The silence that followed Eloise's last word was not silence at all. It was a tangible pressure—thick, suffocating, and electric—coiling through the vast dining room like the air before a devastating storm.
Luciano's expression didn't change a muscle, maintaining that dangerous mask of aristocratic control, but something lethal flickered deep behind that glacier of icy blue-gray. Eloise wasn't sure whether it was pure, unadulterated anger… or something colder, more focused, like a hunter sighting the bullseye.
Andrés was the first to move, breaking the spell.
His chair scraped softly against the polished marble floor as he leaned forward, his usual careless demeanor stripped away. His voice, when he spoke, was unexpectedly gentle, a stark contrast to his brother's severity.
"Hey," he murmured, reaching across the table to cover her trembling hand with his warm, steady one. "Breathe, hermosa. You're shaking."
She hadn't even realized she'd stopped breathing. The simple warmth of his skin against hers was an unbearable anchor in the sudden, horrifying chaos.
Luciano's gaze snapped from her eyes to where their hands touched. The movement was instant, possessive, and violent—like a blade unsheathed.
Andrés lifted both palms immediately, surrender in every line of his body, recognizing the immediate danger. "Relax, brother. I'm not poaching," he said with a half-smile. "Just being human for five seconds."
Luciano ignored him, his focus settling back on Eloise with terrifying intensity.
He leaned forward instead, resting his elbows on the table, his posture intimate yet suffocating. His voice dropped into something soft, yet it filled every corner of the room, leaving Eloise nowhere to hide.
"Take it off."
Eloise blinked, her mind struggling to process the abrupt command. "What?"
"The necklace." He didn't need to raise his voice; the command was absolute. "Take it off, Paloma."
Her fingers curled instantly, protectively, around the heart pendant resting at the base of her throat. The pendant was warm—always warm—like a memory pressed into metal. It felt like the last piece of her old, ruined life.
"No."
Luciano's smile was terrible. Beautiful. Slow. Like a storm that was already on its way but allowing you to watch its devastating approach from a distance before it broke you entirely.
"Everything you wear from now on," he said, his voice a silken, lethal thread, "will be chosen by me. Not by some special person youdon't even know." He tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle he intended to break open and reassemble. "Every chain around your throat will be mine. Every stone against your skin will be mine. Starting today."
Andrés let out a low, disbelieving whistle. "Christ, Lucho. You're intense when you're in love."
Eloise stiffened violently, the word stinging her face.
Love? She didn't believe that for a single, frantic second.
Why would she? When every breath she took around him was a reminder to stay alert, to stay alive long enough to find an escape route. There was no love here. No safety. Just a very beautiful, very dangerous man who thought possession and affection were synonyms.
Her hand tightened around the necklace, her grip desperate.
"I'm not taking it off," she said firmly, pushing past the terror. "This necklace hasn't been removed since I was a baby. It's the only thing that reminds me of my father and brother. I'm not taking it off for you. Or anyone."
Luciano's jaw flexed once, violently.
"Paloma," he said—slowly, the word drawn out into a razor-sharp warning—"don't make me angry. That necklace needs to go now."
Anger and frustration sharpened her exhaustion into something reckless, blinding. She saw the opening and flung herself into it.
"And if I don't?" she snapped, her voice rising, trembling with fury and grief. "Are you going to have me arrested for the estate? First you kidnapped me. Then you forced me to be your fiancée. Then you gave me—" she choked lightly, disgust curling her tongue, "—testicles as a charming gift."
Her voice climbed higher, shaking with righteous fury. "Then you dig into wounds I never gave you permission to touch! Did your father never teach you manners? How to treat a woman?"
The moment the word "father" left her mouth—the temperature dropped so sharply her breath turned instantly cold in her lungs. She had hit the vein of his contempt.
But she was too far gone to care, the dam of her fear broken by rage. She didn't stop. She couldn't stop.
"Or was it your mother who forgot—when she decided not to take her birth control pills? How dare you tell me to take off something precious to me just because you think you now own me."
She stopped only because she ran entirely out of breath.
The silence that followed had never been so quiet. Not even when Luciano slid William's severed future across the oak table. The profound shock stole all sound, all movement.
The only perceptible sound was the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the hall and the faint, wet, deep growl rumbling in Listo's throat.
Her last, lethal words still hung in the air like smoke after a gunshot.
Luciano did not move.
He did not blink.
He simply looked at her with the stillness of deep winter right before it kills.
Andrés was on his feet so fast the chair screeched backward, skidding on the marble.
His face—moments ago all sunlit mischief—was stripped raw, his eyes blazing with a volcanic fury Eloise had never imagined he could carry.
