The city was louder at night.
Neon lights painted the rain-slick streets of Brooklyn in shades of crimson and gold, and the wind carried the scent of smoke, liquor, and something more dangerous — money and blood.
Elena Rossi adjusted the strap of her messenger bag and walked faster. The gallery had closed hours ago, but she had stayed behind to finish sorting sketches for the upcoming exhibit. She shouldn't have taken the shortcut through the alley, but the hum of the night had always thrilled her — that quiet rebellion against safety.
Then she heard it.
A sound that didn't belong.
A sharp crack — muffled, but unmistakable. A gunshot.
She froze. Her heart stumbled.
Another shot. Then a man's voice, low, commanding, and cold as marble.
"Eliminate him. I don't want to see a trace left behind."
Elena's breath caught. She pressed herself against the wall, the rain dripping down her cheeks like tears. She peeked past a dumpster — and saw them.
Three men in tailored black suits. One on his knees, blood on his shirt. And the one standing over him — calm, tall, devastatingly composed. The kind of presence that silenced chaos.
The Don.
Lorenzo Moretti.
She had seen his face before — on the news, whispered in the gallery's backroom when wealthy clients with dangerous smiles came to visit. The rumors said he owned half the city and feared no one.
Now she understood why.
He spoke again, quiet but final. "You made your choice."
One more gunshot. The man on his knees fell.
Elena's scream stayed trapped in her throat.
The world tilted — her breath ragged, her hands trembling — and then, somehow, impossibly, his head turned.
Lorenzo's eyes found hers in the shadows.
Dark. Steel-gray.
Unblinking.
He didn't move. He didn't need to. His gaze pinned her there like prey caught in the sight of a predator.
"Bring her," he said softly.
Elena ran.
The rain blurred her vision, the echo of footsteps behind her growing louder. Every turn felt endless. She reached the end of the alley, heart in her throat — and slammed right into him.
Lorenzo caught her easily, one hand gripping her arm, the other closing around her waist to steady her. His scent was smoke and danger. His voice brushed her ear like silk.
"You shouldn't have seen that."
Her voice shook. "Please, I—I didn't—"
His thumb brushed a raindrop from her cheek. "You shouldn't lie to me, either."
The men behind him waited for orders. He didn't speak for a long moment — just looked at her, eyes tracing her face like he was memorizing it.
Then, almost gently, he said, "Take her to the car."
Elena tried to fight, but his grip tightened — not cruel, but unyielding. The world around her blurred, but she couldn't look away from him.
The last thing she saw before the door closed was Lorenzo Moretti's shadow framed by the city lights — beautiful, lethal, and unreadable.
And somewhere deep inside, past the fear and panic, a strange truth settled in her chest.
This man wasn't going to kill her.
He was going to keep her.