Blood by the Bay

The gown she chose was not the one Lucien sent.

 It hung untouched in its box, still wrapped in tissue like it mattered.

 Instead, Leona stood in front of the full-length mirror in a steel-gray sheath that hugged her like armor sleek, high-necked, slit at the thigh, but otherwise sharp enough to cut glass. No diamonds. No shimmer. Just quiet threat.

 She painted her lips a deep plum. Almost black. Eyes smoky. No warmth.

 Not a bride.

 Not a princess.

 An executioner.

 Her heels clicked across the marble floor as she stepped into the hallway unannounced.

 Lucien was waiting in the foyer, black coat already on, gloves in his hand. He glanced up the second he heard her.

 He didn't smile.

 Didn't blink.

 But she caught it... the pause.

 The once over.

 Approval hidden under ice.

 "You're early," he said.

 "You're late."

 His lips twitched. Barely.

 He offered his arm.

 She didn't take it.

 And he didn't make her.

 They walked side by side through the long corridor, silence falling between them like a deal they weren't ready to make.

 At the car, the driver held the door.

 Leona slid in without hesitation.

 Lucien followed.

 As the doors shut and the city bled past the windows, he spoke only once.

 "Don't speak unless it serves a purpose."

 Leona turned her head toward him.

 "Then hope someone gives me a reason."

 He didn't reply.

 He didn't need to.

 She saw it in his posture.

 He wasn't worried about her making a scene.

 He was waiting to see what kind of scene she'd choose.

 The air at the docks smelled like salt and diesel.

 Not quite day. Not quite night. That dead-gray hour where everything felt like a warning.

 The Romano convoy pulled up in silence. Six cars. Armed men. All formality.

 Lucien stepped out first.

 Leona followed.

 No one offered her a hand. No one dared.

 She walked half a step behind him, but her heels echoed louder.

 The meeting took place inside a cleared-out warehouse open walls, high beams, the scent of cold steel and colder history.

 Chairs circled a single table. No banners. No flags. Just names.

 Romano. Ferro. Bellanti. Crane. Old money dressed like new blood.

 They were already seated when Lucien and Leona entered.

 Eyes turned.

 Chairs shifted.

 And then, from the far side, a smirk broke the silence.

 Alessio Ferro leaned back in his chair black coat, tan scarf, too many rings. Greasy charm like a man who'd once gotten away with murder and thought it made him attractive.

 "Well," he drawled, "the Devil finally brought a plus one."

 Leona didn't react.

 Lucien didn't even blink.

 Ferro kept going.

 "Tell me, Mrs. Romano what's it like being married to a man who brings a leash to the wedding?"

 A chuckle rippled through a few mouths too slow to hide it.

 Lucien turned his head, just slightly.

 But before he could speak, Leona did.

 She took one step forward. Calm. Measured.

 Then picked up the glass pitcher from the center of the table full of water, slick with condensation.

 She didn't throw it.

 She didn't raise her voice.

 She walked to Ferro's side of the table, leaned in slowly, and poured the water straight into his lap.

 Not a drop missed.

 Gasps broke the air like gunshots.

 Alessio jumped, cursing, shoving back from the table.

 But Leona? She leaned down, close to his ear, her voice low and sharp as a blade.

 "You mistake silk for softness, Alessio," she said. "Touch me with your mouth again, and I'll have you swallowing your own teeth."

 She straightened.

 Smoothed her dress.

 Turned back to her chair.

 Lucien watched her sit.

 He didn't touch her.

 Didn't look at her.

 But when he addressed the room, his voice held a chill that hadn't been there before.

 "Shall we begin?"

 No one laughed again.

 he city blurred past the tinted windows in streaks of cold light and glass.

 Leona sat with her legs crossed, gaze fixed outside, lips still painted like bruises. She hadn't spoken since the warehouse. Neither had Lucien.

 Silence wasn't rare between them.

 But this one felt… different.

 Less like distance.

 More like calculation.

 The car turned down a quieter street, the engine a soft purr beneath them. And then.. 

 Lucien spoke.

 "You knew who he was before he opened his mouth."

 Leona didn't glance his way. "I read dossiers too."

 "You baited him."

 She smiled faintly at the window's reflection. "He took the hook."

 "You embarrassed him in front of the table."

 "Good."

