Smoke Between Us

The hallway reeked of gunpowder and blood.

Luciano stood in the center of it, shirt untucked, one sleeve torn, eyes darker than she’d ever seen them. A single gold ring glinted on his finger as he pressed his hand to the wall beside him not for balance, but to think.

Amara didn’t interrupt.

She knew that look. The cold pause of someone recalculating everything. He wasn’t just thinking about the men who’d attacked them.

He was thinking about who let them in.

And why.

“You knew what that man said before he died,” she said quietly.

Luciano’s gaze shifted to her, sharp and unreadable. “You heard him?”

“Enough to know it wasn’t random.”

He hesitated, then straightened. “His accent. Albanian. But the words… someone tipped them off. Gave them access.”

“Someone inside?”

Luciano didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

Minutes later, she followed him into a room she hadn’t seen before. It was deep in the east wing quieter, darker, more private. The lights were dim, the furniture old. It smelled faintly of leather, cologne, and cigar smoke.

A study.

Or maybe something more.

Luciano poured himself a drink without asking her if she wanted one. Amara didn’t expect him to. She wasn’t here to be soothed.

“I need to know who you are,” he said, breaking the silence. “Because women who fight like that don’t just appear in my house by accident.”

“I could say the same about mafia princes who shoot without flinching.”

He looked up, something flickering in his expression. Humor? No closer to warning.

“Fair enough,” he said. “But I’m not the one hiding.”

Amara stepped closer, arms crossed. “You married a stranger. You brought her into your home. What exactly did you expect me to be meek? Untrained? Breakable?”

He downed the drink in one go.

Then looked at her like he wanted to peel back every single answer she refused to give.

“I expected to control this situation,” he said, voice low. “But now I’m not sure I can.”

That caught her off guard.

Not the words.

The honesty.

Luciano took a step toward her, slowly closing the space between them. His gaze locked with hers, and something shifted in the air heavy, slow, electric.

“You don’t trust me,” she whispered.

He nodded. “I don’t.”

“Good. I don’t trust you either.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smirk. “And yet… You saved me tonight.”

Amara tilted her head. “You’re not an easy man to kill.”

“I am if I’m asleep. Or distracted.” His voice dropped lower. “You could’ve let them do it. It would’ve made your job easier. Whatever it is.”

She didn’t blink. “If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

He stepped even closer now. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him. The scent of him. That impossible calm under fire.

Their breath tangled between them. One heartbeat. Then another.

“I believe you,” he murmured.

Something unspoken passed between them. Not trust. Not affection.

Recognition.

Whatever this was this slow unraveling it wasn’t a game anymore.

Luciano turned away first, exhaling. He walked to the window, pulled back the curtain. Outside, lights flashed across the perimeter. More security. More guns.

He rubbed his jaw. “We’ll need to increase the guards. Move you to a different room.”

Amara raised a brow. “Because someone tried to kill me?”

“Because someone tried to kill us.” He turned back to her, gaze steady. “And I’m not in the habit of letting my wife die on night three.”

She almost laughed at that.

Almost.

“You think a different bedroom’s going to keep me safe?”

“No.” He walked toward her again. “But I will.”

This time, it wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

Later that night, she lay in a different bedroom.

Larger. Colder. Two guards are stationed outside the door.

She stared at the ceiling, arms folded behind her head, mind racing. Not because she was scared. But because the balance had shifted and she felt it.

Luciano wasn’t who she thought he’d be.

And somehow, neither was she.