THE PRICE OF SILENCE

"You met someone today… didn't you?"

The way he said it wasn't soft.

It was surgical.

Leona didn't blink.

She didn't gasp. Didn't rush to cover the wound. She just stared at him, letting the question stretch between them like wire pulled too tight.

Then she said, simply

"Someone met me."

Lucien's jaw didn't move.

But something flickered behind his eyes. A shadow, maybe. A calculation.

He stepped back. Returned to his chair. Picked up his fork.

And began to eat.

Silence bloomed around the clink of silver.

Leona watched him.

Not with guilt.

With curiosity.

Because she expected suspicion. Expected rage. A lock on her door. A punishment.

But not this.

Not calm.

Not… control.

Lucien swallowed slowly, then looked up.

"I've been followed too," he said.

She blinked. "What?"

He didn't repeat it.

Didn't explain.

Just reached for his wine. Sipped.

"I don't chase ghosts, Leona. If someone has something to say, they'll say it. If they don't… they vanish."

A beat passed.

She leaned in, voice cool.

"So that's your philosophy? Ignore it until it dies?"

Lucien's gaze lifted.

Met hers.

And what she saw there wasn't indifference.

It was restraint.

"I don't ignore it," he said. "I wait until it stops hiding."

Another bite. Another pause.

"Like you."

Leona's spine stiffened. Just slightly.

He knew.

Maybe not everything.

But enough.

And yet he wasn't pushing.

He was watching.

Just like always.

But this time, she wasn't sure if he was watching to punish her...

Or protect her.

Lucien finished the risotto.

Every bite.

No compliments.

No comments.

Just silent, steady consumption like he was tasting more than flavor.

Leona folded her hands on the table and tilted her head.

"You didn't ask if it was poisoned."

"I don't need to."

"Confident?"

"Experienced."

She laughed once, soft and sharp. "You've been poisoned before?"

He met her eyes, calm as ever. "Not by food."

A beat.

She let the moment simmer, then pushed her plate toward him.

"Try mine."

He didn't move.

She smiled, slow and unsettling. "Afraid I got the dosage wrong?"

Lucien leaned back in his chair. "If you wanted to kill me," he said, "you'd use something slower."

Her voice dropped. "Something that makes you trust me first?"

He didn't answer.

Didn't need to.

The air between them thickened less like romance, more like a trap neither of them wanted to escape from.

Lucien set his wine down.

"Are you going to tell me what he said?" he asked.

She blinked. "Who?"

He didn't repeat himself.

Just watched.

She ran her tongue lightly over her bottom lip and leaned forward, resting her elbow on the table.

"He said I'd have to choose."

Lucien's jaw ticked, just once.

He reached into his breast pocket.

Pulled out a phone.

Tapped it once.

The screen glowed, then blacked.

"Who do you think you're choosing between?" he asked, voice low.

She didn't answer right away.

Instead, she stood up.

Walked toward him.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Stopped at the edge of his chair.

Lucien didn't flinch.

Didn't rise.

Just tilted his chin up watching her like a man waiting for a weapon to drop.

She leaned down, close enough for her breath to touch his cheek.

"I haven't decided yet," she whispered.

And then, like it meant nothing, she walked away.

Left him at the table with his empty plate and untouched answer.

Location: Private club — Lucien's corner booth, underground lounge

The club pulsed beneath the city like a second heartbeat.

Heavy bass.

Velvet walls.

Laughter laced with gunpowder.

Lucien sat at his usual table, dark leather booth in the back, curtained off for privacy no one dared to violate. Two of his men flanked him. One girl lounged in his lap. He hadn't touched her.

He never did.

Dario, tan, sharp-smiled, the kind who kissed and killed in the same hour clinked his glass against Lucien's.

"You're quieter than usual," he said, voice rough from too many cigars. "Bad sex or bad business?"

Lucien didn't answer.

Instead, he leaned back, lit a cigarette, and looked toward the table across the floor, where another woman danced with a blade in her garter and a lie behind her smile.

"She's not telling me everything," Lucien said finally.

"The wife?" Dario's grin widened. "Figured. Women never do."

Lucien exhaled smoke. "Someone came to the estate last night. Past the perimeter."

"That's impossible."

"Exactly."

The second man at the table—Massimo, thick-necked and low-voiced—stilled. "You think it was a message?"

Lucien nodded once. "He spoke to her."