 He shifted in his seat, just slightly. Enough to suggest interest.

 "Why water?"

 She looked at him now.

 Not guarded.

 Just direct.

 "Because knives are messy," she said. "And blood is expensive."

 Lucien stared at her for a moment. As if seeing her in a new frame. Not glass. But chrome.

 He nodded once.

 Leona leaned back, arms folded. "You going to punish me for it?"

 "No."

 A pause.

 "Why not?"

 Lucien met her gaze fully.

 And what he said next wasn't cold.

 It wasn't soft either.

 It was honest.

 "Because I liked it."

 She blinked.

 Just once.

 Not because she didn't expect the answer.

 But because it was the first time he'd given one that wasn't about strategy.

 It was something dangerously close to... respect.

 Lucien turned his eyes back to the window.

 And said nothing more.

 Not for the rest of the meeting.

 The drive back to the estate was wordless.

 Lucien didn't speak again.

 Neither did she.

 When the car finally stopped beneath the arched entrance, he exited first. No command. No gesture. He simply walked ahead, disappearing through the grand doors without waiting.

 Leona followed at her own pace.

 Inside, the house was still. Too still. Like a held breath.

 The guards at the front didn't acknowledge her. Neither did the staff who passed by with silver trays and polished shoes. Ghosts in a cathedral.

 She reached her wing.

 Her hallway.

 Her door.

 Unlocked.

 She froze.

 Lucien didn't forget things. Least of all locks.

 She pushed it open slowly, fingers curling instinctively, eyes scanning the familiar shape of the room.

 Nothing disturbed. Nothing broken.

 But something was different.

 There on her pillow lay a single item.

 A folded slip of parchment paper.

 Heavy.

 Old-fashioned.

 The kind used for things that weren't supposed to be thrown away.

 She walked over, heart still calm, even as her mind started circling the possibilities.

 Unfolded it.

 A message written in smooth, unfamiliar cursive.

 "He won't protect you forever. Sooner or later, the real enemy comes from inside."

 No name.

 No seal.

 No signature.

 Just the scent of clove tobacco still clinging to the fibers.

 Cain.

 It had to be.

 But how?

 He was gone.

 Removed.

 Scrubbed from the perimeter like a glitch in the system.

 And yet, this was a ghost note left behind. A whisper no cameras caught.

 She stared at the paper for a long time before tucking it back into the drawer beside the bed.

 Lucien hadn't left it.

 But she wasn't sure he hadn't let it stay.

 Which meant one of two things.

 Either he was slipping.

 Or he was baiting her.

 And both options were dangerous.

 ...... 

 The knock was soft.

 Not the kind meant to warn.

 The kind that asked permission without admitting it.

 Leona didn't answer.

 The door opened anyway.

 Lucien entered alone, dressed in slate gray this time, no jacket, sleeves rolled as always. His eyes flicked once to her hands empty. To the drawer closed. To her.. composed.

 He didn't ask if she found the note.

 He already knew.

 He sat in the chair across from her, same one he'd used the night after the flash drive. Same distance. Same silence.

 But something in his posture was different.

 Not coiled.

 Not braced.

 Just still.

 "I'm not here to warn you," he said.

 "That's new."

 "I'm not here to command you, either."

 "Even newer."

 Lucien leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. His gaze locked on hers with that same relentless focus but this time, it didn't feel like surveillance.

 It felt like permission.

 "There's something you want to know," he said.

 Leona's breath caught just a little.

 He waited.

 She didn't move.

 Didn't shift.

 Didn't blink.

 And then, in a voice that wasn't challenging, wasn't biting just quiet, she asked:

 "Who did you lose?"

 Lucien didn't flinch.

 Didn't smile.

 But the answer came faster than she expected.

 "My brother."

 Not a pause. Not a euphemism.

 Just truth.

 "Was it Cain?" she asked.

 "No."

 "Was it your fault?"

 His gaze dropped for the first time.

 Then returned to her, colder.

 Sharper.

 "No."

 She believed him.

 But that wasn't the dangerous part.

 The dangerous part was what followed.

 Lucien stood slowly, walked to the edge of the bed where the drawer sat. He didn't open it.

 He just rested a hand on the surface and said:

 "Ask again tomorrow. If you're still brave."

 Then he walked out.

 And this time, he didn't lock the door.