WHISPERING OF THE PAST

The rain hadn't stopped all night.

By the time Rose stepped into Il Serpente's private lounge, her coat was soaked through, hair dripping, and heart hammering like a war drum. The waiter tried to offer her a towel. She waved him off. Her eyes were already locked on the man at the far end of the room — seated alone in a velvet armchair, a half-empty glass of deep red in his hand.

Silvio Mysterio.

He looked up the moment she entered.

The firelight caught the edges of his face — jaw sharpened by shadow, eyes unreadable as ink. He didn't rise to greet her. He never did.

"I didn't invite you," he said quietly.

"Then throw me out," she replied, stepping closer, wet boots echoing softly on the polished floor. "Go ahead. Or are you too curious to see what I'll do next?"

A corner of his mouth lifted — not a smile, not really. Something colder.

"I see you've stopped pretending to be innocent."

"I never was," she snapped. "You of all people should know that."

Silvio studied her. The way her coat clung to her body. The defiant lift of her chin. Her lips were pale from the cold, but her eyes were alive — too alive.

"You're shivering," he said.

"I'm furious," she corrected.

He nodded toward the fire. "Warm yourself."

She didn't move.

"Why did you let Whitlock live?" she asked, voice hard. "Why let him vanish into the trees while my parents died screaming?"

Silvio exhaled through his nose. "Because Whitlock was never the threat. He was the echo. Your mother—"

"Don't speak about her like you knew her."

"I did," he said simply.

And there it was.

A silence so thick it choked the air.

Rose blinked, as if the room itself had suddenly tilted. "What did you say?"

Silvio finally stood. He moved like water — quiet, controlled, dangerous. "I knew your mother. Before the fire. Before the betrayal."

"Isobel Carter was married," Rose said, voice low. "She had a family."

"She had secrets," Silvio replied. "One of them… was me."

Rose stared at him, something tightening inside her chest, pulling ribs toward spine.

"You were lovers?"

Silvio didn't answer.

He didn't have to.

The silence between them said enough.

"She worked with you," Rose whispered. "And then she turned against you. That's why she died."

"She turned against them," he said carefully. "I only stepped aside."

"Is that what you tell yourself at night?"

"I didn't order the car bomb, Rose."

"No," she said bitterly. "You just let it happen."

The fire cracked behind her. She stood so close now that Silvio could smell the rain on her skin, the faint trace of gardenia — the same perfume Isobel used to wear. It knocked the breath out of him.

"You were supposed to protect her," Rose whispered. "If you loved her—"

"I did love her," Silvio said — the words tearing from somewhere low and private.

The truth spilled like old blood.

"And when she died," he continued, "I thought everything she touched was gone. But then I saw you. That night. In the garden. Hiding behind the olive tree. And I knew."

"Knew what?"

"That the story wasn't finished."

Rose stepped closer. "And you've been watching me ever since?"

"Yes."

"You manipulated me."

"I guided you."

"You sent people after me."

"I kept them from killing you."

Her hands balled into fists. "You ruined my life."

"No," he said, voice like a blade. "They ruined your life. I've simply been trying to see what kind of creature they created when they took everything from you."

She trembled — not from fear.

From something much more dangerous.

She hated him.

She needed him.

And he felt the same.

Silvio took a slow step forward, his eyes locked on hers.

"You're becoming exactly what your mother feared — and exactly what I knew you could be."

"A weapon?" she breathed.

"A wildfire."

Their faces were inches apart now. His hand lifted — stopped just before touching her cheek. He didn't dare. She was already too close. Her mouth slightly parted. Her pulse visible at her throat.

He could kiss her.

He wanted to.

God, he wanted to.

But if he did, it would change everything.

She would burn him.

And she didn't even know it.

"You're playing a dangerous game," she whispered.

"So are you."

"If you touch me—"

"I won't stop."

Silence.

Then Rose stepped back — one pace. Enough to break the tension but not the charge between them.

"Give me the rest of the names," she said. "All of them. Every bastard who helped kill my family."

Silvio looked down at his drink. Swirled it once.

Then: "I will. But not tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because if I give you everything now," he said, eyes lifting to hers, "you'll run into the fire with no plan. And you're not ready."

"I'm not your protégée, Silvio."

"No," he said softly. "You're something far more dangerous."

She stared at him one last time, jaw clenched, hands shaking, and then turned sharply for the door.

"Rose," he said behind her.

She paused, not looking back.

"Be careful," he said. "Someone will make their move soon."

She left without answering.

But Silvio stood there long after the door closed, the scent of her still in the air.

And when he closed his eyes, he saw fire.

Not from the past.

From what was coming.

And this time, it wouldn't be her mother who burned.