Savia regarded the pistol in Renzo’s hand. The dull, dark metal seemed to absorb the low light of the safe room, a predator’s tool. Then her gaze drifted to Nereza, sprawled unconscious beside a broken marble planter, a faint bruise blooming on her temple. Nereza, who had tried to kill her, tried to kill Renzo, and had threatened her mother. The logical conclusion, the expected Morata conclusion, was clear. Execute. Finalize. Savia’s past self, the strategist, would have done it without a flicker of hesitation. But Savia Rovis, the electronics restorer who craved only soft blankets and the hum of a functioning circuit, felt a familiar, profound apathy settle over her. It wasn't the crippling exhaustion of before, but a deliberate, almost serene detachment. She didn't want this mess on her conscience, not anymore. She didn’t want to be *that* Savia. “No,” she said, her voice softer than the shattered silence of the room, yet resonating with an unshakeable finality. She didn’t even glance at Renzo. Her hand, instead of reaching for the offered firearm, moved to her own portable computer, which still rested on her lap. Its familiar weight was a comfort. Renzo’s dark eyes, which had held the promise of her darkest desires, narrowed almost imperceptibly. He didn’t press. He merely watched, a predatory statue, as Savia’s thumbs danced across the keyboard. The small digital device glowed in the dimness, reflecting off her placid face. She accessed the encrypted data she'd stolen from Nereza's phone during the docks confrontation, cross-referencing it with the original files her past self had planted. A few lines of code, a swift redirect, and the evidence was repackaged. The carefully constructed narrative of Nereza’s sole, greedy ambition, her betrayal of the Calvetti syndicate, was now undeniable. “The Veridio faction,” Savia murmured, her gaze distant, fixed on some internal landscape. “They’ll be interested in this. Especially after she just attacked their primary shipping lanes.” She pressed a key with a decisive click. The data packet, containing irrefutable proof of Nereza Calvetti’s 'treason' and the true destination of the vanished funds, was now routed to the secure comms of the Calvetti high council, complete with timestamps and authenticated digital signatures. The underworld didn't need her. It could devour its own. A low groan from the floor indicated Nereza was stirring. Her eyes fluttered open, blinking against the room's muted light. Her gaze fixed on Savia, then Renzo, then Tullio, still holding the frying pan like a confused guardian. A flicker of triumph, quickly replaced by dawning horror, crossed her features as she remembered her defeat. Just then, the heavy, reinforced door to the safe room, which Renzo had kicked in, rattled again. The sounds of a small, contained skirmish echoed from the corridor outside, quickly subdued. Then, a voice, guttural and laced with contempt, sliced through the air. “Princess Nereza! Your father demands your presence.” Two hulking figures, clad in the unmistakable black and silver livery of the Calvetti cartel’s internal enforcement, stepped into the room. Their faces were grim, their movements precise. They bypassed Renzo and Tullio entirely, their focus solely on the dazed Nereza. One of them, a man with a brutal scar across his jaw, grabbed her arm with a vise-like grip, yanking her upright. “What are you doing?” Nereza shrieked, her voice cracking with indignation. “Let go of me! This is a Morata trap!” She twisted, trying to fight, but the enforcers were unflinching. The second man produced a handheld device, displaying a data scroll. His eyes were cold as he read it, then looked at Nereza with disgust. “Your father received a rather… comprehensive report, Princess. From an anonymous source. About the ‘missing’ millions from the shipping consortia. And the attack on the Morata estate. It seems you’ve been quite busy.” His tone was devoid of any respect, any deference. It was the voice of a judge delivering a death sentence. “The council has deemed your actions a direct assault on family interests. You will answer for it.” Nereza’s face paled. “No! It wasn’t me! It was her! Savia! She framed me!” She pointed a trembling finger at Savia, who merely watched, her face a mask of serene indifference. “Renzo, stop them! They’ll kill me!” Renzo Morata stood perfectly still, his expression unreadable. He did not move to intervene. He did not even flinch. He simply observed Nereza’s desperate pleas with the detached interest of a scientist studying a doomed specimen. Tullio, still clutching his frying pan, looked vaguely disappointed the fighting was over, but otherwise remained impassive. “You are no longer Morata concern, Princess,” Renzo rumbled, his voice low and utterly dismissive. “Your bloodline has come to collect its garbage.” The Calvetti enforcers dragged Nereza out, her screams echoing down the corridor, fading into the deep silence of the fortress. The thud of the door closing behind them was the final punctuation mark on a long, bloody chapter. Silence descended, heavy and complete. Tullio cleared his throat, looking from the empty doorway to Savia. “Boss, should I… secure the perimeter? Or make more grilled cheese?” Renzo turned toward Savia, the intensity in his eyes softening into something profound. He slowly walked over to her, retrieving the discarded pistol and tucking it back into his waistband. He then reached out, gently taking her hand, his thumb tracing the delicate bones of her wrist. His touch was a stark contrast to his earlier ferocity. “You are a masterpiece, my dear,” he said, his voice a rough whisper. “A devastating, beautiful masterpiece.” He pulled her to her feet, his other arm encircling her waist. His head lowered, and he found her mouth in a kiss that was both bruising and tender, a desperate claiming. It tasted of smoke and the faint metallic tang of his earlier battles, flavored by an enduring hunger anchored at last. Her fingers, which had orchestrated so much chaos, now rested against the rough fabric of his suit jacket, a quiet comfort. When they separated, breathless, Renzo's eyes still blazed, but the fire was no longer destructive; it was protective, possessive. “No more running,” he murmured, his forehead resting against hers. “No more hiding.” Savia merely sighed, a soft, contented sound. For the first time, the word ‘safe’ felt like a tangible reality, not a distant dream. Days later, the Morata Citadel hummed with an unfamiliar, almost peaceful rhythm. Tullio, beaming with pride, strutted through the main hall, a gleaming brass badge pinned to his chest: *Head of Security, Morata Consortia*. He was currently directing a squad of grim-faced guards on the optimal placement of a new, highly decorative, albeit entirely superfluous, fountain. Savia, however, was nowhere to be found. She was simply, truly, blissfully sleeping in. Curled against Renzo Morata’s broad chest, the soft duvet a cocoon around them, the morning light painting stripes across the luxurious bedroom. Her portable computer lay closed on the bedside table, its black shell mirroring the quiet darkness of her dreams. The man beside her, the city’s most dangerous, shifted, an arm tightening possessively around her, drawing her closer. And for the first time in her life, Savia Rovis simply let herself be held, her mind utterly, profoundly at peace.

Sleeping In