.The rain fell softly over Florence, turning the cobblestone streets into mirrors of golden streetlights and blurred shadows. The air smelled like espresso, old books, and secrets.
Isabella Moretti had always loved the rain.
It made the world quieter.
Safer.
She pulled her coat tighter around her slim frame as she hurried past the glowing windows of small cafés. Her auburn hair clung slightly to her cheeks, and her sketchbook was pressed firmly against her chest as if it were the most precious thing she owned.
In truth, it was.
Art was the only thing that made sense in her life.
Love did not.
Trust did not.
Men certainly did not.
At twenty-two, Isabella had learned the dangerous beauty of falling for the wrong person. And she had sworn—never again.
That night, she wasn't supposed to be out so late. But inspiration had struck her while sketching the view of the Florence Cathedral earlier that evening. The cathedral dome had looked like something out of heaven, glowing beneath the dark sky. She had wanted to capture it perfectly.
She didn't know someone had been watching her.
He stood beneath the narrow balcony of an old Renaissance building, dressed entirely in black. Black coat. Black shoes. Black gloves.
And eyes the color of winter.
Alessandro De Luca.
At twenty-eight, he was known in Florence for two things: wealth and silence.
The De Luca family owned luxury hotels across Europe. They were powerful, private, and untouchable. And Alessandro? He was the coldest of them all.
At least, that's what people said.
But as he watched Isabella nearly slip on the wet stones, he moved before thinking.
She gasped as her ankle twisted.
Strong hands caught her.
Firm.
Steady.
Warm despite the gloves.
For a second, the world stopped.
Her sketchbook fell, pages fluttering open across the wet ground.
"I—" she began, but her words died in her throat.
He was too close.
Too intense.
His jaw was sharp, his dark hair slightly damp from rain. But it was his eyes that made her breath hitch. They weren't just cold.
They were tired.
"You should be more careful," he said, voice low, controlled. His Italian accent wrapped around the words like silk.
She swallowed. "You should let go of me."
A flicker of something passed through his gaze.
Amusement?
Challenge?
But he released her immediately.
Isabella stepped back, ignoring the strange heat spreading in her chest. She crouched to pick up her sketches, embarrassed to find him helping her.
He stopped when he saw the drawing of the cathedral.
"You drew this?" he asked.
She nodded cautiously.
He studied it longer than necessary.
"It's imperfect," he said.
Her spine stiffened. "Excuse me?"
"The dome," he continued calmly. "You captured the structure beautifully. But not the loneliness."
She blinked.
Loneliness?
"It isn't lonely," she argued.
"It is," he replied quietly. "You just haven't seen it the way I have."
Something about his tone unsettled her. It wasn't arrogance.
It was experience.
"Who are you?" she asked before she could stop herself.
His jaw tightened slightly.
"Just someone passing through."
That was a lie.
She could feel it.
From the way people walking past subtly glanced at him. From the expensive watch hidden beneath his sleeve. From the car waiting across the street—a sleek black Maserati.
He wasn't "passing through."
He belonged to a different world.
One she had promised herself never to enter again.
"Thank you for helping me," she said quickly, gathering her things. "But I can manage from here."
She turned before he could answer.
But his voice followed her.
"Isabella."
She froze.
Slowly, she looked back.
She had never told him her name.
Her heartbeat quickened.
"How do you know that?" she whispered.
A pause.
Then, "Florence is smaller than you think."
That wasn't an answer.
But before she could demand one, his driver opened the car door. Alessandro stepped back into the shadows as if he had never been there.
And just like that, he was gone.
Leaving Isabella standing alone in the rain.
Confused.
Unsettled.
And strangely aware that something had just begun.
Something she might not be able to stop.
Across the city, inside the De Luca estate overlooking the Arno River, Alessandro removed his gloves slowly.
On his desk lay a photograph.
Isabella.
Smiling.
Unaware.
He had not planned to meet her tonight.
But fate, it seemed, had other ideas.
And Alessandro De Luca was not a man who believed in coincidences.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes darkening.
"This will be more complicated than I thought," he murmured.
Because Isabella Moretti was not just any girl sketching cathedrals in the rain.
She was connected to a past his family had buried years ago.
A past stained with betrayal.
And if she ever discovered the truth about why he knew her name…
She would never look at him the same way again.