The next morning's sunlight, like a layer of hypocritical golden gauze, covered the tranquil scenery of the estate, yet failed to penetrate the gloom in Isabella's heart. Luca's words had circled in her mind all night, interweaving the image of the cold tyrant with that of a blood-covered lonely boy, plunging her into deeper confusion. She no longer tried to escape, nor did she cry. A cold, almost numb determination took shape in her heart.

She needed to see for herself.


When Alessandro appeared at her doorway, she was wearing a simple white dress, sitting calmly by the window. He seemed surprised by her composure, a hint of curiosity flashing through his deep eyes. He didn't approach, just leaned against the doorframe, silently watching her, as if evaluating a piece of art that had just endured the test of fire.

"I want to see it," Isabella spoke, her voice quiet but remarkably clear, without a trace of trembling.

Alessandro's eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly, "See what?"


"What you've done," she turned her head, looking directly into his eyes, those eyes she had once lost herself in, "I want to see what you've done to 'protect' me. I want to see the truth of your world."

The air seemed to freeze. Alessandro's gaze lingered on her face for several long seconds, a gaze so sharp it felt as if it could peel away her skin and see through every thought in the depths of her soul. He seemed to be judging whether this was another form of breakdown, or some childish provocation. But what he saw in her eyes was only a disturbing, pure stubbornness.


He finally nodded, without saying another word, and turned to walk downstairs.

It was a journey of suffocating silence. The black Bentley glided like a ghost ship, moving soundlessly through the morning mist. Isabella gazed out at the rapidly receding beautiful scenes of the normal world—joggers, milk delivery trucks, blooming rose gardens—each seeming to bid her a silent farewell. Alessandro sat beside her, neither speaking nor looking at her, just staring ahead, the profile of his face resembling the sculpture of an ancient Roman emperor, cold, hard, and majestic.

The car finally drove into a desolate industrial area, stopping in front of a completely burned-down warehouse. It was a hellish scene. The massive steel structure had twisted into grotesque shapes under the scorching fire, like the gutted skeleton of a giant beast, pointing helplessly toward the grayish-white sky. The air was filled with an acrid smell of burning, mixed with chemicals and some indescribable... sweet-smelling odor of burned organic matter. The ground was covered with thick ashes, scattered with charred remains of wooden crates and melted metal.

Alessandro got out of the car and came around to open the door for her. He didn't offer his hand to help her, but simply stood there, with an unquestionable posture, gesturing for her to step out on her own.

Isabella took a deep breath, and the smell of death and destruction instantly filled her lungs, making her nauseous. But she forced herself to swallow it down, then lifted her skirt and stepped onto the ashes. Each step made a soft "crunch" sound, as if she were treading on the bones of the dead.

He offered no explanation, just led her silently through the ruins. He showed her the truck seats that had been burned down to just metal springs, the large patches of heat-blackened marks on the walls, and the scattered debris on the ground whose shapes were no longer recognizable. There were no bodies here; everything had been processed too "cleanly," but this cleanliness was more chilling than a slaughterhouse full of corpses. It represented an efficient, cold-blooded, traceless destruction.

Isabella had imagined herself screaming, vomiting, collapsing from fear. But she didn't. A strange, cold calmness enveloped her. Her senses were infinitely magnified, capturing every detail around her, while her brain functioned like a high-speed machine, frantically processing the information before her, trying to make sense of it all.

This was no longer a story from a book, nor special effects from a movie. This was a real hell, created by the very man she was infatuated with.

She stopped walking, turned around, and looked at Alessandro standing a few steps away. He stood there silently, his tall figure against the backdrop of ruins, like the Grim Reaper descended to earth. Sunlight fell upon him, yet was completely devoured by the powerful dark aura surrounding him.

She looked at him and asked the core question that had been circling in her mind, transcending all fear and moral judgment.

"Do you feel anything when you kill someone?"

Her voice was soft, yet like a stone thrown into a deep pool, it stirred clear echoes in the deathly silent ruins.

Alessandro's body seemed to stiffen for a moment. He slowly raised his eyes, his gaze meeting hers. It was a long, silent exchange of looks. In the depths of his eyes, Isabella saw surging, complex emotions that she could not decipher, but ultimately, everything settled into an unfathomably calm surface.

He remained silent for a long time, so long that Isabella thought he would not answer. Then, he finally spoke slowly, his voice deep and hoarse, each word seeming precisely cut as if after careful deliberation.

"No pleasure," he admitted frankly, his gaze unwavering, "only necessity."

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. That scent of cologne mixed with gunpowder surrounded her once again.

"Like a surgeon removing a necrotic tumor from the body," he looked into her eyes, explaining with an almost cruel philosophical tone, "It's ugly, it's uncomfortable, but to keep the entire organism alive, you must remove it in the most precise and effective way possible. I despise chaos, Isa-bella. I despise loss of control and disorder. Everything I do is only to maintain the order of my world in the most effective way."

There wasn't the slightest hint of repentance or apology in his words, only a statement. A statement of a truth he had long accepted and regarded as his guiding principle. In this moment, Isabella finally understood. He wasn't a sadist who enjoyed violence, nor a vengeful person driven by hatred. He was a lonely king, guarding his kingdom built upon blood and fire with absolute, cold rationality. He wasn't committing evil; he was "working."

This understanding made her tremble more than mere fear ever could.

