Not a command. Not a plea. Just… an invitation. “Just stay.”
• She swallowed. “Luciano—”
• “I won’t touch you,” he said quickly. “I just… don’t want to be alone tonight.”
• She looked at him, really looked. The man who had held her like she might shatter. The man who had tried to save a woman he couldn’t keep.
• And now he stood there, with nothing between them but breath and bruised honesty.
• “I’ll stay,” she whispered.
• He moved aside, letting her step in fully. The door clicked shut behind her. Neither of them spoke again as she crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, shoes still on, clothes still in place. Luciano followed, pulling the blanket up over them both as they lay side by side in the quiet.
• It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t rehearsed. It was just… still.
• The silence stretched until Alina said softly, “I used to draw in the dark. When I was a kid.”
• Luciano’s brow furrowed slightly. “Why in the dark?”
• “So I couldn’t see what I was creating,” she said, eyes on the ceiling. “It forced me to feel instead of think. To stop trying to make it perfect. I didn’t want anyone to see the mess inside my head.”
• “You were just a kid.”
• “Yeah, well, I was a messy one.”
• He gave a low hum. “What saved you?”
• She turned her head toward him. “Art. Always. It was the only thing that made me feel like I wasn’t disappearing.”
• Luciano didn’t respond right away. His breathing shifted—slower, deeper. Then, “Do you want to know what made me disappear?”
• Her chest tightened. “Only if you want to tell me.”
• He stared up at the ceiling, his voice a whisper in the dark. “My first kill was when I was fifteen.”
• Alina didn’t move.
• “She was someone’s mother,” he continued. “Not mine. But someone’s. I don’t remember her name. Just her eyes. She begged. I told myself I had no choice. That it was her or me.”
• Silence.
• His next breath was strained. “That’s the version of me no one gets to see. The one that remembers every face. Every scream.”
• Alina reached across the space between them and found his hand.
• He didn’t grab hers—just let their fingers brush until they naturally laced together.
• She squeezed gently. “You’re not that boy anymore.”
• “That’s exactly what your mother said when I first told her.”
• “Do you wish she was here instead?”
• Luciano didn’t answer. But he didn’t let go.
• They stayed like that for what felt like hours—two bodies, fully clothed, lying on top of the sheets with no touch beyond the skin of their fingers.
• No heat. No hunger. Just quiet.
• Just them.
• Alina didn’t know when her breathing had started to match his.
• Maybe somewhere between his story and the silence.
• She could feel the warmth of his hand, the slight tremble that still lived in his fingers. But he wasn’t holding her like a lifeline—he was just there. Present. Honest.
• That was the hardest part, wasn’t it?
• The honesty.
• He hadn’t hidden from the memory. He hadn’t made excuses. He hadn’t tried to win sympathy.
• He just let her see him.
• And now… she couldn’t unsee it.
• “I hated my father at some point,” she whispered, still staring at the ceiling. “He had this way of making everything feel like it was your fault. Like you owed him your life for just existing.”
• Luciano’s thumb moved once against hers. A soft motion. A listening one.
• “After my mother died,” Alina continued, “he burned all her paintings. Said they were poison. That she made them for another man, not him.”
• Luciano tensed, barely—but she felt it.
• “I didn’t paint again until I left for college,” she said. “And even then, it felt wrong. Like I was betraying him. Or her. Or maybe myself.”
• Luciano turned to her, shifting on his side. “You’re not betraying anyone by living, Alina.”
• She met his eyes. “You say that like you believe it. Do you?”
• His lips pressed into a tight line. “Some days.”
• A beat of silence passed between them.
• Then—quietly—he said, “When I saw you that night at the auction, I didn’t want to make a purchase, I wanted to see who would and threaten him to treat you right. But when I saw you…it was like being hit by a ghost. Your mother’s eyes, your fire, your fury. Everything I couldn’t save. Standing in front of me.”
• Her throat tightened.
• “I didn’t want to want you,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “Not like this. Not in that suit, not in that place. But I couldn’t look away.”
• “Then why didn’t you say anything?”
• “Because I knew what I’d do if I did.”
• He turned onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer forgiveness.
• “I wanted to keep you safe from me,” he said. “But it turns out, you’re the only thing that makes me feel safe.”
• Alina’s fingers tightened around his. Slowly, she rolled to her side, facing him.
• They were inches apart now—no heat, no invitation. Just space carved from stillness.
• Her voice trembled as she asked, “Do you ever wish we’d never met again?”
• His eyes locked onto hers. “Never.”
• She nodded once, barely.
• “I can’t promise you anything,” she whispered. “Not clarity, not healing, not… whatever this is becoming.”
• “I’m not asking for promises,” he said. “Only honesty.”
• Their hands stayed linked between them, resting on the mattress. The room felt suspended in breath and heartbeat and something weightless.
• Luciano’s voice softened even more. “You fell asleep crying once. After your mother died. I found you in the greenhouse. You couldn’t have been more than eight. You were curled up next to her last painting.”
• Alina’s breath caught.
• “I sat there,” he said. “Just… watched you sleep. I wanted to hold you. Tell you the world was going to be okay. But it wouldn’t have been true. So I let you rest.”
• “Why are you telling me this now?”
• “Because it’s time you knew… I’ve always seen you. Not the girl in Victor’s shadow. Not the heiress with a storm in her spine. Just you.”
• Alina’s eyes welled. She blinked fast, but didn’t look away.
• And neither did he.
• They didn’t speak again that night.
• Eventually, her eyes drifted shut, the weight of the past and the echo of his words finally too heavy to carry into wakefulness.
• They fell asleep with fingers still linked, breathing in sync.
• For once, there was no tension. No pretense. Just quiet.
• And maybe that was what healing actually looked like.
• ——————
• The sun had not yet risen when Alina stirred.
• She blinked into the half-light, feeling warmth against her back, strong arms around her waist.
• Luciano had shifted in the night, and now held her gently, like something precious he didn’t want to wake.
• She could feel his breath against her shoulder. Steady. Safe.
• Alina didn’t move.
• Not because she was afraid.
• But because—for the first time—she didn’t want the moment to end.