Epilogue – Lira #2
The hallway to the dungeon smells like rust and secrets.
My boots thud over the concrete, the walls pulsing with the echo of our descent.
Matteo walks ahead, keys clinking at his side, and doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t have to. His shoulders are tense, one hand resting on the hilt of the blade strapped to his belt.
My recital just finished, and I have business to handle.
Every breath Severo takes trails against my spine. I hear the strike of his lighter before I see the glow. He slips the cigarette between his lips and exhales just once, smoke curling past my neck as we reach the reinforced door.
Matteo stops.
He pulls the bolt and swings the door open.
The room inside is concrete, wet in the corners. Dim bulbs hang from the ceiling, buzzing. Three men are chained to the far wall—hands behind their backs, shirts torn, blood staining the floor beneath their knees. One is unconscious. The other two blink up through swollen eyes.
“They tried to run diamonds through the western port,” Matteo says. “Didn’t clear it through us. Claimed they didn’t know they had to.”
He looks at me. There’s no amusement in his face now. Just fury, tucked into the corners of his mouth.
“They’ve been sitting here for two days,” he adds. “Still won’t say who sent them.”
I nod .
Severo steps to my side. His cigarette burns low, the smoke curling against my jaw. I lift my hand, palm open.
He understands immediately.
His fingers press something cold into my palm. A folding blade, simple, surgical. I flick it open with my thumb. The edge hits the light.
The closest man tenses.
I walk to him slowly. My boots echo . He’s breathing through his mouth, trembling, split lip shaking. I crouch in front of him and tilt my head.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
I hum. The sound is light, nearly pleasant. My hand lifts, not quickly. I trace the flat side of the blade along his jaw, then down to his neck. His pulse hammers against the steel.
“I’m going to ask once more,” I murmur. “And after that, you’re going to lose something.”
Matteo doesn’t shift. Severo doesn’t move.
The man spits blood at my boot.
I smile.
The blade flashes forward—slicing his mouth open. Matteo looks away and Serevo chuckles as the man screams.
One of the others breaks.
His voice cracks as he stares at the blood running down his friend’s chin.
“Don Calvani!” he blurts, eyes wide. “It was Don Calvani—he’s the one who set it up!”
The chains rattle as he leans forward. “He said the Dantés were distracted, that your focus was off since—”
He stops himself too late.
I turn toward him.
Walk slowly.
The bloodied man on the ground is still groaning, body quivering, mouth a slick red line. I step over him and crouch in front of the second man.
He flinches.
“Thank you,” I say gently. “That was all I needed.”
His jaw quivers. I reach forward and pat his cheek twice.
Then I rise and turn back to Matteo. “Take care of it.”
Matteo nods , already moving.
Severo’s hand comes to the small of my back, steadying.
****
The water is warm, a slow balm against the chill that always finds its way into my bones after nights like these. My back rests against his chest, legs stretched out along his, and his hands— scarred, sure—are curled loosely over my waist.
The marble walls of the bathing room glisten. Candlelight flickers against gold sconces, casting long shadows. Everything smells like cedar and something citrusy from the oil Matteo insisted I try. But none of it matters.
Just him. Just this.
Severo brushes his mouth against my shoulder, the kiss light but lingering.
Then he speaks.
“Mico sent another letter.”
I don’t move. Don’t tense. I’ve had time to train myself out of that.
He waits, arms never shifting.
“He’s still in Italy,” Severo continues quietly. “Living in the house your father left him, from what Nero’s boys say. He’s been trying.”
I scoff, tilting my head back just slightly. “Trying what? To get under my skin?”
Severo hums. “To reach you.”
I close my eyes.
“Let him rot,” I murmur. “That was his price. He tried to take me like I was property. That’s what he pays—silence.”
“You never opened any of them,” he says softly.
I shrug. “And I never will.”
He doesn’t push. Never does.
“I’ll keep them,” he says after a pause. “Tucked away. If you ever change your mind.”
“You’re sentimental,” I murmur, and he chuckles, nose brushing my temple.
“You’re cold.”
I grin.
He shifts beneath me, pressing a kiss into my wet hair. “Let’s visit your mother and brother tomorrow.”
The breath leaves me slowly.
Two years. Every performance, every concert, every city…
he’s made sure I never forget. He grounds me.
He drags me to that small plot of stone and dirt, where the names Chiara and Marco Falco are carved clean and solemn.
He never speaks there. Just waits with flowers and stands beside me in silence.
I turn in the water until I’m facing him. My arms loop around his neck. His hands settle on my hips.
“You’re wonderful,” I say.
He tilts his head, eyes burning.
“I love you,” he says.
The words land heavy.
He pulls me closer. “You realize,” he says, voice low, “that’s the first time I’ve said it?”
His mouth lifts, the barest curve. “I own your heart.”
I smile. “I love you.”
Our lips meet—slow, open, full. His hands travel up my spine, and I shiver. The kiss deepens. Water laps softly against porcelain. My fingers thread through his hair.
He rests his forehead against mine, noses brushing.
“You and I against them?” I whisper.
“Forever,” he says.
The water laps softly against the sides of the tub, steam curling around us in lazy spirals.
His arms are wrapped around me from behind, my back resting against his chest, our bodies half-submerged in the deep, oversized basin.
His legs bracket mine, his skin hot beneath the water, and I feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing behind me.
My head rests against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded, too content to move. The scent of sandalwood soap lingers faintly , but under it, it’s still him. Skin, salt, warmth.
One of his hands drifts lazily over my stomach, tracing invisible patterns across my skin. The other cups my thigh, spreading my leg gently over his as he hums low in my ear.
“Relax,” he murmurs, voice deep, soaked in something quiet and possessive.
I hum back, eyes closing.
His hand slips lower.
The warm water parts around his fingers as they drift between my legs, trailing across my slit under the surface.
The touch is slow, searching, confident .
I exhale sharply through my nose, but I don’t stop him—I tilt my hips just enough to give him better access, my thighs parting wider beneath the water.
His middle finger dips into me.
I suck in a breath, and the sound of it echoes quietly against the tile walls. The water ripples, disturbed by the movement between us, but I barely notice. I’m focused on the way his finger slides in deeper, the gentle pressure, the slick warmth of him moving inside me with exquisite care.
“ There you are, ” he whispers against my neck, his breath warm in the wet curls of my hair.
He adds a second finger, and my lips part around a soft gasp. The stretch is perfect— he is perfect—and the way he curls his fingers inside me sends a slow wave of pleasure up my spine.
The water shifts again as he begins to move—deep, rhythmic strokes, each one sending another shiver spiraling through my core. My head falls back against his shoulder, my mouth open, body melting into him as he fucks me with his fingers beneath the surface.
His other hand slides up to my breast, palm flat against the weight of it, thumb flicking my nipple until it stiffens under the attention. I arch into his hand as the pressure between my legs builds, soft, and hot, and insistent.
“You feel that?” he whispers against the shell of my ear, lips brushing my skin. “How wet you are for me? Even in the water…”
I moan—quiet, needy.
He speeds up just slightly, curling his fingers inside me in that perfect rhythm, his thumb now brushing over my clit in tight circles that make my hips jerk.
The heat coils low and tight, growing unbearable in the most delicious way. My thighs start to shake against him.
This is my life now, and I love it.