"Take. That. Back."
Each word cracked like a whip across the room.
Listo's growl deepened, the fox's hackles rising visibly along its spine, silver eyes fixed on Eloise like she was prey that had just insulted the pack.
Andrés took one furious step forward, his hands clenched into fists. "You will take back every word about a world without him. Right fucking now."
Luciano's voice cut through the room—low, lethally calm, asserting absolute control.
"Andrés. Down."
"No." Andrés's hands were shaking with uncontrollable rage. "She doesn't get to—"
"I said down."
The command cracked like ice breaking under immense pressure.
"Take Listo. Leave. Now."
For a heartbeat, Andrés looked ready to argue—ready to fight his own blood for the insult hurled at a dead woman and a brother he clearly worshipped. He looked caught between rage and obedience.
Then something silent and terrifying passed between the two men.
Andrés scooped the still-growling fox into his arms, turned, and left without another word—only a final, deadly glare directed at Eloise that promised she would never be safe with him again.
The double doors closed behind them with a muffled thud.
They were alone.
Luciano stayed still for a long, agonizing moment. Then slowly—too slowly—he turned his chair, facing her fully.
"You're right," he said softly, conversationally, as if nothing had happened. "My mother should have taught me manners."
Eloise's breath caught, confused by the placid tone.
"I don't have a mother," he said, his voice steady but carrying an anger so old it felt fossilized, buried deep in his bone marrow. "She died when it wasn't even her time."
Eloise's eyes widened, but he didn't let her speak, silencing her with the sheer force of his presence.
"My second mother," he continued, his voice never rising above a dangerous murmur, "worked double shifts. Cleaning bar toilets by day. Back rooms by night. She came home with split lips, exhaustion etched on her face, and fingerprints on her thighs so Andrés and I could eat real food instead of scraps. She never once complained."
Eloise opened her mouth, but nothing came out. What did one say to that? What could she possibly offer in defense of her horrible cruelty?
Luciano stood.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Eloise felt her heart climb higher into her throat with every inch of ground he covered.
He walked—not fast, not slow, but with the measured, terrifying pace of inevitability—until he stood directly behind her chair.
His hand settled on the back of her neck, his thumb brushing the gold necklace chain.
His fingers slid into her hair.
Then he yanked.
Hard.
Her head snapped back, throat exposed and vulnerable, tears springing instantly from the raw pain.
Luciano bent until his lips brushed her ear.
"So yes, Paloma. Manners were not high on the curriculum."
His grip tightened on her hair until she whimpered, a small, choked sound of surrender.
"You may call me anything," he said, his voice raw with suppressed violence. "Monster. Kidnapper. Devil. I'll wear every name proudly."
He pulled harder, forcing her to meet his upside-down gaze, which was now burning with cold fire.
"But fucking—"
A tear slipped free, running down her temple.
He caught it with his thumb, smeared it across her cheek like war paint, or like signing a contract in blood.
"—say one more thing about my mothers," he breathed, cold and lethal, "and you and I are going to have a problem that cannot be fixed by a simple kidnapping. Do you hear me?"
Eloise nodded frantically, breath trembling in her throat.
"Words," he demanded. "I need words, Paloma."
"I—I hear you," she whispered.
Instead of releasing her, his fingers twisted subtly in her hair, finding a sensitive pressure point.
Her breath hitched in a broken gasp.
"In this house," Luciano said, his voice a razor against her skin, "I have no father. Just a sperm donor. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she choked.
He released her so suddenly her head snapped forward, the pain leaving her dizzy.
She gasped, clutching the table, tears blurring everything into kaleidoscopic shapes.
Luciano walked back to his seat, sat, and took a calm sip of his now-cold coffee as if the world hadn't just shattered into a million pieces.
Then he smiled—small, devastating, and almost gentle, a terrible promise.
"Good."
He set the mug down with a delicate, final clink.
"Now," he said conversationally, as if resuming a pleasant morning chat, "about visiting your friend."
Eloise couldn't speak, staring at him through the residual pain and tears.
"You may go alone," he continued. "No Marcos. No Leo. No visible trackers."
She stared, certain she'd misheard the words, positive this was a setup.
He reached into the inner pocket of his trousers and slid a set of keys across the table.
Matte-black fob.
A tiny silver fox charm dangling from it.
"The McLaren 720S in the garage," he said, his eyes conveying silent, terrifying trust. "Midnight blue. Yours for the day. Drive wherever you want. Go and see Jayla. I want you back here by dinner, Paloma. And also Eloise I own every fucking part of you, now that you are my fiancée."