Cee watched Niccolò's figure disappear around the corner, heading towards the lift.

She stood, frozen, as Luca grinned to her, reaching underneath her bed for the dress he had thrown there just a minute ago; this was it. If he found the box, she was dead.

"Niccolò said I can't go out," she blurted out abruptly, making Luca pause, meeting her eye as he thought, reaching out blindly. Cee's rib cage seemed to tighten, squeezing her lungs to dust; her throat was dry.

"We're not technically leaving the hotel," he mused, straightening up: dress in hand. Cee let out a choked gasp of air; she was safe. "We have a bar and casino downstairs."

"Oh," she mustered, her face still pale.

"And since when have you listened to my cousin?" Luca brushed off invisible dust from the dress and lay it flat on the bed.

"Since I promised." Cee eyed the dress nervously, trying to calm her racing pulse. "I don't know about this-"

"You don't have to drink," he clarified hurriedly, smiling weakly, "I just don't want to drink alone downstairs worrying about Flo." Cee looked at him then; really looked. He looked tired, the bags under his eyes almost like bruises. "I promise you'll be safe."

"You like her," she realised, feeling her fear of Luca sink away into nothing; he was human. He was capable of emotion, just like her, and he had a crush on Flo, a woman he employed. Luca looked away, his cheeks faintly pink. He wouldn't hurt her tonight - she just knew.

"Don't tell Niccolò," he mumbled, heading out the door. "You have fifteen minutes to get dressed and look hot."

Cee turned to the dress, her mind made up. In ten minutes, she'd changed and covered up her dark circles, choosing a bright red lipstick to match the dress.

She was sliding on her heels when Luca knocked. "I'm ready to drink away my sorrows," he declared, marching in, giving her a quick once-over. "You better be ready."

Cee nodded, smiling for the first time all day. "I'm drinking with you."

---

"Salute!"

Cee tapped her shot glass to Luca's, laughing as a vodka splashed onto her hand; she downed it. It burned smoothly as it went down, but she winced. Luca laughed at her facial expression, twisting his bar stool to face her.

"Can't handle it?" he mocked, sipping at his glass of whiskey; Cee stuck her tongue out childishly, nodding to the bartender for another. Wordlessly, the woman slid her another couple of shots, a glint in her eye; the staff seemed to be enjoying watching their boss's deputy getting wasted.

"Fieros don't run away from a challenge," she retorted, taking the shot like it was water.

"You just run away from Niccolò," Luca teased, making Cee tip her head back and groan.

"I don't run away," she protested, giggling slightly. "I just stay away."

The woman manning the bar handed Cee another drink: this one was deep red. "For the Fiero," the woman nodded respectfully, averting her eyes. Cee shrugged, taking a sip; she didn't care to find out how the staff knew her, or why they seemed to respect her so much.

It tasted delicious; sweet and fruity - just how she liked it.

"You're scared of him," Luca mumbled into his whiskey, his eyes scanning the surrounding area out of habit; the lights were low, and the majority of the tables were filled with men in suit jackets, the occasional glow of a cigarette lighting their faces.

Cee turned, looking around the bar herself. The smoke made her vision hazy; the room was glowing, the air heavy and hot. Low lighting gave a sultry feel to the atmosphere; the bar was packed, with the crowd of people heating up. Some people were dancing, moving so smoothly, twisting to the sound of the bass that reverberated through the air.

"Hell yeah, I'm scared of him," she announced suddenly, surprising even herself. "He could snap me in half with his bare hands." Luca was laughing, gasping for air as his shoulders shook; Cee glared at him. "You'd be scared if you were living with a murderer."

"I am a murderer," Luca reminded her, swallowing down his whiskey; Cee shrugged uncomfortably, her earlier fears springing to mind. Luca, along with his cousin, had planned to kill her - he'd killed before.

"Yeah," she muttered, running a finger around the edge of her cocktail glass, licking the red sugar off. "But you don't give the orders."

