★★Mariella's POV★★



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I've never realized how much you can miss someone until you've been away from them for too long. The excitement is practically radiating off of me. As Antoine leads me to the front of the house where my father is supposedly waiting for me, I try to suppress my smile. He opens the door, but then he stops, turning to me with that smirk I can't stand.

"It's been a pleasure serving you, princess," he mocks, eyes glinting.

I narrow my eyes and roll my eyes but can't help the snark that escapes. "Honestly? I'd give my stay here a solid 2.5 stars. Too much quiet, not enough action, and the food—could've been better," I toss out, pushing him aside as I open the door.

Outside, a row of black SUVs is lined up, their tinted windows making the whole scene feel too cold and intimidating. Gio is standing with my father, who's surrounded by guards, looking both impatient and worried.

As I descend the stairs, the guards stiffen, but then I see it—my father's face. The hard, calculating exterior cracks and his eyes widen, a mix of relief and something deeper I can't quite place. He pushes the guards aside like they're nothing, his arms open wide as he rushes towards me.

"Mariella!" he exclaims, his voice thick with emotion. He pulls me into a tight embrace, and I bury my face in his chest, inhaling the familiar warmth, the scent of safety and power that has always been him.

"Mi sei mancato, papà, (I missed you, papa,)" I manage, voice a little unsteady as I try to hold back my own emotions.

Enzo and Santino move toward me too, their expressions grim, like they haven't smiled in days. The worry etched into their faces hits me in a way that's both comforting and suffocating. My chest swells with the weight of it all.

"Papa," I repeat, but he pulls away slightly, his eyes flicking over me, scanning every inch like he's expecting to find some injury.

"Mia bellezza, non ti sei fatta male, vero? Non ti hanno toccata? (My beauty, you're not hurt, are you? They didn't touch you?)" His voice is frantic as his hands search for any signs of harm.

"Se ti toccassero, li ucciderei tutti, (If they touched you, I would kill them all,)" Enzo grunts, his jaw clenched, fury barely contained.

Santino's face is tight with the same protectiveness. "Stai bene, sorella? Vero? (Are you okay, sister? Right?)"

I feel my throat tighten with all their care, but I force a smile, trying to reassure them. "Sì, sto bene. Per favore, non preoccuparti.. (Yes, I'm fine. Please don't worry.)" I glance at each of them, my heart pounding with the intensity of their concern.

My father doesn't let up, though. "Mi preoccuperò sempre per te, amore mio. (I will always worry about you, my love.) " He kisses my forehead with a tenderness that makes my chest tighten even more. I hug him back, my arms wrapping around him like I never want to let go.

Then Santino, always the comic relief, glances at my outfit and mutters, "Perché sono vestiti come Adam Sandler? (Why are they dressed like Adam Sandler?)"

I laugh, pulling him into a tight hug. "Anche tu mi sei mancato, Santi, (I missed you too, Santi)" I whisper into his shoulder. He pulls back just enough to plant a quick kiss on my shoulder before wrapping me up again.

When I look at Enzo, I see a flicker in his eyes like he's holding back a wave of emotion. Without thinking, I tease, "È una lacrima quella che vedo? (Is that a tear I see?)"

He chuckles softly, taking a deep breath to compose himself. Then, with a sigh, he pulls me into a hug. "No, penso che tu stia impazzendo, (No, I think you're going crazy)" His voice is almost shaky.

I laugh, the tension breaking just a little, and hug him back tightly. The kind of hug that says everything without needing words.

The sound of footsteps grows louder, each step sharpening the tension in the air. We all turn in unison, and I see Mr. Laurent, his arm wrapped around a woman who could only be his wife.

Mrs. Laurent.

She's breathtaking, a striking beauty that would make anyone pause. But the real intrigue comes when I notice the glint in her eyes—sharp, calculating, as if she's already sizing up the room.

Behind them, Damien and Antoine appear, their cold stares immediately locking onto our guards. Their presence feels like an unspoken challenge, each of them ready to tear into anyone who dares to break the tension. And then... a younger woman steps forward, clearly not impressed. She shares the same fierce features as Mr. Laurent, and it clicks—this must be their younger sister. I study her for a moment, but something gnaws at me.

Where's Leon?

I scan the area quickly, my pulse quickening as I realize he's not here. I shouldn't care, but my chest tightens, a strange mix of disappointment and relief flooding me. Good, it's better this way. But even as I tell myself that, the absence of his presence feels like a missing piece—like the air suddenly went a few degrees colder.

