Chapter 5
Aurelia
FLASHBACK
Six years ago
Iwake to the sound of someone loading a gun.
Which, in this house, is the equivalent of hearing birdsong.
Rolling over, I find Enzo at the foot of my bed, leaning down to lace his boots, the Glock tucked into the back of his jeans fitting so snug that it’s basically part of his spine.
“Morning, sunshine,” he says without looking at me.
“It’s not morning until I say it is,” I mutter into my pillow. Then louder: “And why do you sound chipper? Did someone die?”
He shoots me a look over his shoulder—the kind that could peel skin if you weren’t already immune. “You have training. Be outside in fifteen. It’s Elijah’s turn to wake you tomorrow if you’re late.”
That got my attention. Elijah’s wake-ups usually involved blunt force trauma or, once, a live snake.
I sit up, my hair a nest, clutching my blanket and using it more as body armour than anything else. “You’re evil.”
“You’re spoiled.”
“I’m cherished.”
He smiles and starts toward the hallway, leaving my room.
I peel myself out of the sheets. “Tell Papa I’m on my way,” I shout.
“I’m not your messenger,” he says, already halfway down the staircase.
“Fine, tell Elijah,” I call after him. “He’ll enjoy it more,” I whisper to myself.
No answer. Typical.
I drag myself into the closet, which is less a closet and more a mini-boutique.
Rows of silks and satins hang in precise colour order, all curated by Papa’s personal shopper, who has excellent taste in things I’m not allowed to wear unless it’s requested by Papa’s clients.
There are little black dresses, high heels, and tops with scandalous cuts that have never seen daylight.
I reach for my training gear—black leggings and a tank top—and pull my hair into a messy ponytail. I grab my sneakers from under the vanity and hop into them as I step into the hall.
The De Luca house is an all-male domain, except for me, of course. I’ve grown used to navigating their personalities, but I would still much prefer a gentler way to wake up.
The men may look tough around here, but they give me the princess treatment, and I know they would never harm me or anyone else unless it was strictly business.
Well, except my brother, who is two years older than me, and although he has always trained with me, supported me, and, well, been my brother, his constant complaints make it obvious he’d rather be doing anything else. Which is why he often hands his training duties to his best friend, Elijah.
The scent of coffee drifts from the kitchen, mingling with the faint metallic tang of gun oil from the armoury. I run down the stairs, and somewhere down the hall, a sharp male laugh rings out, echoing off marble and glass.
I try to avoid the group, knowing I’m already late for training with Elijah. Still, I catch James’s eye as I pass through the foyer and into the kitchen.
He’s big and broad, his hands scarred, his eyes softening when they land on me.
“Morning, little one,” he says. “Did you eat breakfast?”
All the men working for my papa have much heavier accents than I do, but I love it. It makes me feel separate—like Enzo and I have a special language, even though it’s all the same.
“I’m about to,” I lie easily.
Breakfast before training is basically suicide, even if I wasn’t late. Elijah’s workouts make me regret every crumb I’ve ever eaten.
He narrows his eyes but doesn’t push. He’s seen me throw tantrums, cry myself to sleep, and once, hide in the laundry cart to avoid a lesson with my tutor. He knows when I’m lying, but he always lets it go.
“Tell your papa I’ll be in the west wing if he needs me,” he says.
I nod and head toward the courtyard.
Sliding open the glass door, the air is crisp, the sky painted gold and pink.
The courtyard is already alive with grunts, curses, and the rhythmic thwack of fists against pads.
Elijah stands near the far fence, tall and lean, his dark hair styled back so it doesn’t fall into his eyes as he wraps his hands.
He’s wearing black sweats and a shirt that clings in all the ways I’m trying not to notice.
I jog over, my shoelace immediately coming undone.
Perfect.
He smirks without looking up. “Morning, Ace. Try not to cry today.”
“Try not to lose today,” I shoot back, crouching to re-tie my shoe.
“You’re dreaming.”
“I dream big.”
“Yeah, because you’re always dreaming of me,” he says, tossing me a set of hand wraps.
I catch them and start winding them around my wrists.