"Yes," Luca objected, "I do." For a second, he smiled knowingly at her. "You're looking for excuses, and trying to ignore the fact that I'm just as bad as Niccolò." Cee flushed, ignoring his smug look.

"You're nothing like Niccolò," she protested, swivelling her chair around and leaning against the bar, gesturing wildly with one hand and nearly falling to the floor. "Niccolò's all badass and cold and looks like he'd kill you for sneezing at the wrong moment." She tipped her head back, staring up at the ceiling. "He's scary."

Luca didn't even bother responding: just gave her an amused look. Nothing she was saying was fooling him - she didn't believe herself either. He was scary - but only when he was in a bad mood; he was cold, but only when he was discussing business.

If Niccolò hadn't planned to kill her, she would've wanted to know what it was like to kiss him.

"Whatever," she mumbled, rolling her eyes and reaching for her drink - before realising she'd finished it. "Tell me about you and Flo." The Romano blushed lightly, pulling out a cigarette and offering one to her; she refused, pulling a disgusted face.

"Suit yourself." He held a lighter to the tip of the cigarette, breathing in the smoke to play for time; Cee tapped her fingers impatiently. "There's not really much to tell."

"Well, does she like you back?" Cee asked, almost clapping her hands together with excitement.

"I don't know." Luca shrugged at her questioning look, avoiding her gaze. "I haven't told her."

Cee let out a string of expletives in Italian. "What do you mean you haven't told her?" He looked helplessly up at the ceiling, sighing out his frustration.

"I mean that the D'Angelos took her before I had a chance to tell her how I feel." Cee looked at him with pity, her thoughts spinning; she had an opportunity to find out more information.

"Was it definitely the D'Angelos?" she murmured, touching his shoulder lightly, to let him know she was there for him. "You have proof?" Luca gritted his teeth.

"You're beginning to sound like Niccolò," he told her, staring down at the floor. "No, I have no proof - but who else could it be?"

"The same person that broke Anton out could have taken her at the same time," Cee pressed on, her heart racing. Niccolò didn't want her to know these things - but she needed to know, to protect Angela and Flo. "Who was Anton working for?"

"We don't know," Luca sighed, frowning; he looked up at her sideways, considering her. "How do you know about Anton?"

"Niccolò told me," Cee explained, avoiding the part where she'd actually overheard part of Luca's conversation with Flo, before she ran away. "He was a spy, right?"

"Flo worked it out," Luca replied, lost in thought. "There was an explosion - a while back - a car bomb that blew up a team of men, including Anton, Stefano, Dean: all your boys back in the medical wing."

"How does that make Anton a spy?"

"He's not part of their team," Luca explained, his eyes meeting Cee's as he rested his forearms on the bar. "My theory is that he went back to get his brother Stefano out of harm's way."

"How did he plant the bomb?" Cee asked curiously, trying not to reveal the desperation behind her questioning.

"He was part of the maintenance team." Luca didn't seem suspicious; she kept going.

"So whoever employed him still wants Niccolò dead, right?"

"Well-"

"But the D'Angelos only had it out for Niccolò after-" Cee stopped abruptly, shivers running down her spine. Since Giovanni D'Angelo had reached under her dress. Since Niccolò tortured him for daring to lay a hand on her.

"Niccolò started a feud between families over you," Luca observed casually, sipping his whiskey. "I think he's fond of you."

Cee blinked, turning away from Luca to order another drink. Niccolò had also ordered her to be taken care of before he returned from Italy; she couldn't trust Luca's judgement. She couldn't help the slight throbbing she felt in her chest - she wanted to see Niccolò, now.

"The D'Angelos weren't responsible for the first explosion then." Cee's mind was whirling; she missed him. She missed Niccolò.

"Or the ambush," Luca agreed thoughtfully, thinking back to the night when Cee had stepped in as a nurse, the night Niccolò had been shot. "That was before Niccolò started a war with them."

"So the D'Angelos don't have Flo." Cee watched as Luca's jaw tensed, stress lines appearing on his forehead.