As the Laurent family moves down the stairs, their guards trailing silently behind them, my family and I step forward. My father's arm tightens around mine like he's afraid someone might snatch me away at any moment. His grip is possessive, protective—familiar in the best and worst of ways. It feels like a battle line is drawn, the Laurents standing opposite the De Angelis family, the space between us pulsing with palpable hostility. It's like we're on the brink of something, and I can feel the electric charge in the air.

The standoff reminds me of the tension between two rival gangs, ready to explode at any second. Or like that scene in Twilight when the Cullens face off against the Volturi. It's thick, uncomfortable, and completely unavoidable.

Mr. Laurent finally breaks the silence with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Luciano De Angelis." His voice is low, dripping with something far from warmth. "My, I haven't seen you since..."

Before he can finish his sentence, my father cuts him off, his tone tight but controlled. "University. Yes, what a great time that was," he says, his words laced with something deeper. The way he says it sends a strange ripple through the air, and I can't help but glance around, my eyes narrowing. University? My father and Marcel Laurent were classmates? The realization stuns me, and for a second, I feel like I've just entered a hidden world I wasn't meant to see.

Everyone around us stays silent, but their faces are unreadable. No one reacts, as though this secret is old news. My mouth goes dry, and I try to silence the questions bubbling up in my mind.

"It's great to see you again, Marcel," My father adds, his hand extending in a familiar gesture. But Marcel doesn't take it. Instead, he steps forward and pulls my father into a hug, slapping him on the back with a force that sounds like a promise. "Come here," he says, and they laugh together, two men who've known each other far too well.

I feel myself stepping back, watching this scene unfold, my mind trying to process it all. But as I take a step away from the crowd, I bump into Gio.

I freeze for a moment, meeting his cool gaze. "Oh. Hi, Gio," I say, forcing a smile to cover my sudden discomfort.

Gio glances down at me, his lips quirking into a half-smile that's sharp—almost predatory. "Hi, Mariella. Did they treat you right?" His voice is laced with mockery, as if he knows something I don't. There's a dangerous edge to his tone, and his eyes are calculating, reading me in a way I can't quite decipher.

I don't back down. "Better than what you could've," I respond smoothly, my smirk mirroring his. It's a challenge, a little playful, but I can feel the weight behind my words. The air crackles again, the tension thickening between us. It's not just the Laurents now—it's Gio too.

His chuckle is low, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It's not friendly, more like a warning. "Ouch," he says, the word dripping with dark amusement.

I freeze for a moment, my pulse quickening as my name cuts through the tension in the air. My father's voice is a lifeline, pulling me from the swirling storm of emotions. I glance at him, and he's holding his hand out toward me, a gesture that feels protective, almost desperate. I walk over, feeling the eyes of everyone still on me, and I take his hand, trying to steady myself under their gaze. Marcel and his wife are staring at me, their expressions unreadable, but the tension between them and my family is palpable. I can practically feel it pressing down on me, but I refuse to show any weakness.

"Yes, papa?" I ask, trying to sound unaffected, but there's a sharp edge to my voice.

He looks at me with that calm but calculating gaze, his expression shifting slightly as he speaks. "We should host a dinner event at our house to thank them for treating you so well. What do you think?"

Dinner event? Dinner event my fucking ass.

I try to ignore the absurdity of the idea, but I can't help the sarcastic thought that flashes through my mind. I look around, and it hits me—everyone's watching me, waiting for my answer. I put on a smile that's as fake as it gets, the kind that doesn't reach my eyes, but it's enough to appease them.

"I'd love to have your lovely family over for dinner," I say, my voice smooth, but it's a lie wrapped in a velvet tone. Marcel and his wife exchange pleased smiles, but I'm not finished.

"But—" I pause deliberately, letting the silence stretch as their pleasant expressions falter, replaced with wary caution. My gaze sharpens, and my voice drops, cold and unyielding. "I want the guard who dared to put his filthy hands on me brought to his knees... begging for mercy he won't get."

The air goes cold.

The room seems to freeze as my words hit like a bomb, and I can feel the shock wave ripple through the group. Enzo and Santino immediately look furious, their faces twisted in concern and anger. My father's glare at Marcel is intense, his eyes dark with the promise of something worse if this isn't handled.

"Che cosa?! (What?!)" Enzo's voice cracks with disbelief, but there's also a raw edge of concern.

Santino steps closer to me, his hand hovering as if he might pull me away from this madness, but I don't flinch. "Mariella, che diavolo stai dicendo? (Mariella, what the hell are you saying?)" His voice is full of worry, but it only fuels my resolve.

