23. Gilly
Gilly
The mansion is restless.
I feel it in the air, in the sharp way the guards move—shoulders tense, hands resting too close to their weapons. The whole house hums with the kind of energy that comes before a storm. Everyone is waiting. Preparing.
I should be doing the same.
Instead, I wander.
I tell myself I’m walking with purpose, but the truth is, I don’t know where I’m going.
My body is too wired, my thoughts too loud.
There’s no more fighting with Luca, no more demanding my place in this war.
I won. I forced my way in. But the victory feels hollow because now I have to prove that I belong here.
It’s not just about Rafa anymore.
It’s about survival.
The hallways are dimly lit, the glow from the wall sconces stretching long shadows across the floor. I pass the war room, where I can hear the low murmur of Luca’s men strategizing. Maps rustle. Someone curses under their breath.
I should go in. Listen. Learn something.
But I don’t.
Because no matter how much I tell myself I belong, I know the truth.
They don’t see me as one of them.
I’m still the outsider. The woman who forced Luca’s hand. The liability he had no choice but to accept.
My stomach twists.
I force the thoughts back and keep walking, my bare feet silent against the cool hardwood.
I don’t stop until I reach the kitchen.
The moment I step inside, the tension in my chest eases. The space is warm, the scent of freshly brewed coffee lingering in the air. It’s normal. A slice of reality that doesn’t feel tainted by the war brewing outside these walls.
Marco stands at the stove, his back to me, stirring something in a pot.
I hesitate in the doorway.
He’s been here as long as I have. A quiet presence in the background, never drawing attention to himself. I’ve seen him chatting with Luca’s men in fast, clipped Italian, serving meals with steady hands. He’s always been polite to me, if distant.
Right now, he’s different.
His movements are too smooth. Too controlled.
And then he turns.
His expression is neutral, almost pleasant, but there’s something too careful about it. His eyes flick to mine, and a small smile tugs at his lips.
“Tea, Miss Gilly?”
Something cold slithers down my spine.
It’s a simple question.
But the way he says it—it’s wrong.
Too smooth. Too practiced.
I don’t let my hesitation show. I nod once, stepping forward as he pours from the kettle. Steam curls from the porcelain cup, the amber liquid settling inside.
The scent hits me instantly.
Bitter.
It’s faint, barely there beneath the normal aroma of tea leaves. But it’s wrong.
My fingers curl around the handle, my pulse hammering against my skin.
Marco watches me too closely.
Waiting.
Testing me.
I lift the cup, bringing it toward my lips, but I don’t drink.
I let it hover there, my expression blank.
And then, in a small, practiced movement, I let my fingers slip.
The cup crashes to the floor, shattering on impact.
Marco flinches. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but I see it.
A normal man would look surprised. Concerned.
He just looks irritated.
“Clumsy,” he murmurs.
I don’t move.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Get out.
The thought is sudden, sharp.
Move.
But I don’t.
Because Marco does first.
A flash of steel.
I twist on instinct. The blade slices across my cheek instead of my throat. The pain is sharp and immediate, a hot line of fire cutting across my skin.
I stumble back, gripping the counter for balance.
Marco straightens, his knife glinting in the low light.
“Should’ve drank the tea, Miss Gilly.”
His voice is different now. Colder. Stripped of any pretense.
My breath comes fast, too fast.
Not safe.
I’m not safe here.
Not in Luca’s house.
Because Renzo still has his men inside.
And one of them just tried to kill me.
Blood drips from my cheek.
I barely feel it, too focused on Marco as he stalks toward me, his knife catching the dim kitchen light. My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears, my breath coming too fast, too sharp. The counter digs into my back, solid and unmovable, and I know—I have nowhere to run.
Marco tilts his head, his eyes cold and assessing, like he’s already calculating how quickly he can finish this.
“You should’ve stayed out of this war,” he says, voice almost conversational.
I grip the counter tighter, forcing my body to stay still. My legs want to run, my instincts screaming at me to move, but I don’t. Because he’s watching for it. Waiting for me to bolt so he can take me down cleanly.
“You’re Renzo’s?” I ask, stalling.
He smirks. “Smart girl.”
My stomach clenches.
Marco has been in this house for weeks. Maybe months. He’s served me food, passed by me in the hallways. How many times had he reported back to Renzo? How many of my movements had he tracked, waiting for the right moment?
I was never safe here.
Not really.
“You should’ve just drank the tea.” His grip tightens on the knife. “Would’ve been easier.”
I swallow hard, my mind racing.
If I scream, someone will hear me.
But will they make it in time?
Marco shifts his weight, muscles coiling.
I tense.
Then a gunshot cracks through the air.
Marco jerks violently, the knife slipping from his grasp as he collapses onto the floor with a scream. Blood pools beneath him, spreading fast from the gunshot wound in his leg.
The silence that follows is thick. Heavy.
Then, a familiar voice.
“Easier for who?”
Luca.
I exhale shakily as I turn my head.
He’s standing in the kitchen entrance, gun still raised, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—they burn.
