The second I heard her voice—shaky, cracking, soaked in fear—my blood ran cold.

"Lorenzo—there's a box—blood—I don't know who—please—"

That was all I needed.

I didn't wait for her to finish. Didn't ask for details. Didn't need them.

"I'm on my way," I growled, already grabbing my keys. "Lock every door. Don't open anything. Stay inside. Do you hear me?"

Her whisper was broken. "Yes."

I ended the call, shoved my phone in my pocket, and stormed out of the building.

I didn't care that I had three back-to-back meetings. I didn't care that the board was expecting me to make some statement about acquisitions. None of it mattered. Not when she sounded like that.

Fear.

She never sounded like that.

My driver started to speak, but one look from me shut him up. I took the wheel myself, speeding through the narrow lanes like a man possessed.

By the time I reached the apartment, I was no longer Lorenzo Mancini, the calm, collected man everyone feared in conference rooms.

I was a storm. And whoever sent that box?

They had just awakened the wrong devil.

I punched the elevator button so hard I was sure I cracked the plastic. When it didn't come fast enough, I bolted up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

As I burst through the door, I saw her.

Adhira was curled into the corner of the sofa, wrapped in a throw blanket, her face pale, eyes red. The box lay open on the table.

Her eyes lifted when she saw me, and the moment our gazes met, she stood on shaky legs and ran straight into my arms.

I caught her easily, pressing her to me, one hand on the back of her head, the other wrapping tightly around her trembling form.

"Shh. I'm here. I've got you."

She gripped the fabric of my shirt, fingers digging in. I felt every sob against my chest, every silent cry she tried to hold back.

I'd never wanted to hurt someone more in my life than I did at that moment.

After a few minutes, when her breathing steadied, I pulled back gently and led her to the side, seating her carefully.

"I need to see it," I said quietly.

She nodded once, and I turned to the box.

There it was. A mess of bloodstained notes. Some blades. Scribbled threats. Red smears. A crude drawing of a knife and her name beside it.

That was no prank.

I took a photo of everything. Then I pulled out my phone.

"Marco. Apartment. Now. Bring two men. I want every camera, every angle. Sweep the area. And tell Salvatore to trace the delivery—immediately."

I ended the call and rubbed my thumb over the edge of my jaw.

This wasn't random. This was personal.

And it was a warning.

But they'd made a mistake.

They thought she was alone.

They thought she was unprotected.

They thought wrong.

I turned back to Adhira, who was watching me with wide eyes.

I knelt in front of her.

"No one is ever going to touch you," I said, voice low and raw. "Do you understand me?"

She nodded slowly, tears welling again.

I cupped her cheek, brushing the strands of hair behind her ear.

"They'll regret this. Every one of them."

Her lip trembled. "You don't have to—"

"I do." I stood, lifted her in my arms before she could protest, and carried her straight to the bedroom.

She didn't resist.

I tucked her in gently, pulling the blankets over her, and sat beside her.

"I'm not going anywhere tonight," I promised. "Let yourself rest."

She blinked up at me, vulnerable. "Can you stay until I fall asleep?"

I took her hand.

"I'm staying until this entire nightmare ends."

And then, as she finally drifted to sleep, still gripping my fingers, I let the mask slip.

The rage—the quiet, deadly kind—settled under my skin like fire.

Whoever thought they could scare her?

They hadn't seen what I'm capable of yet.

But they would.

Soon.

As I sat beside her, I finally noticed the blood.

Her right hand—three fingers smeared in red.

Shit.

I don't even think she noticed. The shock had numbed her.

I stood silently, careful not to alarm her, and brought the first-aid kit from the washroom. Sitting down again, I gently took her hand in mine.

The cuts weren't deep, but they had bled enough to stain her skin.

"This might sting," I said quietly, holding the Dettol-dipped cotton pad.

She flinched slightly when it touched her skin. "It hurts..." she mumbled softly, her voice raspy.

I instinctively blew a bit of air on the wound, hoping to dull the sting. She looked at me with glassy eyes and the faintest hint of a smile.

"You're such a cliché," she whispered.

I smirked, relieved she could still joke—still fight the fear with some sliver of humor. "You're lucky I like clichés."

After cleaning her wounds, I pulled out a roll of medical tape and bandages. Just as I began to wrap the gauze carefully around her fingers, she pouted.

"Don't you have a pink bandage? I feel emotionally neglected."

Despite everything—despite the sheer terror she'd felt just half an hour ago—she still had the strength to tease. Her red-rimmed eyes glinted with faint mischief.

And I loved her more for it.

"You're impossible," I muttered, shaking my head. "Next time I'll order a whole cartoon-themed kit just for you."

She smiled faintly, but the tremble in her lips didn't go unnoticed.

"Adhira..." My voice dropped as I secured the last strip of bandage. I met her gaze. "I swear to you, I won't let this go. I'll find whoever did this."

Her grip tightened over my hand, still wrapped in gauze.

"I'm okay," she whispered.

I gently leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on her knuckles. "Sleep," I murmured. "Let me handle the rest."

She nodded drowsily, exhaustion finally overtaking her. Her breathing slowed, her lashes fluttered, and within minutes, she was asleep—still clutching my hand like an anchor.

But peace was not an option for me.

My phone vibrated, and I quickly untangled from her hand, careful not to wake her.

I stepped out, shutting the door behind me softly.

Marco stood in the living room with two of our men, all in black gloves. One of them was packing the contents of the box into an evidence container.

"Disinfect everything," I ordered. "I don't want a single trace left behind."

"Yes, sir," Marco replied. "We've already shut down the building's entrances. I've got the security footage. We're running face recognition."

"Good. I want the courier traced. Salvatore should've had something by now."

As if summoned, my phone buzzed again.