Marcel's jaw tightens, his knuckles turning white as he grips the edge of his suit jacket. The subtle tension in his body tells me he's fighting something, holding himself back from saying something that might escalate things further. His wife's expression flickers with worry, but she remains silent, watching the situation unfold.

Before Marcel can say anything, the unmistakable sound of footsteps breaks the silence. They're slow, deliberate, like someone enjoying every second of the chaos they've walked into. We all turn toward the direction of the sound, curiosity mixed with a sense of foreboding.

First, we see the polished tips of shoes stepping into the light, each step deliberate, like a warning. Then, out of the shadows, he emerges.

Leon.

The world seems to slow as he steps into view, the dark Armani suit fitting him like a second skin. He exhales a cloud of smoke, the tendrils curling into the air like they belong to something much darker than any of us.

I freeze. My throat goes dry, and my heart starts pounding in my chest like a drum. Every instinct screams at me to move, to do something—anything—but my body betrays me. The cold chill that spreads across my skin feels like it's made of ice, each nerve humming with a mixture of fear and something darker I can't name.

He looks like the devil incarnate, but worse. The same man who had me pinned against the wall, his gun aimed at my head, but now... there's something more. His presence is suffocating, filling the space with a weight that presses down on us all.

Silence.

The world holds its breath, waiting for something—anything—to break the tension. The only sound is the faintest crackle of the smoke around him, a reminder that even in the quietest moments, he's a threat you can feel in your bones.

And then, as if the universe can't resist, he looks at me. His eyes, cold and unblinking, lock onto mine. The air feels electric, charged with something dangerous, something inevitable.

The silence stretches on, and I can't tear my eyes away from his.

The tension crackles in the air like a live wire as Leon finally drags his eyes from mine, shifting his gaze to his father. His lips twist into a smirk, and his voice cuts through the silence like a blade. "My apologies," he says, the deep rasp of his words vibrating through me. "Am I interrupting something?"

His tone is low, smooth, and laced with danger, but it's the look in his eyes—cool, calculating, and undeniably amused—that unsettles me the most. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, that's right." His gaze snaps back to me, sharp and deliberate.

I can feel his scrutiny like a physical touch, and my heart stutters in response. He starts walking toward me, the slow, purposeful sound of his polished shoes on the pavement making my pulse quicken. My eyes betray me, trailing over his impossibly tall stature, the sharp cut of his black Armani suit, the way his broad shoulders seem to fill the space around him. His movements are fluid, controlled, and utterly predatory.

Then, casually, he lifts the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. When he exhales, the smoke curls through the air, and for a moment, it feels like time has stopped. God, why does that have to be the most attractive thing a man can do? My breath hitches as he closes the distance between us, his eyes locked on mine.

He's in front of me now, towering over me, the scent of his cologne and faint tobacco filling the space between us. His gaze pins me in place, and I can't swallow, can't breathe. The edge of his smirk sharpens as he exhales a plume of smoke, the faint trail brushing against my cheek like a taunt.

"You're in no position to demand anything,"he says, his voice low and venomous. Each word drips with disdain, and the sheer authority in his tone makes my blood boil. His glare pierces through me like he's disgusted by the very sight of me, like I'm not worth the ground he walks on.

But I'm not one to back down.

I take a step forward, closing the small gap between us, and tilt my chin up to meet his gaze head-on. "Wanna bet?" I say, my voice steady, my eyes locked onto his.

His smirk vanishes in an instant, replaced by a cold, ruthless intensity that sends a chill down my spine. His eyes darken as he leans in slightly, his presence overwhelming. "Careful, Princess," he says, his voice low and laced with venom. "You're playing a game you can't win. Push me, and I'll show you just how far out of your depth you really are."

The weight of his words hits me like a punch, his tone sharp enough to cut. There's no amusement left in his expression now—only raw, unrelenting dominance that feels like a warning and a promise all at once.

Before I can respond, Marcel's voice cuts through the standoff. "Léon. Ça suffit. (Leon. Enough.)" His tone is sharp, filled with warning, but neither of us moves. We remain locked in this battle of wills, and for a moment, I think Leon might defy him.

But then, he smirks again, steps back, and breaks the connection. The sudden release of tension makes me exhale shakily, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it's lodged in my throat.

Marcel turns to me, his expression carefully controlled. "You're right, Mariella," he says, addressing me directly. "I did give your father my word that you would be returned unharmed." He glances at my father, who is glaring daggers at him. "Bring me the guard," Marcel barks to one of his men.