Dario leaned forward, suddenly alert. "And you let her live?"

Lucien's eyes snapped to his.

The look was answer enough.

Dario raised his hands in surrender. "Touché."

Lucien swirled his whiskey, then set it down.

"She's starting to dig," he said. "Found the archives. Saw the file."

Massimo whistled low. "She knows?"

"She suspects."

"You going to tell her?"

Lucien stubbed out the cigarette. "No."

"Why not?"

Lucien's answer was simple.

Because the moment I tell her the truth, she'll leave.

But out loud, all he said was:

"Because people don't burn the house down when they still think they can escape it."

Dario grinned. "So what now?"

Lucien looked toward the club's private elevator. "We wait for whoever sent the bastard to show their face."

"And until then?"

He lifted his glass.

"Drink."

---

The night air stung.

Not from cold.

From memory.

Lucien walked alone through the garden path behind the main estate, past the iron roses woven into the gates, down to the only place he never brought anyone.

The cemetery was small. Private. Just family.

And only one grave mattered.

He stopped in front of the headstone.

ISABELLA LUCIANA ROMANO

Beloved Mother. Wife. Quiet Storm.

He didn't kneel.

Didn't pray.

Just stood with his hands in his coat pockets, staring at her name like it could still answer.

He cleared his throat once. The sound rougher than usual.

"They're talking again," he said quietly. "Same rumor. Different lips."

His gaze dropped to the base of the stone.

"They think I killed him."

A long silence.

"I didn't."

He looked out over the quiet hedges. Moonlight glinted off the crypt far beyond, where Rafael's name was carved without a date.

"No body. No proof. Just blood and smoke and a last call that didn't last long enough."

Lucien's voice dipped lower.

"I've searched every port. Every dock. Every face in every fight club from Naples to Nice."

He swallowed once, jaw flexing.

"I don't even know if he's dead."

A pause.

"I just know he's not home."

Lucien stepped forward, pulled a small white lily from his coat, and laid it at the foot of the stone.

"I miss him."

The words felt foreign in his mouth. Unpracticed.

But true.

"I can't carry this alone," he said. "Not much longer."

He let that silence sit. Let it stain the air.

Then..

"I don't need a miracle."

A beat.

"Just send him back."

He turned.

Didn't look back.

Didn't wait for a sign.

Lucien walked up the hill, boots echoing over the stone.

And behind him, the lily stayed white in the dark.

---

The knock came just after sunrise.

Not at her bedroom.

At the front door.

Which meant someone had gotten past security.

Again.

Leona didn't hear it directly. She heard the ripple.

The sudden tension in the staff.

The quiet flurry of movement.

She dressed quickly, slid a pin into her hair, and followed the sound to the balcony overlooking the main entrance.

Lucien wasn't home.

Again.

Below her, three people stood inside the foyer.

All unfamiliar.

One woman tall, dark-skinned, sharp-eyed, dressed in a charcoal pantsuit that said she didn't come to be impressed.

Beside her: two men.

One, wiry and twitchy, with a cigarette behind his ear and eyes that never stopped moving.

The other? Quiet. Built like a boulder. Black gloves. Didn't speak.

They weren't guests.

They were weapons in disguise.

The woman looked up.

Right at her.

"Mrs. Romano?" she called, voice perfectly smooth.

"I'm Alessa Virelli. I work with your husband."

Leona's blood cooled.

Lucien never mentioned her.

And Lucien didn't forget names.

She came down slowly, each step deliberate.

When she reached the landing, she didn't greet them.

She asked, flatly, "What do you want?"

Alessa smiled. Thin. Almost respectful.

"There's been chatter."

"About what?"

"Not what. Who."

The woman stepped forward.

Handed her a sealed black envelope.

"You might want to open that in private."

Leona didn't take it immediately.

She glanced at the two men flanking her.

"What are they? Decoration?"

Alessa's smile didn't waver. "Protection. The kind that doesn't knock."

Leona took the envelope.

Turned it over.

One word printed across the flap in bold ink:

RAFAEL.

She looked up, heart thudding.

"I don't know who that is."

Alessa raised a brow.

"You don't yet. But you will."

Then she turned.

Walked out with her shadows behind her, not waiting for permission or thanks.

Just before the door closed

Alessa called back:

"Careful, Mrs. Romano. Sometimes the ghosts aren't the ones haunting you."