Salvatore.

I answered instantly. "Talk."

"I traced the package route," he said, his voice sharp and crisp. "The box came from an unregistered source in the outer industrial district. No courier ID, no paper trail. Someone dropped it off with a fake name. The handwriting on the threat matches a file from three years ago—gang-related intimidation in Palermo."

My jaw clenched. "You think it's tied to the Fausto family?"

"That's a possibility. But the more likely culprit is someone who knew about Adhira personally. There's a line in one of the notes referencing something only insiders would know."

Marco leaned forward slightly. "An inside job?"

"Possibly," Salvatore said over the speaker. "We'll know more when we pull handwriting samples from her past. I've already contacted our hacker in Naples. By morning, I'll have a list of suspects."

I nodded slowly, fury crawling just beneath my skin like hot coals.

"Thank you," I muttered. "And Salvatore?"

"Yes?"

"Whoever did this... I want to find them first."

Silence.

Then—"Understood."

I ended the call and turned to Marco. "Keep two men here for the night. Discreet. No noise. If she asks, they're just security detail."

He nodded. "And you?"

I looked toward the closed bedroom door.

"I'm staying right here. Until this is over."

Because no one scares what's mine.

And walks away breathing.

The house was quiet again.

Adhira was sleeping in the bedroom, her breathing now steady. I stood outside the door for a moment, watching her. Even in sleep, her brows were slightly furrowed. The tension hadn't left her completely, but at least she was safe. And I'd make damn sure she stayed that way.

I turned and walked into the living room, where Marco was finishing a call. He nodded and quietly slipped out with the rest of the cleanup crew. I had just a few hours before she'd wake up again.

And I wanted to give her something else.

A distraction.

Something warm and gentle to hold onto after today's horror.

She deserves softness. Not threats. Not fear. Not blood.

So I pulled out my phone and called the cook.

"Elena?" I asked, my voice lower than usual.

"Yes, Signore?" Her kind voice came through the speaker.

"I need your help... for something a little different tonight."

She chuckled. "Let me guess. Candlelight? Her favorite pasta? Maybe some music?"

I smiled faintly. "Exactly."

"I'm on it. I'll make sure everything's perfect. Just wake her gently. And wear something that makes you look less like you just broke someone's fingers."

"...Noted."

—

Two hours later, the apartment looked nothing like the crime scene it had been earlier.

The lights were dimmed.

Soft jazz music played through the speakers.

Dozens of warm, flickering candles lined the shelves, coffee table, and windowsills. Their golden glow painted the room in amber, calming every corner of it.

Elena had worked her magic. A beautiful dinner was set on the patio just off the living room. The small round table was covered in a simple white linen cloth, with a bouquet of soft pink lilies in a vase between the plates. There was warm garlic bread, a platter of her favorite spinach-stuffed ravioli in a rich cream sauce, and a bottle of chilled peach-infused sparkling juice.

No guards. No weapons. No darkness.

Just peace.

Just us.

I walked back into the bedroom where she still lay curled under the blanket. I sat down on the edge of the bed and gently placed my hand on her shoulder.

"Adhira..." I whispered.

She stirred slowly, her eyes blinking open. A crease of worry passed across her forehead.

"Are you okay?" she asked groggily.

I nodded. "I should be asking you that."

Her hand reached for mine instinctively, fingers wrapping around it.

I smiled softly. "Come with me?"

She blinked, confused. "Where?"

"You'll see."

—

When she stepped into the living room, she gasped.

Her feet stopped at the edge of the hallway.

"Oh..."

Her eyes darted across the candles, the soft lighting, the music, the food... all of it. Her lips parted slightly in disbelief.

"I thought... after the day you've had... maybe this would feel better than silence," I said, walking toward her.

She looked up at me, her gaze soft but still visibly emotional. "You did all this for me?"

I shrugged lightly. "Who else would I do it for?"

Her laugh was short but warm, and I watched her eyes glass over for just a second before she blinked the tears away.

"I don't deserve this," she whispered.

I reached for her hand. "Yes. You do. Every bit of it."

And then, very gently, I kissed her bandaged fingers.

"I told you," I said. "You're safe here. You always will be."

She smiled. "And you? Are you okay?"

I exhaled slowly. "Not until I know the person who sent that box is found. But tonight..." I offered her my hand again. "Tonight, let's just pretend we're two people who met over books and silence."

She placed her hand in mine. "I'd like that."

And so, we had dinner under candlelight.

The city outside still pulsed with danger. The world was still fractured and uncertain.

But inside these four walls — with her shy smile, my steady heartbeat, and the soft glow of candlelight — there was peace.

Even if it only lasted for one night.

Adhira twirled the ravioli with her fork, a small smile tugging at her lips. "You know... when I imagined candlelight dinners, I never pictured them in the aftermath of a bloody box and a nightmare."

Lorenzo chuckled under his breath, setting down his glass. "Life with me isn't exactly... normal."

She looked up at him, eyes soft. "It's not normal. But it feels safe."

His fingers brushed against hers gently on the table. "That's all I want. For you to feel safe. Even if the world outside goes to hell."

Adhira's gaze dropped to her bandaged fingers. "You blew on my hand... like a kid's scraped knee. That moment, I forgot everything. The fear. The box. Just... your breath on my skin and how calm you looked."

He tilted his head. "I wasn't calm. I was furious. But I couldn't show it. You were already scared."

She looked up, smile more real now. "You hide it well."

"Only because you were more important in that moment," he murmured.

A beat of silence passed before she asked softly, "What happens next?"

Lorenzo held her gaze. "We eat dessert. Then I tuck you in. And tomorrow, I start hunting down the bastard who made you cry."

____________________________________________________________

There goes chapter 13.

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