The tension from the morning still lingered like smoke. Emilia could feel it in the air, thick and restless, pressing against the marble walls of the villa. Every step echoed louder. Every look lingered longer.

She needed space. But in this house, there was nowhere to breathe without someone watching.

So she did what she always did—dressed like armor.

Tonight it was silk. Deep emerald. Backless again. And heels sharp enough to stab a man if needed.

She found Alessandro in the greenhouse. Of all places.

He was standing amid wild orchids and glass, sleeves rolled up, a rare bottle of scotch in hand. Rain tapped against the glass roof above them. He didn’t turn when she entered.

“I didn’t peg you as the horticultural type,” she said.

“I’m full of surprises,” he replied.

Emilia walked up beside him, brushing her hand along the petals of a blood-red bloom.

“So who were they?” she asked. “The men from this morning.”

Alessandro took a long sip before answering. “Old debts. Paid in blood. Still collecting interest.”

She didn’t press further.

Instead, she took the glass from his hand, brought it to her lips, and drank. Heat bloomed down her throat. She handed it back.

“You shouldn’t touch what doesn’t belong to you,” he murmured.

“But it’s already mine,” she said softly.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was electric.

She took a step closer. “You’ve built walls around yourself so high, you forgot what it’s like to want something.”

Alessandro’s gaze darkened. “And you think you’re what I want?”

“No,” she said, placing a hand flat against his chest. “I think I’m what you’re afraid to want.”

He grabbed her wrist—not to push her away, but to stop himself. His grip was firm, and his pulse betrayed him.

They were toe to toe. Fire and silk.

Then—

He kissed her.

Hard.

No warning. No softness.

It wasn’t romantic. It was war. And she kissed him back like she meant to win.

But when they broke apart, breathless and shaken, the sound of shattering glass echoed through the greenhouse.

A single bullet hole spiderwebbed in the panel above their heads.

Sniper.

They dropped fast—Alessandro pulling her down, shielding her with his body.

Another shot.

“Move!” he growled, dragging her through the rows of plants toward a concealed exit.

Rain poured. Alarms rang. Somewhere on the grounds, men were shouting.

Emilia’s heart slammed against her ribs.

She wasn’t just playing pretend anymore.

She was a target.