Elena Moretti froze mid-step, her breath caught halfway between her lungs and her throat. The sound echoed off the brick walls of the narrow alley, sharp and final, followed immediately by the heavy scent of gun smoke curling through the air.
Someone hit the ground beside her.
Hard.
Elena didn't scream. The instinct rose in her chest, clawed at her ribs, but it never found its way out. Her body refused to move, locked in place as if the city itself had decided she would bear witness.
Blood spread across the pavement, dark and glistening under the flickering streetlight. It pooled near her shoes, warm enough that she felt it through the thin soles.
Her fingers trembled.
Slowly—far too slowly—she lifted her gaze.
The man holding the gun hadn't lowered it yet.
He stood a few feet away, tall and immovable, dressed in a black coat that blended seamlessly with the shadows. His posture was relaxed, almost bored, as though he hadn't just ended a life with a single pull of his finger.
His eyes found hers.
Dark. Cold. Assessing.
Luca De Santis.
Elena didn't know his name then, but she would learn it soon enough. It would be carved into her future, etched into every breath she took from this moment forward.
He studied her the way one examined a loaded weapon—carefully, calculating whether it would misfire.
"She wasn't supposed to be here," one of the other men muttered behind him.
Luca didn't look away from her. "No," he agreed quietly. "She wasn't."
Elena swallowed. Her throat burned. Every instinct told her to run, to turn and bolt back the way she had come, but her legs refused to listen. Fear had rooted her to the ground, heavy and merciless.
"I—" Her voice broke. She tried again. "I didn't see anything."
It was a lie. A weak one.
Luca tilted his head slightly, the faintest movement, but it felt like the barrel of the gun had shifted directly toward her heart.
"That's unfortunate," he said, his voice low and even. "Because you saw everything."
Her chest tightened. The alley felt smaller, the walls pressing in, the darkness swallowing the edges of her vision. She could hear her pulse roaring in her ears, louder than the city beyond the alley, louder than the men standing behind him.
She wasn't supposed to be here.
Elena had taken the wrong shortcut home. That was all. One small decision—five minutes saved—and now she stood ankle-deep in blood, staring at the man responsible for it.
"Please," she whispered before she could stop herself.
The word hung between them, fragile and useless.
Luca's gaze flicked over her face, her posture, the way her hands curled inward as if she were trying to make herself smaller. There was no panic in his expression, no rush. If anything, he seemed… thoughtful.
"She's not armed," another voice said. "Just a girl."
Luca finally lowered the gun—but only a fraction. His finger remained close to the trigger.
"A girl," he repeated, as if tasting the words.
Elena held his stare, her fear burning behind her eyes. She refused to look away. If this was the moment she died, she would not beg again.
Something shifted.
It was subtle, almost invisible, but Luca noticed it. The way she straightened her shoulders. The way her jaw tightened despite the terror etched across her face.
Interesting.
"Name," he said.
The command was sharp.
"Elena," she answered. "Elena Moretti."
The name landed harder than expected.
For the first time, Luca's expression changed—not much, just a tightening around the eyes, a pause that lasted half a second too long.
Moretti.
The men behind him exchanged glances.
Elena caught it. The hesitation. The silent recognition.
Her stomach dropped.
"Moretti," Luca repeated quietly. "Any relation to Carlo Moretti?"
Her blood turned to ice.
"Yes," she said, the word barely audible. "He was my father."
Silence swallowed the alley.
Luca stared at her now, truly stared, as if he were seeing her for the first time. Memories stirred—names, files, orders carried out years ago without question.
Dead men didn't usually leave daughters behind.
"That's not possible," someone muttered.
Luca didn't respond. His grip on the gun tightened again.
Elena's heart hammered. She didn't know what her father had done—only that his death had been ruled an accident, a robbery gone wrong. She had learned long ago that asking questions led nowhere.
Now, standing in front of Luca De Santis, she realized how much of her life had been built on lies.
"Seems tonight keeps getting inconvenient," Luca said finally.
He took a step closer.
Elena flinched despite herself.
He stopped just in front of her, close enough that she could see the faint scar near his jaw, the controlled rise and fall of his chest. He smelled faintly of smoke and something sharper—metal, perhaps, or danger itself.
"You have two options," he said calmly. "Neither of them includes walking away."
Her breath shuddered. "What are they?"
"Option one," he said, lifting the gun slightly, "is quick."
Her fingers curled into fists.
"And option two?"
His eyes darkened, something unreadable passing through them.
"Option two," Luca said, "is that you come with me."
Her pulse spiked. "Why?"
"Because," he replied, voice steady, "you don't belong to the streets anymore."
She shook her head. "I won't—"
"You will," he interrupted softly. Not raised. Not angry. Certain.
He straightened and glanced over his shoulder. "Take her."
Two men moved forward immediately.
Elena stumbled back a step. "No—wait—please—"
Luca met her eyes one last time.
"This is the last kindness you'll receive from me," he said. "Don't waste it."
Hands closed around her arms.
As they pulled her away from the body, from the blood, from the life she had known, Elena realized something with terrifying clarity.
She hadn't survived the night.
She had been claimed by it.
And somewhere above them, gun smoke lingered in the air—silent witness to the vows that had just been written in blood.