That night, they did not go to that game room filled with the smell of leather and metal.

Upon returning to the manor, Alessandro said nothing, only leading her into a study she had never been to before. Here there were no cold instruments of torture or ambiguous lighting, only a huge fireplace with a roaring fire that bathed the entire room in a warm amber glow. The thick Persian carpet, bookshelves that reached the ceiling, and the air permeated with the fragrance of old books and burning pine from the fireplace, all gave this place a peaceful yet substantial atmosphere.

He took off his coat, tossed it onto the armchair, then walked straight to the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of amber-colored whiskey. He handed one to her, then threw himself onto the long sofa in front of the fireplace as if utterly exhausted.

Isabella held the warm wine glass in both hands, sitting down beside him with a distance of one person between them.

The firelight from the fireplace danced on their faces, casting ever-changing shadows. Alessandro unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, tilted his head back, and drained the whiskey in his glass in one gulp, his Adam's apple rolling up and down with the swallowing motion, carrying a vulnerable sensuality.

He remained silent for a long time, just staring at the dancing flames, as if organizing an extremely difficult narrative. Isabella didn't rush him either, just quietly accompanying him. She knew something was about to be revealed.

"When I was fifteen, right here in this manor," he finally spoke, his voice deeper and hoarser than usual, almost like a whisper, "several of my father's 'friends', in order to seize control of the family, launched a rebellion."

Isabella's heart clenched tightly, Luca's words echoing in her ears.

"I was upstairs at the time, locked in my room. I could hear the gunshots from downstairs, the screams, and... my mother crying out my father's name." His gaze remained fixed on the flames, but his eyes had drifted to a distant, bloody past. His hand unconsciously tightened around the empty glass, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. "After everything went quiet, they opened my door. Luca's father, who was my father's personal bodyguard at the time, shielded me with his body, fought his way through, leaving a trail of blood, and brought me down to the main hall."

He paused, taking a deep breath, as if that memory could still suffocate him to this day.

"My father lay in a pool of blood. And my mother..." he closed his eyes, his long eyelashes casting trembling shadows in the firelight, "she had one last breath. She grabbed my hand and told me that from now on, I was the godfather of the Vitale Family. She made me look into her eyes and swear... to never trust anyone, never show weakness, to live like a king. Then, in my arms... she grew cold."

Isabella felt as if an invisible hand had squeezed her heart tightly, making it painful to breathe. She couldn't imagine what kind of soul-shattering torture it must have been for a fifteen-year-old boy to hold his mother's gradually cooling body while hearing such final words.

"That night, I, Luca, and several family elders loyal to my father, hid in the underground wine cellar of the estate." He opened his eyes, and in those obsidian-like eyes, there was no longer cold control, but a bottomless desolation and sorrow belonging to that lonely boy. "For the next month, I didn't see sunlight. I learned how to use guns, studied every business of the family, learned how to identify lies and betrayal. Every day people died, some were enemies, some were our own. Every day, I had to make decisions, decide who lived and who died."

He turned his head, for the first time, looking at her so closely, completely unguarded.

"You ask me what it feels like to kill someone?" he said softly, with a trace of self-mockery in his voice. "The first time, I vomited for three days. The second time, I had nightmares all night. The third time... the fourth time... the tenth time... gradually, I felt nothing. Just as you said, it was merely necessary. To survive, to protect this crumbling kingdom she left me, I must cut away all the necrotic parts, all the parts that might cause decay. I have no time for grief, nor the privilege to be weak."

This was the first time he revealed his vulnerability to her. Not physical nakedness, but something a thousand times more profound—a baring of the soul. He exposed his deepest, darkest wound to her, raw and bleeding, without the slightest concealment.

The fear in Isabella's heart was, at this moment, completely submerged by a grander, more surging emotion. It was a mixture of acute heartache and compassion, and a... profound understanding for a soul that had climbed out of hell all on its own.

She put down her wine glass and moved closer to him. Then, she reached out, not to touch his body, but to gently brush her fingertips over his hand that was tightly gripping the wine glass.

Alessandro's body jerked suddenly, as if burned by that slight touch. He lowered his head, looking at her delicate, fair hand covering the back of his own, which was veined and emanated strength.

Then, he released his wine glass and took her hand in his. His palm was burning hot, with slight calluses, holding so tightly, like a drowning man clutching the only piece of driftwood. He didn't speak, just pulled her toward him, letting her lean against his chest.

This wasn't an embrace with any hint of desire. He just held her tightly, burying his face in the crook of her neck, like an exhausted voyager who had finally found a harbor to dock. His tall frame trembled slightly, and Isabella could feel that his impenetrable armor, in this moment, had finally been laid down.

She also extended her arms, encircling his broad back, patting gently and soothingly. She didn't offer those cheap consolations like "everything will be alright," but simply held him quietly.

In the flickering firelight of the hearth, in the tranquil study far removed from blood and slaughter, they embraced each other tightly in a way never before experienced. That cold king and that gentle captive, in this moment, found a connection more primitive than fear, desire, or power.

Isabella's fear had not disappeared. But it had settled, transformed, becoming something entirely different. She knew she could never leave this man again. Not because of his threats, not because of that "beige" world she could never return to, but because... she had glimpsed that lonely yet bright flame at the center of his dark kingdom.

And she, irresistibly, wanted to draw near to that flame. Even if it meant being burned to ashes.