Luca’s POV

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I wasn’t always like this.

Cruel. Detached. Obsessed with control.

There was a time I believed in softness.

In promises.

In loyalty.

That version of me died the day Isabella did.

She was the first girl I ever trusted.

Not family. Not blood. Just… someone who felt like mine.

I was eighteen, freshly sworn into my father’s business. She was seventeen, untouched by violence, with laughter that made even my brothers pause.

And I let her close. Too close.

When the war between our family and the Castelli’s broke out, I knew they’d come for our money. Our men.

I didn’t know they’d come for her.

The betrayal didn’t come in the form of a bullet.

It came in the form of a smile.

Hers.

The night we were ambushed, the warehouse torched, and my youngest cousin nearly bled to death in my arms—I found her there, watching it burn.

With Lorenzo Castelli’s arm around her waist.

She didn’t cry.

Didn’t flinch when I looked at her like my whole world was ending.

All she said was:

> “You should’ve never made me feel caged, Luca. You don’t get to keep what doesn’t belong to you.”

She was gone before sunrise.

And from that night forward, I made a vow—

Never again.

Never again would I be fooled by beauty. By kindness. By soft eyes and even softer lies.

I would control.

Dominate.

Own.

Because only what you own can’t leave you.

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And now, years later… she walks into my life.

Ira.

The quiet girl. The orphan. The nothing.

Who I turned into something the moment I decided she was mine.

At first, it was easy.

She trembled when I passed.

Lowered her eyes. Walked like she feared the air would shatter her.

She was perfect.

Until this morning.

Until she smiled at another man.

Until she looked at me like she had a choice.

Until I saw her standing in the corridor — bruised, marked, still aching from my punishment — and she didn’t lower her eyes.

She looked right at me.

Not with hate.

Not with fear.

With defiance.

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I haven’t touched a drink all evening.

It’s still playing in my head. Her face. That look.

Like she wasn’t mine to break.

Like she still belonged to herself.

And that—

That unsettles me more than anything.

I wanted obedience. I wanted silence. I wanted her to stay curled up like a well-behaved possession.

What I didn’t want…

Was for her to look at me like she saw me.

Not the capo. Not the cold-blooded heir.

Me.

Because no one gets that close.

Not anymore.

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I sit in my office now, lights dimmed, a glass of untouched scotch by my side.

Her name sits at the edge of my mind like a wound.

Ira.

I should remind her of her place.

I should punish her again, harder.

But part of me knows—

If I do, I’ll be punishing myself.

Because wh

en she looked at me…

I didn’t feel rage.

I felt... weak.

And I don’t know whether I want to destroy her for it—

Or fall to my knees.