"You don't know that," he objected, slamming his glass down; Cee flinched, backtracking immediately. The last thing she needed was an angry Romano. "I just need her back and it's the only lead I've got."

"I know," Cee mumbled, catching the bartender's eye and nodding to Luca's empty glass. "We'll get her back." The bartender slid another glass of whiskey over, the ice cubes clinking gently as Luca tossed it back, swallowing grimly.

"Why the sudden interest?" he asked absentmindedly, running a hand through his hair; Cee stared, without meaning to. In that moment, he'd looked just like Niccolò. She blinked, looking away.

"Just worried about Flo," she replied dismissively, looking around the bar again. "Niccolò doesn't tell me anything about any news in the family, so I'm left in the dark." Cee saw several people looking at her curiously; maybe they recognised her, and maybe they didn't, but she didn't care. Let them stare.

"Trusting people doesn't come naturally to him," Luca explained gently, making her flinch. He shouldn't trust her; she was going to steal his files, betray him. And he would kill her if he knew.

"Come on," she said suddenly, standing up to avoid showing Luca the guilty expression on her face. "Let's dance."

---

Niccolò slammed the car door, resting his hands against the cool metal of the roof and bracing his shoulders, closing his eyes. He tried to fight against the emotions inside him; the anger, the worry, bubbling up and threatening to choke him, to explode out of him and obliterate everything in his path.

"You good, boss?" Elias's voice made him unclench his hands from the side of the car and stand up straight, rolling his shoulders to reduce the painful tension.

"No," Niccolò replied tersely, focusing his gaze on the entrance to one of his hotels: the one where Camilla was staying. He just wanted to see her again, to check she was still there, to check she was safe; it was 4am - she wouldn't be awake.

Abruptly, he turned to face Elias, who was watching him, a calm look on his face; Elias was the only one who didn't really fear him when he was angry - Elias didn't fear anyone.

"I don't want you to leave Camilla until this situation with the D'Angelos and the missing girl has been resolved." Although not a single muscle in Elias's expression twitched, Niccolò could see the impatience flash in his eyes, the desire to go out and kill in cold-blood: to do what he was best at. "She is your priority."

"She already has a security team," Elias replied, tucking his hands in his pockets as if they were simply discussing the weather.

"You're now part of that team," Niccolò ordered sharply, turning on his heel to avoid any more complaints from Elias; he just needed to see her.

Elias watched his boss walk away, his shoulders tense; their investigation had been a disaster. Not only was the security footage gone - totally wiped - from the night of Anton's breakout, someone had tried to get into Niccolò's files. Luckily, the Romano Don knew better than to keep his information lying around, even in locked cabinets, behind locked doors, in the most secure office in the house - but Anton had somehow managed to get inside the office and leave Niccolò a message.

Outwardly, Elias looked calm; inwardly, his mind was consumed with the images of Camilla. There were pictures of her sleeping, her face peaceful; polaroid photos of her changing her clothes, taken through the window; pictures of her kneeling at the grave of her sister, invading her privacy. The worst ones, the worst by far, were the pictures of her recently: standing in the rain, before Elias had found her, a close shot of her lying in bed inside the hotel, zoomed in on her arms folded against her chest.

The photos were a message to Romano: she is not safe.

They'd been left strewn across the floor, bloody fingerprints on each of them; undisturbed since the night Anton had escaped. The spy had friends on the inside.

The prints hadn't matched Anton's; they'd matched the missing girl's prints. Flo had either been working with Anton or had been abducted by him; Elias doubted that the girl would be stupid enough to leave her fingerprints in her own blood on the photos. It was another message.

I can take your people, it meant, I can hurt anyone I like.

The Romano Don entered his hotel, heading straight for the lift; the few people left in the lobby melted away respectfully, watching him cautiously as he glared straight ahead, his menacing presence forcing the manager at the desk to hold her breath.

