The moment Luciano stepped out of the warehouse, the echo of William's screams dissolved behind him like background music he'd already grown bored of. The cold night air licked at his face, but he didn't slow down, he walked through it like the temperature bent around him. Violence had sharpened his senses, not dulled them. Only the faint caramel scent of his drink lingered on his breath.
Ian, his assistant, stood waiting beside the custom black Maybach with a tablet and a stack of files pressed to his chest. His posture was straight, but his eyes—those always betrayed a flicker of fear whenever Luciano's attention shifted his way. Wise. Few men survived long in Luciano's world without learning fear.
Ian knew better than to speak first. Luciano Solis De La Vega—Starling by blood, De La Vega from mother's side—was a man who preferred silence until he permitted sound.
Luciano took one more slow sip of his drink, his eyes scanning the empty perimeter. He then wiped a smear of William's blood from his expensive black leather gloves with a casual, dismissive flick of his wrist, as if brushing away irritating dust, before finally acknowledging the assistant. "Well?" he asked, voice low and smooth, like a blade sliding free of a sheath.
Ian straightened. "I gathered the information you requested, sir."
Luciano's eyes flicked to the documents. He had ordered Ian to find everything about her—Eloise. Her name, her job, her friends, her routines. Everything… except her past.
Her past belonged to him.
He would hear it from her lips.
No one else's.
He didn't tolerate anyone trespassing into what he claimed, even if the claim existed only in intention—for now.
"Proceed," he said.
Ian cleared his throat softly. "Her full name is Eloise Winters. Twenty-two years old. Works as a waitress at the Velvet Lantern. Lives three blocks from the restaurant. She has dark brown hair—almost black in low light—and… sir, forgive the personal note, but she has the kind of eyes people write poems about. Forest green. Bright even when she's sad."
Eloise Winters.
The name settled in Luciano's mind like a note of music he intended to play again and again until the melody bent to him.
Ian continued, "She… fits your description exactly. And according to staff, she's known for her… softness. Polite. Quiet. Works double shifts. But she—"
"—has claws," Luciano finished for him, a dark, velvet chuckle escaping his throat as he recalled the sheer fire in her eyes when she had thrown that glass of wine in William's face. "Pequeña Paloma with talons. Beautiful, truly."
He held out a hand, and Ian placed a small photograph into it. A staff badge photo. Poor lighting, no makeup, hair slightly messy—but Eloise looked undeniably breathtaking anyway. Innocent, yes. But her eyes... they were undeniably haunted. As if she carried secrets deeper than she could ever voice.
Luciano's pulse reacted before he could stop it.
Yes.
This one was going to be his.
Luciano's jaw flexed. He remembered those eyes—wide, furious, tear-streaked, beautiful—standing in that restaurant as William spat curses at her. She had lifted her chin, spine straight like a queen in exile, refusing to bow his cruelty.
"One friend she's closest to," Ian continued, navigating the file. "Jayla White. They've worked together for years. Inseparable since high school, apparently."
Luciano's brow twitched upward. "Jayla… ah. The girl who provided the excellent secondary slap at Le Papillon."
A small smirk curved his mouth, dark and amused. The slap had been magnificent—sharp, fast, and fueled by unwavering loyalty. He respected that kind of fierce devotion.
He also remembered the man who had stood between William and Jayla when William had instinctively raised his hand.
Eric.
Jayla's boyfriend.
And a man Luciano knew far more about than anyone realized.
"Interesting," Luciano murmured, the word rolling off his tongue like a secret with sharp edges. "So she's dating Eric. Hm."
Ian blinked, confusion clouding his features. "Sir? Do you… know him?"
Luciano smiled faintly, a smile that held far too much private knowledge to be innocent. "Oh, I know a lot of things, Ian," Luciano murmured, sliding the file back onto the stack. "Some secrets, however, aren't mine to tell. Yet."
The amusement evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. His focus narrowed to Eloise again, her name repeating in his head with a possessive warmth he didn't try to hide.
There was a final note in her file—something that made him pause and review the details carefully.
"She lost her father and older brother in a car crash twelve years ago," Ian added quietly. "She left home at eighteen. There are no clear records of why she cut ties with her mother."
Luciano's jaw tightened.
"What makes an eighteen-year-old girl walk away from her mother? Forever?" He murmured under his breath, not a question to Ian, but a challenge to himself. "Something happened. Something dark. Something she hasn't told anyone."
A secret.
A wound.
Something he would pull from her lips himself, not through any file.
"No one touches this part of her," Luciano's voice dropped, soft but lethal, carrying an explicit threat. "Her past is mine to uncover. No one looks into it. Not you, not our best hackers, no one. Is that understood?"
Ian swallowed. "Understood, sir."
He walked toward his car, steps slow, measured. The clean hum of the black Maybach waited for him like a loyal beast.
Just as he reached the back door, Ian spoke again—too hastily.
"Sir, your father called."
The words dropped like heavy stones into the air. The atmosphere instantly froze.
The temperature fell sharply. Even the wind seemed to retreat in deference to the sudden, explosive hostility radiating from Luciano.
