The night spent by the embers of the fireplace was like a long and profound baptism. They did not speak again, only drawing warmth from each other in that heavy, soul-baring embrace, until the first hint of gray-white colored the sky outside. Isabella did not sleep, nor did Alessandro. They seemed to be keeping a joint vigil through the long night, bidding farewell to their former selves.

When the morning light finally penetrated the heavy curtains of the study, casting dappled shadows on the expensive carpet, Isabella gently withdrew from his embrace. Alessandro opened his eyes, those deep orbs bearing the bloodshot marks of a sleepless night, but even more so, a complex, inscrutable scrutiny. He seemed to be waiting for her verdict, waiting for her to flee after glimpsing the darkness and wounds in the deepest recesses of his soul.


Isabella met his gaze with unprecedented calmness. She had spent the entire night processing the burnt smell of those ruins, trying to understand the heavy crown that the fifteen-year-old boy had accepted while lying in a pool of blood. Fear still existed, like a cold stone sinking in her stomach, but a stronger determination, like tenacious vines, had already broken through that coldness and tightly wrapped around her heart.

She stood up, walked in front of him, and slowly crouched down to bring her eyes level with his as he sat on the sofa. She reached out, not to comfort him as she had last night, but to cup his well-defined face that showed the fatigue of a sleepless night.

"I've decided to stay," she said softly, yet with an unquestionable firmness, each word like an imprint made after careful deliberation.


Alessandro's body stiffened. He looked at her, astonishment surging in his eyes, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. He had thought she would ask to leave, would disappear from his world forever with disgust and fear.

"But," Isabella's fingertips gently caressed the youthful stubble on his jaw, her gaze intense and bright, "I don't want to be that porcelain doll anymore, the one you hide behind you and protect with layers of barriers. That's not the life I want."


There wasn't the slightest hint of hesitation in her eyes, only a burning, resolute light that pierced straight into the depths of his soul.

"Your world is full of enemies and war, isn't it?" she asked, more like stating a fact, "You live among schemes and dangers every day. Since I've chosen to stay, I don't want to be your weakness, don't want to be a bargaining chip that enemies can use against you."

She took a deep breath, and that scent belonging to him—a mixture of faint cologne and gunpowder—filled her senses, not frightening her at all but instead giving her a strange sense of security.

"So, Alessandro," she said, each word clear and forceful, "if you have to face an inevitable war, then teach me how to fight."

These words exploded like a thunderbolt in the quiet study.

Alessandro was completely stunned. In his thirty-plus years of life, he had heard countless pleas, curses, flattery, and lies, but never had any woman, after seeing his most bloody and brutal side, said such words to him. She didn't ask him to lay down his weapons, didn't persuade him to walk toward the light, but chose to step into his darkness and asked him to hand her a weapon.

After the initial shock, an emotion far more scorching and possessive than desire erupted from the depths of his heart like volcanic magma. It was a profound appreciation that almost made him tremble. He had always thought what he longed for was an immaculate safe harbor, a sacred angel who could let him briefly escape the bloody reality. But at this moment, he realized how terribly wrong he had been. What he truly needed was a queen who could stand beside him in the hellfire, gazing into the abyss without flinching.

His lips, slowly and uncontrollably, curled upward into a smile he had never worn before—one mixed with amazement and fervor. He reached out his hand, gripped the back of her neck, and pulled her toward him, his forehead pressing against hers.

"Do you know what you're saying, piccola anima coraggiosa (my brave little soul)?" His voice was hoarse, filled with dangerous magnetism, "Battle is not a game. It means blood, it means pain, it means you will witness firsthand the ugliest side of this world."

"I've already seen it," Isabella replied without backing down, "There in those ruins. I don't want to be just a bystander anymore."

Alessandro closed his eyes and let out a deep laugh that seemed to come from the depths of his chest. When he reopened his eyes, all the fatigue and melancholy in those black orbs had vanished, replaced by a rekindled, predatory fervor and light.