As the doors slid smoothly shut, hiding him from sight, the manager glanced warily at the steps leading down to the bar; as far as she was aware, her boss's girl was still having the time of her life downstairs.

Sure enough, not three minutes later, the phone rang at her desk; she picked up promptly, her ribs tight.

"Where is she?" the boss demanded, his voice filled with barely contained rage. "Did she leave this hotel?"

"No, sir," she replied, trying to stop her voice from wavering. "Miss Fiero and Mr Romano are still downstairs, sir." The manager swallowed as the boss hung up, hating the prickly feeling of sweat rolling down her back; she needed this job.

When the elevator doors opened once again, the furious Romano Don looked like a malevolent demon, ready to raise hell and burn cities to the ground. She kept her eyes focused on her desk, not daring to look up as the boss strode past her, heading downstairs and out of sight.

Niccolò searched the hazy room, his jaw clenched, his anger spilling out; a slight hush fell upon the tables nearest the entrance. Dark figures eyed him nervously as he advanced purposefully through the crowds - he was in the mood to kill.

The hum of conversation began to die away, several hands briefly touched their waistbands, reaching for a weapon, just in case. His gaze swept the room, focusing on a flash of red nearest the bar: Camilla.

She was dancing, her hips swaying to the music, eyes closed as she lost herself in the rhythm: she looked almost happy. He could've watched her for hours. Niccolò didn't need to force his way through the crowd; people shrank away from him. Earlier anger almost forgotten, Niccolò reached a cautious-looking Luca, watching him guardedly.

Unexpectedly, Niccolò simply nodded to him, taking a seat at the bar to watch her. There were times for punishment, order and control; Luca hadn't disobeyed orders, and he'd made Camilla smile.

His cousin knew better than to ask what had happened back at the Romano House - Niccolò's anger was suffocating - but that didn't stop Luca from trying to gauge his reaction, trying to read him.

"Go to bed," Niccolò ordered finally, meeting Luca's eye. "It can wait." Reluctantly, Luca nodded, rising from his bar stool; there was nothing he could do for now.

"Help her to bed," Luca murmured, watching Cee fondly. "She's had a bit too much." Niccolò raised an eyebrow, staying impassive as his cousin left, working his way through the sparse crowd of people; he turned his attention back to the Fiero girl, standing up and approaching her.

Cee felt someone behind her before she felt a large hand rest on her waist; before she could even think, she was blurting something out.

"Non toccarmi, bastardo!" She spun around, intending to slap the creep that had dared to put his hands on her, but she somehow managed to trip over her own feet, careering into the stranger. Luckily, the tall, broad man steadied her, pulling her tight against his chest; Cee pushed against him weakly, before she began to recognise the familiar scent of pine.

"Camilla," Niccolò murmured, his irritation dying quickly. "Calm down."

"Niccolò?" He felt her loop her arms around his neck, tugging him down to her level; he held her close. "You're back!" She pulled away from him suddenly, pouting at him with her beautiful, fiery-red lips. "I missed you."

"You're drunk, tesora." Niccolò couldn't resist dragging her back, keeping his hands tightly on her waist.

"Are you going to kiss me?" Niccolò's pulse quickened; his lips twitched in amusement.

"Excuse me?"

"Are you going to kiss me?" Camilla repeated, instinctively placing her palms against his chest. Niccolò was tempted, just for a second, his gaze darkening.

"Do you want me to?" he asked, letting her intertwine her fingers through his.

"I was only asking because last time we were this close I thought you were going to kiss me and then you didn't," she mumbled, blinking slowly; Niccolò watched her, ready to catch her if she passed out.

"Our first kiss won't be while you're drunk," he told her, letting her play with the watch around his wrist; she was so childish when she was tipsy.

"Not drunk," she protested, resting her head against his chest. "I just missed you a- Niccolò!" He'd taken the brief opportunity to sweep her off of her feet: literally. Her hands curled into fists in his shirt, clinging onto him for dear life. "Niccolò, you put me down right now!"

"Time to go upstairs, bambolina."