Heat rises in my body even though I know this isn’t flirting. Elijah sees me as a child, a little sister, an extension of Enzo—but I think he’ll realize what I see one day.
That we are infinitely tied. Our souls connected.
We move through warm-ups: stretches, sprints across the courtyard, and shadowboxing. My muscles burn, but I refuse to let it show.
We train for self-defence, so I can tap out whenever I need to, but when Elijah watches everything—my stance, footwork, breathing—he’s memorizing my movements, and I can’t help but push myself until I can no longer catch my breath.
By the time we start sparring, my hair falls and sweat is dripping down my back.
“Guard up,” he says.
“It is up.”
“Not enough. You leave your ribs open.”
I grin. “That’s to bait you.”
“Bad bait,” he says, and lands a jab to my side before I can block.
I grunt, doubling over slightly. “Ow. You’re abusive.”
He takes out my feet and I’m flat on my back in an instant.
“You’re dramatic.” He pants as he towers over me, putting his body above mine, forcing my wrists down so I can’t fight him anymore.
“You’re heartless,” I whisper, too distracted by the proximity of his body, his lips, to think of anything better.
“You’re—” He cuts himself off, smirks, and after a moment of staring at me, he releases his grip and brings his fingers to my cheek, brushing the damp strand of my hair back.
I can’t help the smile that forms on my face knowing I’ve caught him speechless. I want nothing more than to arch my body and connect with him, but I can’t risk him pulling away. So instead I use my free arm to push off his shoulder and free myself from his hold.
We train for an hour before Enzo shows up with water bottles, tossing one to me. “Dante wants you both in the dining room when you’re done.”
“Why?” I ask, chugging half the bottle.
He shrugs. “Something about your vetted friend.”
My heart stutters.
I rip off my wraps and throw them at Elijah’s face, which he catches as they fall to his chest, and I hear him mutter, “Nice, thanks,” but I don’t pay him any attention. Turning fast on my heels, I slip my shoes off, and I can’t stop smiling the whole way back inside.
My mind is spinning with possibilities. She’ll have glossy hair and secrets. We’ll sit in my room and talk for hours about everything I can’t say to Enzo or Elijah. Maybe she’ll know things about the outside world. Maybe she’ll tell me about real school, or boys who don’t carry knives.
* * *
The smell of espresso hits me halfway down the main hall, followed by warm bread and butter, and my stomach growls.
“Papa,” I screech, meeting my father’s eyes.
He’s at the head of the long dining table, reading the paper, dark hair silvering at the temples. His suit immaculate, his tie perfectly knotted, and his watch gleaming on his wrist.
“My girl,” he says gently when he sees me.
He pushes the paper aside, stands, and kisses my temple, his hand lingering on my cheek.
“You’re sweating,” he adds.
“I was training,” I say, smiling.
His mouth curves. “Good. Sit.”
I slide into the seat beside him, and Elijah and Enzo take spots across the table. A housekeeper sets a plate in front of me—toast, eggs, fruit.
Papa watches me eat for a moment before saying, “I’ve been doing some negotiation. And it’s time for your friend.”
I nearly choke on my toast. “Really?”
Birthdays never meant cake or candles here, but sixteen comes with a loophole. Papa made one arrangement in our brutal training regime: at sixteen, we’re allowed one vetted, pre-screened friend. Elijah was gifted to Enzo two years ago, and now that I’ve turned sixteen, I get my own.
He nods, sipping his coffee. “She’ll be vetted, of course. Her family understands our ways.”
“She?” I try not to sound too eager.
The first girl I will have ever spoken to or even seen with my own two eyes.
It’s kind of crazy when you think about it. I am sixteen, and there has never been a woman in the De Luca estate.
Papa’s eyes glint with amusement. “You’ve been patient, my girl.
I think you’ve earned this.” He takes a bite of his breakfast, locking eyes with Enzo but keeping the conversation focused on me.
“Aside from that, I have booked you in for my next meeting. You should wear the red dress and lipstick, but he has requested that you not speak this time.”
I beam, barely hearing the rest.