"Alright," he said just one word.

This "alright" opened a new, burning chapter in their relationship.

The underground gym of the manor, normally used only by Luca and a few core bodyguards, had now become their exclusive classroom. There were no soft yoga mats or soothing music here, only cold equipment, heavy punching bags, and that powerful smell permeating the air—a mixture of sweat and leather.

Alessandro was a strict, almost cruel teacher. He personally demonstrated every basic self-defense move to Isabella—how to break free from restraints, how to use elbows to attack an opponent's most vulnerable weak points, how to strike vital areas with knees. His movements were precise, concise, and lethal, without any unnecessary flourishes, each technique designed to incapacitate an enemy in the shortest possible time.

At first, Isabella appeared clumsy and awkward. Her body was accustomed to gentle stretching, completely unsuited to this kind of explosive confrontation. Sweat quickly soaked through her sports bra, clinging tightly to her skin, outlining the curves of her heaving chest as she panted. Her muscles screamed in pain from the unaccustomed exertion.

Alessandro showed no trace of chivalry. He corrected her posture time and again, his palm firmly pressing against her waist to adjust her center of gravity; his arm wrapped around her shoulders to guide the angle of her elbow. These contacts were no longer for teasing or flirtation; they were purely functional. Yet, it was precisely this physical interaction, stripped of all sensual overtones, that produced a kind of more heart-stirring chemical reaction.

"Lower your center of gravity, Isabella!" his low growl sounded by her ear. He was embracing her from behind, one hand fixing her wrist, the other pressing against her lower abdomen, forcing her body into a stable defensive posture. "Never turn your back to your enemy, unless you want him to see your most vulnerable nape."

His breath fell on the curve of her ear, scorching and moist. Her entire back was pressed tightly against his iron-hard chest, clearly feeling each powerful beat of his heart. Sweat dripped from his temple, one drop landing precisely on her collarbone, like a tiny flame that instantly ignited her skin all over. She could smell his intense, uniquely masculine scent, mixed with the smell of her own sweat, forming a primitive and dizzying fragrance.

This kind of tacit understanding between comrades, this physical coordination for mutual survival, ignited the flames deep within her heart far more than any meticulously planned BDSM game ever could. She was no longer the passive recipient, but was learning how to fight back, how to stand on the same front line with him.

A few days later, he took her to the private shooting range in the basement of the estate.

When Alessandro placed a cold Walter PPK pistol in her hand, Isabella's hand still couldn't help but tremble slightly. That heavy metal weight represented a power and responsibility she had never imagined she would touch.

"Don't be afraid of it," Alessandro stood behind her, encircling her in his embrace in the same manner, his chest providing a solid support for her. His large hand covered her hand holding the gun, the scorching temperature penetrating through her skin, traveling all the way to her heart. "It's just a tool. What gives it meaning is the person who holds it."

He patiently taught her how to load the magazine, how to chamber a round, how to aim. His lips were almost touching her ear, his deep voice mingling with each crisp "click" sound from the gun parts, like a deadly lullaby.

"The key to shooting isn't strength, it's calmness." He guided her arm, aiming at the target twenty meters away, "Your breathing must be steady, your heart must be still. At the moment you pull the trigger, in your world, there is only you, the gun, and your target. Everything else ceases to exist."

Isabella closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to calm her pounding heart. She felt the weight of his body, felt his steady heartbeat, and that strength seemed to flow continuously into her through their tightly pressed bodies.

When she opened her eyes again, those once gentle eyes now sparkled with an unprecedented sharpness like tempered steel.

She pulled the trigger.

"Bang!"

The enormous gunshot echoed in the enclosed space, making her eardrums buzz. The recoil struck her arms forcefully, but with Alessandro supporting her from behind, she maintained her stance.

The bullet precisely hit the center area of the target.

Alessandro's breathing stopped for an instant. He looked down at the woman in his arms, at her cheeks slightly flushed with excitement and adrenaline, at her eyes burning with flames. She was no longer the naive girl who had intruded into his world; she now emanated a formidable aura that belonged to this dark kingdom. A kind of... self-awareness of a mistress.