Marcel's tone is laced with an edge of genuine concern, but there's an undercurrent of frustration. His eyes meet mine, but the flicker of anger behind them is hard to miss. "My apologies, Mariella," he says, his voice measured. "I wasn't informed that one of my men was ruthless enough to put his hands on you." He exhales sharply, his frustration evident now. "I'll handle it."

"You apologize?" Enzo snaps, stepping forward. His protective fury is evident, and the tension thickens as Marcel's men immediately move forward in response. Our guards react just as quickly, stepping into formation.

I glance around, and my eyes land on Leon. He's smirking, watching my brother with that same arrogant amusement. He's enjoying this, relishing the chaos. My fists clench at my sides. If only I could wipe that smirk off his face.

The sound of struggling breaks through the standoff as two guards drag the man who knocked me out into view. He's thrashing, pleading, his voice frantic. "What did I do? Please, no—"

The moment his eyes meet mine, he pales.

He knows. He knows exactly what's coming.

I step forward, slowly, deliberately, until I'm standing right in front of him. The guards hold him steady as he trembles under my gaze. "Do you know what happens when you touch someone you shouldn't?" I ask, my voice calm but ice-cold.

He stammers, trying to form words, but nothing coherent comes out.

I smile, sweet and venomous. "Let me show you."

Without breaking eye contact, I grab Enzo's gun from his holster. He stiffens but doesn't stop me. I take a step back, cock the gun, and aim it directly at the guard's head.

"Wait! Please, I—"

The gunshot echoes like thunder, silencing everything. The guard's lifeless body slumps to the ground, blood pooling beneath him.

The world is quiet for a beat, the tension heavier than ever. I glance around, taking in the shock and horror on everyone's faces. Marcel's wife looks like she might faint. Marcel himself is unreadable, his jaw tight. My father's expression is cold and approving, while Enzo and Santino stand tall, ready for whatever comes next.

And then, my eyes land on Leon.

He's staring at me, unblinking, his smirk wider than ever. There's something dark and twisted in his gaze, something that sends a shiver down my spine.

He looks... impressed.

I grit my teeth, annoyance bubbling in my chest. That smug expression of his makes me want to scream.

But I don't.

Instead, I toss the gun back to Enzo, the metallic clink breaking the suffocating silence. Without sparing another glance at the lifeless body on the ground—or the infuriating smirk on Leon's face—I turn on my heel and start walking away, my steps deliberate and unhurried.

"Voglio andare a casa (I want to go home,) ". I say flatly, my voice carrying through the tension-filled air. The weight of everything presses against my chest, but I keep my back straight, refusing to let anyone see the storm brewing inside me.

I reach the car, yanking the door open and sliding in. The door slams shut behind me with a force that echoes my frustration. I lean back against the cool leather seat, my breathing uneven as I rest my head against the window. The hum of the car engine vibrates beneath me, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy I've just walked away from.

Through the tinted glass, I see my father turn to Marcel, the tension between them palpable. He steps closer, his hand extending slowly. "Until next time, Marcel," my father says, his voice calm but carrying a weight that suggests this encounter is far from over.

Marcel hesitates for a moment, his jaw tightening as if weighing his options, before finally clasping my father's hand in a firm shake. "Luciano," Marcel replies, his tone equally measured, though his eyes betray the unease simmering beneath his composed facade.

The two men exchange a few quiet words, their voices too low to hear but the gravity of their conversation evident in their expressions. Marcel's wife stands stiffly by his side, her gaze darting between them.

After a moment, my father releases Marcel's hand, his posture still rigid with authority as he turns away. Without another word, he strides toward the car. Enzo and Santino flank him closely, both of them glancing back at the Laurent family with steely gazes that promise retribution if provoked.

The door opens, and my father steps into the car, followed by my brothers. The tension lingers thick in the air, even as the car door closes.

As we pull away, the car glides smoothly down the driveway, leaving behind the Laurents and their estate. I lean against the window, staring out at the darkening sky, the trees blurring past us. But something compels me to look back—one last glance.

And there he is.

Leon stands rooted in place, his cold, piercing gaze fixed on our car. The cigarette in his hand burns faintly in the dim light, the smoke curling lazily around him like a shroud. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, but the intensity in his stare feels like a challenge—a silent reminder that this isn't over.

I grit my teeth and turn my head away, ignoring the chill that lingers in my chest.

Let him watch. Let him think he's won.

He doesn't know me.

Not yet.

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OOP.

so much tension goddamn.

but shiii there tension is too good.

Bye, lovies! (っ◔◡◔)っ

Maddie♡