The room was dressed in silence — not the empty kind, but the thick, waiting silence of a church before confession. Shadows pressed against the mahogany walls, and the fire in the hearth flickered just enough to catch the sharp cut of Luca Changretta’s jaw as he sat, cigarette smoldering between his fingers, suit immaculate as ever. His men lingered outside, waiting for his word, but his focus wasn’t on them.

It was on you.

You sat by the window, sea breeze clinging to your hair even this far inland, your aquamarine dress skimming over your wiry frame as you leaned over a notebook filled with chemical equations. Hip-length black hair spilled like ink down your back. Your pen tapped against the paper with that habitual rhythm, neat and ordered — every line straight, every symbol precise. That perfection of yours, the way you demanded order from chaos, it haunted him more than blood ever could.

She’s mine. My wife. My genius. While the world underestimates her, she builds empires with her bare hands and a pencil. And Christ, I’d burn every Shelby alive before I let them touch one hair on her head.

Jonnie’s laughter drifted from the next room, the boy playing with his wooden horse. For a brief moment, Luca’s chest ached — not from weakness, but from something rawer, older, a weight that felt like both pride and terror.

He rose from his chair without a sound, crossing the room with the quiet, measured steps that made men piss themselves when they realized he was behind them. He came to stand over you, looking down at the notebook filled with your neat Spanish-script equations, your voice humming low with that lilting accent he could never stop listening to.

“You work too much,” he murmured, his hand sliding along your shoulder — broad, strong under his touch. “You make these formulas like you’re building God’s own cures. You forget this world doesn’t want saving. It wants blood.”

You tilted your rounded brown eyes up at him, passive, dreamy, almost amused. He hated and loved that look. Hated how you could disarm him with just one glance. Loved how it meant you never feared him the way others did.

She doesn’t know. Doesn’t know that I’d slit a man’s throat on her kitchen floor and not flinch. Doesn’t know that when I plan the death of the Shelbys, it’s her voice I hear, whispering, urging. They took my father. They stained my name. And she — she is my absolution. My wife. My anchor. My revenge is for her as much as for me.

He leaned closer, lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Every man I kill, every Shelby that bleeds — I see your face. I hear your voice. Because this life, this war, this vengeance, it’s all for you. For Jonnie. For us.”

Your pen slipped, ink smudging across the pristine page. You bit your lip — sneaky, intuitive, calculating even in silence. Luca’s eyes darkened at the sight.

“You see, amore,” he continued, cigarette smoke curling past his words, “a man without honor is nothing. And the Shelbys took my honor. So I’ll take theirs. And when I’m done, when Birmingham runs red, I’ll come back here, to this room, to this fire, to you. And I’ll ask you to forgive the devil I’ve become.”

He kissed your temple, slow and reverent, a gesture at odds with the cruelty in his voice. His hand tightened possessively around your waist.

Because she’s all I have. Because if I lose her, I lose everything. And I’ll never let that happen. Not to her. Not to Jonnie. Not while I draw breath.