His fingers tightened around her wrist. A fierce, primal possessiveness suddenly swept over him. This wasn't possession of a beautiful plaything, but desire for a companion whose soul resonated with his own.

He took the still-hot gun from her hand, casually tossed it onto the table nearby, then abruptly turned her around and kissed her fiercely.

This kiss was filled with the smell of gunpowder and sweat, rough, passionate, without a trace of tenderness. He was like an out-of-control beast, frantically plundering everything of hers with his lips and teeth. Isabella didn't resist, but instead responded to him fiercely. She clutched his hair, allowing him to press her against the cold soundproof wall, her body trembling from the powerful impact, yet craving it immensely.

Every suppressed electric current during training, every accelerated heartbeat, all erupted in this moment. Alessandro's hands roughly tore open the hem of her sports bra and explored inside. As their burning skin touched, both let out a satisfied sigh. His hands, slightly callused, roamed over her smooth back, igniting strings of sparks, then slid downward, unhesitatingly grasping her firm buttocks, lifting her entire body upward, and pressing her tightly against his desire that had already hardened like iron.

Through two layers of fabric, she could clearly feel that astonishing heat and size. A shiver of both shame and excitement spread throughout her entire body.

"Sandro……" In the intervals between his storm-like kisses, she breathed with difficulty as she called out his name.

This name was like a spell that momentarily restored a glimmer of sanity to him. He stopped his movements, his crimson eyes fixed intently on her, his chest heaving violently.

"Right here," he commanded hoarsely, his voice filled with undeniable desire, "I want you, now."

In this dangerous space composed of firearms, gunpowder, and echoes, his demand was like the most lethal aphrodisiac. Isabella looked at the raw, primitive possessiveness in his eyes, her heart beating wildly. Without the slightest hesitation, she answered with action. She raised her leg, wrapped it around his waist, and in an almost defiant gesture, delivered herself deeper into his embrace.

This action completely ignited the last of Alessandro's rationality.

……

Meanwhile, in a dimly lit luxurious office at the other end of the city, Marco violently smashed the crystal glass in his hand to the floor.

The sound of breaking glass was piercing and sharp.

"What did you say?" His voice was as cold as the Siberian chill, "He's personally teaching that whore how to shoot?"

The subordinate standing before him trembled in fear, head bowed, not daring to look at his contorted face.

"Y-yes, boss. Our men saw... Mr. Vitale almost teaching her hands-on, they... they looked very close."

"Close..." Marco savored the word in a low voice, a ferocious smile appearing on his handsome face, "I warned him, I kindly reminded him that a woman would become his weakness. Yet he treated my words like the wind passing his ears! He's not just keeping her in a cage, he's actually trying to turn her into a she-wolf that can bite!"

Jealousy and the anger of being ignored, like two venomous snakes, frantically gnawed at his rationality. He had always regarded Alessandro as his only rival, that high and mighty king. He could tolerate losing to his schemes, losing to his cruelty, but he absolutely could not tolerate being defeated by a woman of unknown origin! Alessandro broke rules for her, exposed vulnerabilities for her—which, in Marco's view, was the ultimate insult to the Vitale Family and to the iron-blooded principles he believed in.

"Does he think that with love, he can have everything?" Marco paced frantically around the room, broken glass making "crunch" sounds under his leather shoes, "Foolish! Weak! He is leading the entire family toward destruction!"

He abruptly stopped in his tracks, a flash of madness and desperate resolution gleaming in his eyes.

"Enough. I've given him a chance." He turned around and ordered the trembling subordinate, "Notify everyone, initiate the 'Purification' plan. I want Alessandro Vitale to witness with his own eyes how his ridiculous love and his kingdom both turn to ashes beneath my feet."

Outside the window, a storm was brewing, with black clouds hanging low, as if ready to devour the entire city at any moment.