Unkillable
Unkillable
“He died. But my body never forgot him.”
The church crypt was the only place no one followed me.
Not the guards.
Not Luna.
Not the ghosts that clung to every De Luca wall.
Not even my father. Especially not him.
It was hollow and damp. Smelled like stone and melted wax. Echoed with every footstep like the dead were whispering behind the walls.
I pushed the door open with more force than necessary and slammed it behind me.
And he was there.
Leaning against one of the archways like he hadn’t faked his death three years ago. Like he hadn’t torn me in half and left me bleeding inside a house that fed on obedience.
Silas.
His name didn’t make it past my lips, but my body knew. My knees almost gave. My lungs skipped. My hands curled into fists like they’d remembered the shape of him before my heart did.
He looked up—slow, careful. No apology in his face. No anger either. Just… stillness. Like I was another shadow in the crypt. Like he hadn’t watched me unravel from rooftops and behind alleyways like a coward who still cared.
I walked straight to him.
He didn’t flinch.
Not when I slapped him.
Hard.
Not when I did it again, and my voice broke.
“You left.”
Nothing. Not even a wince.
“You let me think you were dead—”
I hit him again, this time with the side of my fist. Then again. My arms started shaking. My breath came out uneven. Wet. Furious.
“You let me bury you in my head. Every damn night.”
Still, he didn’t move.
He just let me.
Until I was crying too hard to throw another punch.
I stumbled back a step, and he caught me before I hit the wall.
His arms were solid. Steady. Wrong. Familiar.
I shoved him off.
“Don’t touch me.”
But I was lying.
Because the second he did, my chest remembered how it felt to fall asleep next to him. My jaw remembered the weight of his kiss. My body—traitorous and aching—remembered everything I told it to forget.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice barely human.
He stared at me like I was the one who left. Like he hadn’t disappeared with nothing but a torn-up note and the taste of goodbye in my mouth.
He answered without blinking. “You’re not safe.”
I laughed.
Sharp. Bitter. Ugly.
“You don’t get to say that. Not after all this time. Not after—”
My voice cracked.
He stepped closer, slowly. Like I might shatter if he moved too fast.
I noticed the blood first. Not his. Mine, probably—from the blast earlier. A faint smear across my cheekbone.
His hand lifted—hesitant. Like he was asking without asking.
And then he wiped it away.
Gentle. Quiet. His thumb lingered.
I didn’t breathe.
Neither did he.
The touch burned. Not from pain, but memory.
He used to do this. After fights. After stolen nights in basements. After I watched him kill and pretended I wasn’t scared.
Now he was doing it again.
And I hated that part of me still leaned into it.
“How many times have you watched me from the dark?” I whispered. “How long have you been back?”
He didn’t speak.
“Answer me.”
Silas met my eyes then.
It wasn’t the cold stare I remembered. It wasn’t fury or indifference.
It was grief.
Like he had been dying every time I walked past without knowing he was there.
“Long enough to know you’re not the same girl I left,” he said finally.
“I died that night,” I snapped.
“No. You just learned how to survive without softness.”
Silence thickened between us like smoke.
I wanted to scream at him.
I wanted to kiss him until it hurt.
I wanted to hit him again and tell him I never wanted to see him again.
But I didn’t move.
And neither did he.
“Why didn’t you come back sooner?” I asked, voice breaking.
He looked down. His jaw clenched.
“I couldn’t.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“I know.”
Another beat. Another breath.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out. A small, rusted ring—twisted with age and dirt.
My mother’s.
My legs buckled, and I almost dropped.
He caught me again.
This time, I let him.
“I found it the night she died,” he whispered. “I’ve been trying to find out why ever since.”
I pressed a hand to my mouth. My eyes burned.
“You think Vittorio did it?”
“I don’t think,” he said. “I know.”
The floor tilted beneath me.
I hadn’t said it aloud. Not once. Not even in the dark.
But now I didn’t have to.
It was real.
My mother was murdered. And the man who raised me—who claimed he wanted to protect me—had done it.
Silas reached out again, brushing a piece of hair from my face.
I let him.
“You look like her,” he murmured. “When you’re angry.”
“Don’t say that,” I whispered. “She wouldn’t have let you leave.”
“I didn’t want to go.”
“Then why did you?”
He looked at me like I was the last thing holding him together.
“Because staying would’ve meant dragging you into a war you weren’t ready for.”
“And now?”
He didn’t answer.
He just stared.
Like he wanted to say always. Like he couldn’t let the word leave his throat or it might destroy us both.
So I asked again.
“Why are you here now?”
This time, he whispered it.
“Because they’re coming for you. And I promised her I’d protect you.”
My chest cracked.
I stepped forward.
He didn’t move.
We stood like that—too close, too far—for a long time.
No kiss.
No promises.
Just unspoken history and the ghosts we both carried.
I should’ve walked away.
But I didn’t.
Because he was still the only grave I’d never stop visiting.
The crypt was colder when I left it.
I didn’t say goodbye.
Silas didn’t stop me.
My steps echoed like gunfire in the empty corridor, but my heart was quieter than it had been in years. Terrified, yes. But no longer numb.
I should’ve gone straight to Luna. Told her everything. I should’ve deleted the memory of his hands from my skin, scrubbed the scent of ash and guilt from my jacket.
But instead… I walked like I was floating. Like grief had stepped aside for something worse: hope.
I didn’t notice the car down the street.
Didn’t feel the eyes behind the tinted window.
But someone did.
By the time I got home, the estate was locked down.
Steel gates shut. Guards at every corner. Dogs pacing near the garden wall like war had been whispered between roses.
Luna met me at the entryway, pale and stiff.
“What the hell happened?” I asked.
She shoved a phone in my hand. “Rafa told Dante you snuck out. Vittorio thinks there’s a mole. He’s gone full paranoid. Says no one leaves until he finds out who’s leaking information.”
I blinked.
Dante. Rafa. Dad.
Men in suits acting like gods.
Luna touched my arm, voice lower. “Where did you go, Aria?”
I didn’t lie.
I just didn’t answer.
Instead, I turned and headed to my study.
The room was exactly how I left it.
But something felt off.
The desk drawer wasn’t closed all the way.
I pulled it open slowly, heart already bracing.
There — sitting atop my old planner — was a small folded note.
No signature. No wax seal.
But I knew that handwriting.
Slanted. Clean. And wrapped in code.
My mother’s code.
I’d memorized it as a child, watching her scribble letters I wasn’t supposed to understand. It was how she passed messages to Luna’s mother, back when secrets were safer on paper than whispered through halls.
I unfolded the note.
Two lines. That was it. : The one closest to your heart is the one holding the blade.
My hands went cold.
My pulse dropped.
Not because I didn’t understand.
Because I did.
RAFA — 3rd POV
Rafa leaned back in the driver’s seat, lips tight around a cigarette he hadn’t lit. Smoke made him sick. He just liked the shape of it in his mouth.
He’d been following Aria for weeks.
On Vittorio’s orders? Sure.
But also because he knew something wasn’t right. She’d been too still lately. Like glass before a hurricane.
And tonight proved it.
He saw her slip into the old chapel crypt like she used to sneak into the basement three years ago — when she thought no one noticed her missing for hours at a time.
But Rafa noticed. Rafa always noticed.
What he didn’t expect?
Silas Raveen.
Alive. Touching her face like he had every right. Holding her like he still owned her heart.
Rafa crushed the cigarette in his fist.
Then he picked up his phone.
“Boss?” he said when Dante answered.
“I’m listening.”
“She’s seeing him again.”
A pause. Then a sigh. “Of course she is.”