The question slipped out at 1:16 a.m. beside a dying fire and half a bottle of untouched whiskey.

Which meant it was absolutely Ivy’s fault.

Rain still tapped softly against the music room windows while old jazz drifted low through the speakers. Lucien sat on the couch across from her with one arm resting along the back cushion and the repaired record spinning quietly nearby.

The room looked warmer lately.

Or maybe Lucien did.

Dangerous possibility.

Ivy curled one leg beneath herself on the opposite end of the couch while absently turning an empty teacup between both hands.

“You know,” she said softly, “you never answer normal questions.”

Lucien glanced toward her over the rim of his glass.

“You rarely ask normal questions.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“It absolutely is.”

Ivy smiled faintly.

There it was again.

This.

The strange late-night softness that only seemed to exist when the rest of the mansion slept.

No guards.

No meetings.

No blood.

Only Lucien in low light looking less like a mafia king and more like a tired man pretending exhaustion was personality trait.

The thought settled quietly inside her chest.

Then she ruined everything.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Silence.

Lucien’s hand stopped briefly against the whiskey glass.

Tiny reaction.

Still there.

Ivy noticed immediately.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

The jazz continued softly between them while rain streaked gold against the windows.

Lucien didn’t answer right away.

Which already answered too much.

Ivy leaned slightly toward him.

“Oh my God.”

Lucien’s gaze shifted toward the fireplace.

“What.”

“You have.”

“No.”

“That was way too fast.”

His expression flattened slightly.

“I don’t discuss personal things.”

“You literally sat outside my bedroom door during a panic attack.”

“That wasn’t discussion.”

“That was emotional support with stalking tendencies.”

One side of Lucien’s mouth moved faintly.

Gone quickly.

Still real.

Ivy pointed immediately.

“There. See? Human.”

“You ask dangerous questions.”

“You avoid honest answers.”

Lucien set the whiskey glass down carefully.

The firelight moved softly across his face while he looked toward the rain-dark windows again.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then finally:

“Love makes people weak.”

The words landed low and calm.

Practiced.

Like he’d carried them for years.

Ivy studied him quietly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s the answer.”

“No,” she said softly. “That’s a defense mechanism.”

Lucien looked back at her now.

Gray eyes unreadable again.

Dangerous again.

Interesting how quickly he rebuilt walls whenever conversations drifted too close to truth.

“You think love improves people,” he said quietly.

“I think hiding from it definitely doesn’t.”

The room fell silent.

Lucien leaned back slightly against the couch.

Controlled posture.

Controlled breathing.

Controlled everything.

Except his eyes.

Those kept betraying him around her.

“You become vulnerable when you love someone,” he said. “People use that.”

The sentence landed heavier than expected.

Not theoretical.

Personal.

Ivy noticed immediately.

“Who used it against you?”

Lucien looked away first.

Again.

“I didn’t say that happened.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The fire cracked softly nearby.

Outside, rain rolled slower against the glass now.

Lucien rubbed one hand slowly across his jaw.

Tired movement.

Human movement.

“I watched men destroy themselves over attachment,” he said quietly. “My father included.”

Ivy stayed still.

No interruptions now.

Lucien almost never talked about his father voluntarily.

“When people know what matters to you…” His voice lowered slightly. “They stop aiming for your business.”

The air shifted quietly between them.

Ivy thought immediately about Dante Russo kissing her hand.

About Hale watching Lucien across lunch tables.

About the way Lucien tracked her phone like panic sat directly beneath his ribs.

And suddenly—

this conversation stopped feeling theoretical too.

“You really think caring about somebody is weakness,” she murmured.

Lucien looked directly at her.

“Yes.”

The certainty in the answer hurt more than she expected.

Ivy looked down at the teacup turning slowly between her fingers.

That disappointment crossed her face before she could hide it.

Small.

Still there.

Lucien noticed instantly.

Of course he did.

The room changed subtly afterward.

The warmth thinned slightly.

Lucien’s expression tightened almost invisibly.

“You disagree.”

Ivy laughed softly under her breath.

“I think that’s a sad way to live.”

His jaw flexed once.

“Sad keeps people alive.”

“That sounds lonely.”

No answer.

Which was answer enough.

Ivy leaned back slowly against the couch cushions.

The jazz record skipped softly once before continuing.

Lucien’s attention drifted briefly toward the sound.

Anywhere except her face now.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

“You know what I think?” Ivy said quietly after a moment.

Lucien remained silent.

“I think you already loved somebody once.” She looked at him carefully. “And it scared the hell out of you.”

The words hit hard.

She saw it immediately.

Lucien went completely still.

Not cold.

Worse.

Exposed.

Only for a second.

Still there.

Then the walls returned.

Fast.

Professional.

Deadly efficient.

“You romanticize things,” he said quietly.

“And you bury things.”

His eyes lifted sharply back to hers.

The tension between them tightened again.

Not soft now.

Sharp.

Dangerous.

Ivy’s pulse stumbled anyway.

Horrible timing.

Lucien leaned slightly forward.

“You think love is enough to save people.”

“No.” Ivy held his gaze. “I think refusing it destroys them faster.”

Silence crashed hard between them afterward.

The fireplace burned lower.

Rain softened outside.

And Lucien—

Lucien looked at her like she’d reached inside his chest and touched something he’d spent years trying to kill.

Ivy realized suddenly how close they’d drifted toward each other during the conversation.

Again.

Always again.

The awareness settled hot beneath her skin.

Lucien noticed too.

His gaze dropped briefly toward her mouth.

Then stayed there one second too long.

Ivy stopped breathing properly.

Big mistake.

Lucien’s fingers tightened slightly against the whiskey glass beside him.

Not enough to crack it.

Close.

“Ivy,” he said quietly.

Her name sounded dangerous tonight.

Like warning and confession mixed together.

She swallowed once.

“Yeah?”

Lucien looked at her for one long second.

Then leaned back again instead.

Distance.

Control.

Retreat.

Coward.

The realization irritated her unexpectedly.

“You know,” she muttered softly, “for a terrifying mafia king, you panic emotionally pretty fast.”

That actually pulled a faint breath of amusement from him.

Tiny.

Still there.

Lucien picked up the whiskey glass again.

“You should sleep.”

“There it is.”

“What.”

“The escape tactic.”

“It’s late.”

“You always end conversations when they get too real.”

Lucien looked toward the fireplace again.

No denial.

Ivy smiled faintly despite herself.

“Thought so.”

The silence afterward settled quieter now.

Less sharp.

Still heavy.

Lucien drank once from the whiskey.

Then looked toward her again unexpectedly.

“You asked if I’ve been in love.”

Ivy blinked.

He continued before she could speak.

“I don’t know.”

The honesty in the sentence hit harder than anything else tonight.

No performance.

No control.

Just exhaustion.

Lucien looked down at the amber whiskey in his hand.

“And that,” he said quietly, “is probably the closest thing to an answer you’ll ever get from me.”

Ivy watched him silently across the firelight.

And for the first time—

Lucien Moretti looked less afraid of enemies than he did of himself.