The Moretti estate had never been quieter.
Even with the storm howling outside like a pack of wild wolves, the halls inside held a silence that was far more deafening. It was the kind of silence that came before the shatter—the quiet right before everything exploded.
Elena moved through the corridor like a ghost, barefoot and tense, her silk nightgown clinging to her skin from the cold draft that seeped through the old mansion walls. Her eyes were wide with fear, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Somewhere below, the storm had already begun—and she wasn't sure whether it was Derek or Matteo who had set it off.
But she knew something had broken. And there was no turning back.
**
Two hours earlier, she had watched Derek spiral.
After finding undeniable proof of Matteo's betrayal—a wiretap embedded in the wine cellar, traced back to Montaro's men—Derek had gone from calculated to feral. His hands had trembled, not from fear but fury. He had thrown his glass at the wall, his voice a roar as he accused Matteo of orchestrating every slip-up, every ambush. Of feeding their enemy like a serpent coiled in his own brother's skin.
And Matteo hadn't denied it.
He'd simply smirked. "Maybe you should've paid more attention, brother. Maybe you were too busy playing house with your little pet upstairs."
Derek had lunged.
Had the guards not intervened, Derek would've crushed Matteo's windpipe then and there. But the betrayal had cut too deep. And now, that silence—the calm before the storm—echoed through every stone in the estate.
**
Elena found him in the abandoned greenhouse behind the east wing. She didn't need directions—her soul simply pulled her there, like she always knew where he'd go when the world became too much.
Derek stood near a shattered glass window, the sharp edge of it stained with blood. His. Again. Always his.
He didn't turn when she entered, but he knew it was her.
"He's still breathing," he said hoarsely. "For now."
"Because I asked you to wait," she replied softly.
His shoulders stiffened. "No. Because you begged."
Elena moved closer, stepping carefully over broken flowerpots and rain-slicked leaves. "If you kill Matteo now, you end the game before it starts."
Derek turned, and for a moment, she almost didn't recognize him. His eyes weren't just dark—they were hollow. A man who had stared too long into the abyss… and liked what stared back.
"He betrayed me, Elena. Since the beginning. Since before I took over the syndicate. I trained him. Fed him. Defended him against my own blood. And he sold me out to the man who ordered my father's execution."
"I know," she whispered. "But he's not the real prize."
That got his attention. Derek's jaw clenched. "Go on."
"You said it yourself—Matteo knows too much. He's Montaro's pawn. But pawns can still be useful… until the king is cornered."
Derek tilted his head, the faintest trace of something returning to his expression—focus. Control. Purpose.
"You want me to let him live."
"I want you to use him," she said firmly. "We take everything he knows. Every drop of intel, every hidden deal, every secret route Montaro used to move his blood money. We bleed Matteo dry, and then…"
She didn't finish. She didn't have to.
Then, Derek could do whatever he wanted with him.
He stepped forward, brushing a damp strand of hair behind her ear. His touch lingered—gentler than expected.
"I don't deserve you," he murmured.
"You don't get to decide that."
Their lips brushed, but just as Derek leaned in, a sharp knock echoed through the greenhouse doors.
It was one of his guards.
"Boss," the man said urgently. "You need to see this. Matteo—he gave up something. We ran it through our network. It's big."
Derek stepped back from Elena, all softness gone in an instant. "What is it?"
"A location. Montaro's secondary vault. Not money—records. Files. Blackmail. Everything he's ever used to keep men in line."
Elena's breath caught. "That's what we need."
Derek's eyes glittered like obsidian.
"No," he said slowly. "That's how we bury him."
As he strode out, Elena followed, not as a prisoner, not as a pet—but as something far more dangerous.
As the woman he'd go to war for.
And in the shadows of the east wing, Matteo sat chained to a chair, bloodied but smirking, because even now—especially now—he still held one final secret.
And it would hit harder than any bullet.
Elena's eyes softened as she watched Derek, noticing the tightness in his jaw, the furrow between his brows that had become permanent since this war with Montaro had begun. She couldn't help but feel that the man she had once known was slipping away—replaced by a shadow of his former self. His obsession with vengeance, though understandable, had transformed him into something unrecognizable.
She reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and her voice broke the silence again. "Derek, when did it all become about revenge? When did we stop thinking about the future... about what we still have left?"
Her question hung in the air, a reminder of everything they had once dreamed of. The life they could have had, before all of this. Before Montaro. Before the bloodshed.
Derek's gaze softened for just a moment, and Elena seized the opportunity. "I'm not asking you to forget what happened, Derek. But I am asking you to look at what we still have. We can build something together, something better."
The flicker of doubt in Derek's eyes was brief, but Elena caught it. It was all she needed to know that there was still hope. Still a chance for him to come back to her, to the man she loved before the darkness of revenge had clouded his heart.