Ian's throat bobbed visibly as Luciano turned toward him, his eyes narrowing instantly, his beautiful face stripped completely of humanity, leaving only cold, volcanic rage.
"Say that again," Luciano whispered.
Ian swallowed hard, correcting himself instantly. "I—I mean, Mr. Starling called, sir."
Luciano took a slow, deliberate step closer, close enough that Ian stopped breathing entirely.
"Next time," Luciano murmured, his voice utterly devoid of mercy, "you attach the word father to that man's name… it will be your last day to talk because you will no longer possess a tongue. Do you hear me, Ian?"
Ian nodded quickly, frantically. "Yes, sir. My profound apologies."
Luciano's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking—a rare, volatile sign that he was fighting for control. "He hasn't earned that title. Not for a single damned second of my life."
He leaned back slightly, pulling himself away from the immediate threat of violence.
"Now. What did that sperm donor say?"
Ian exhaled shakily. "He sent a message: Marcia will return very soon. And he expects you to keep your side of the promise... regarding the engagement which is a month from now, sir."
Luciano gave a low, humorless chuckle that held no amusement, only contempt.
"Perfect," he said, sliding smoothly into the Maybach. "That gives me exactly one month to find a fiancée who is not Marcia."
Ian blinked as he quickly shut the door. "Sir… is it wise to break a promise to Mr. Starling so soon?"
Luciano looked up at him with lazy confidence. "Promises are made to be broken. And that particular engagement was designed to fail from the very moment it was conceived."
Ian climbed into the driver's seat. "Understood, sir."
Luciano adjusted his cuffs. "Good. Now—tell me the rest. You said you had more news."
"Yes." Ian hesitated again, bracing himself.
"It's about Miss Winters."
Every atom of Luciano's intense attention instantly sharpened.
"She… burned an estate today."
The silence that followed was thick, profound, and absolute.
Luciano blinked once.
Twice.
Then a third time.
Then he burst into laughter.
It wasn't polite amusement or a smirk. It was a full-bodied, delighted, wicked laugh that filled the enclosed space of the car, vibrating with genuine, reckless pleasure.
"Well," he drawled, wiping a delighted tear from his eye, "look at that."
His grin widened, predatory and thrilling. "Here I was, planning meticulous, intricate ways to lure my little Paloma into my home. And she beat me to it. She walked in and gifted me an arson scene." He clapped once, thrilled and utterly reckless. "Brilliant."
Ian coughed carefully into his fist. "To be precise, sir… she believed it was William's estate. But it is actually—"
"Mine," Luciano finished, still amused. "One of the many estates I gave to William. A perfect misunderstanding."
Ian nodded stiffly. "Should… should we open an official investigation into the fire?"
"No." Luciano waved a dismissive hand, ending the discussion. "Wrap up the case. Quietly. No police involvement, no cameras, no fingerprints, no witnesses. She will not suffer a second of consequence for this."
Ian's professional brows rose slightly at the level of protection being immediately afforded. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Now send Marcos and three of the others in two days." Luciano sipped his caramel drink again, savoring the sweetness and the plan forming in his head. "I want her in two days."
Ian's grip tightened on the wheel. "Fetch her, sir? As in…"
Luciano tilted his head, his blue-gray eyes glinting.
"Yes, Ian. Fetch her. I'm giving her a day to grief her failed love story. After that bring her directly to the main estate."
Ian nodded, throat dry. "Understood."
"And one more thing," Luciano added.
"Yes, sir?"
"Have my bedroom redecorated. Something brighter. Softer. Warmer. Make it ready before she arrives."
Ian's foot almost slipped off the pedal. He stared at the reflection in the mirror.
"S-sir… your bedroom?"
Luciano gave him a look, equal parts lethal and playful.
"Yes. The place she will be sleeping for a week."
Ian's eyes widened further in alarm. "A—week? In—your personal bedroom?"
Luciano's smile shifted into something dangerously intimate, predatory, and utterly certain. "Before I join her."
Ian stared like he'd just heard a royal decree from a mad king.
"No one has ever been permitted in your room," he whispered in disbelief. "Except Mr. Andrés and Listo. Not even your maids."
Luciano closed his eyes, resting his head against the soft leather seat, his mind already visualizing the new, softer colors of his private sanctuary.
"Because that girl… she's going to be my fiancée, Ian"
Ian blinked three times, processing the words, and still failed to comprehend the suddenness of the pronouncement.
"Fiancée, sir?"
Luciano opened his eyes, his expression calm—too calm. "You heard me."
His voice carried the certainty of a man declaring the weather.
Eloise Winters.
Her name echoed in his thoughts like a promise he fully intended to collect.
A girl who burned down an estate thinking it belonged to the man who hurt her.
A girl who didn't yet know she had caught the attention—and obsession—of a man who once burned cities without blinking.
Luciano's gaze darkened with hunger, amusement, and something more dangerous
"It's time," he murmured, almost to himself, "to officially start the game."
He smiled—slow, predatory, certain.
"In two days ," Luciano whispered, voice gentle as silk and sharp as razors, "my pequeña Paloma will come home."