With fury. With possession. With the promise of violence.
Marco gasps, trying to push himself up, but his leg gives out beneath him. His fingers claw at the floor, smearing blood in thick, red streaks.
Luca steps forward, slow and deliberate.
I don’t move.
Because for the first time since Marco pulled that knife, I feel safe.
Luca reaches him in three unhurried strides, his boots coming to a stop beside Marco’s trembling form.
Marco’s breath is ragged, his face twisted in pain, but he still forces out a weak chuckle. “Renzo will—”
Luca doesn’t let him finish.
The second gunshot is deafening.
Marco’s body jerks once, then slumps. His eyes stare blankly at the ceiling, unseeing.
Silence.
Luca lowers his gun, his face carved from stone, then turns to me.
My breath catches.
There’s blood splattered on his crisp white shirt. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with gunpowder residue. His whole body radiates lethal control, but his gaze—his gaze is locked on me.
I don’t know what I expect. A demand for an explanation? A cold assessment of how I let this happen?
But when he speaks, his voice is steady.
“You good?”
My fingers tighten on the counter, and that’s when I feel it—the sting of my cheek, the warm slide of blood down my neck. My hands are shaking.
But I’m not scared.
I’m furious.
I push off the counter, my chin lifting as I meet Luca’s stare head-on. “It’s time to take Renzo out.”
The muscle in his jaw ticks.
He holsters his gun in one smooth motion, then exhales sharply. “Gilly—”
“No,” I cut in. “I’m done waiting. I’m being manipulated. I’m going with you and we’re going to end Renzo.”
His gaze darkens, flicking over the blood staining my skin.
“This isn’t a game,” he says quietly.
I step closer. “Do I look like I think this is a game?”
Something sharp flashes in his expression—something that almost looks like respect.
But he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t agree.
And I won’t back down.
Not this time.
Luca doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flicks from the blood drying on my cheek to Marco’s corpse, then back to me. He drags a slow breath in through his nose, exhaling just as sharply.
Behind him, the kitchen door swings open. One of his men steps inside, gun still drawn. His eyes sweep over the scene, pausing at Marco’s body before locking onto the thin trail of blood running down my face. His expression doesn’t shift, but his fingers tighten around the gun.
Luca doesn’t even turn to acknowledge him. “Clean it up.”
Luca’s man nods once before barking orders. Within seconds, two more men of Luca’s step in, moving with silent efficiency.
I barely register any of it.
Because Luca is still looking at me.
Not just looking—assessing.
I square my shoulders, refusing to shift under the weight of his stare. My pulse is still racing, but I keep my breathing steady.
“We’re going to find Rafa and take down Renzo together,” I say again, my voice firm.
Luca’s jaw tightens. His shoulders go rigid. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move.
Then, slowly, he steps closer.
The space between us shrinks, but he doesn’t touch me. He just lowers his voice, making sure only I can hear.
“You think this was bad?” His tone is low, edged in something sharp. “An assassin in my kitchen? A knife plunging towards you?”
His eyes burn into mine, green fire laced with warning.
“This is nothing, Gilly.”
I hold his gaze, my fingers curling into fists at my sides.
“You want to be in this?” he continues, his voice calm, controlled. “Then understand what you’re walking into. Because this—” he gestures to Marco’s body without looking at it “—isn’t the worst thing you’ll face.”
My throat tightens, but I lift my chin, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I know that.”
Something flickers in his expression. Not doubt—something closer to reluctant acknowledgment.
I brace myself, expecting another argument. Another fight.
But instead, Luca exhales slowly and shakes his head. “You’re either brave, or you’re a damn fool.”
A humorless smirk tugs at the corner of my lips. “Maybe both.”
The tension between us shifts, but it doesn’t disappear.
Matteo’s voice breaks the moment. “Well, hell.”
I glance toward him, finding him leaning against the doorway, watching us with open amusement. “She really is a Marchesi soldier.”
Luca’s glare snaps to him instantly, sharp enough to cut, but Matteo just grins and pushes off the frame. He takes in the scene—the body, the blood, the ruined peace of the kitchen—and lets out a low whistle.
“Gotta admit,” he muses, “I thought you’d crack before this.” His gaze flicks to me, his smirk widening. “Guess I was wrong.”
I shake my head, pressing my fingers against my cheek. The cut stings, but the pain is grounding.
Luca catches the movement, and his expression hardens again. “Get that cleaned up.”
“I’m fine.”
His voice drops. “Gilly.”
It’s not just an order. It’s a demand.
I hold his gaze for a beat longer before exhaling sharply. “Fine.”
Luca doesn’t say anything else. He just turns on his heel and strides toward the door, his presence leaving a void in its wake.
Matteo claps a hand on my shoulder as he follows. “Welcome to the real war, Gilly.”
I let out a slow breath, my pulse finally starting to settle.
There’s no fear left in me.
Just the steady, unshakable truth.
This was just the beginning.
Tomorrow, we go after Rafa.
And I won’t let anyone stand in my way.