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Chapter 2: The King's Eyes
Elio's POV
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I didn't sleep.
I lay awake in my too-small bed, the sheets tangled around my legs like restraints, and the memory of his eyes burned into the back of my skull.
Luca Moretti.
It wasn't just that he came to my gallery. It wasn't just that he saw the painting. It was how he said my name. Like he still owned it.
He'd looked at me like a man appraising property he once lost and intended to steal back.
My fingers shook as I sipped cold coffee from a chipped mug. The apartment was still as quiet as death, the cracked window letting in a breeze sharp enough to bite.
He shouldn't have recognized me. Ten years was a long time. I'd grown taller, thinner, more tired. But Luca? Luca had grown into something deadly.
The boy I once knew would have hugged me. He'd have asked where I'd gone, why I'd left. This man didn't ask. He simply watched, like he already knew the answers.
A knock shattered the silence.
I froze.
No one ever knocked. Not this early. Not here.
I rose, each step across the warped floor slow and cautious. I peeked through the small window.
A man in a dark coat stood outside. Not Luca—but I didn't need to see the tailored suit or the earpiece to know who sent him.
He turned his head and met my eyes, expression blank.
I didn't open the door.
I didn't have to. He slid something under it and walked away.
An envelope.
I stared at it for a long time before I picked it up.
Heavy.
Inside: a single card, thick as luxury, black with silver foil lettering.
> Ristorante Aurelio. 9:00 PM. Don't be late.
—L.M.
My fingers clenched. I should've thrown it in the trash.
Instead, I stared at it for hours.
---
Ristorante Aurelio was the kind of place that didn't list prices on the menu. The kind of place where waiters wore gloves and spoke in hushed tones, and the walls were covered in velvet so no sound escaped.
I didn't own anything expensive. So I wore black—my one decent shirt, the same slacks from the gallery night. I tried to tame my hair and failed. I didn't even know why I was going.
Curiosity?
Fear?
Hope?
I told myself it was closure.
But I knew that was a lie.
He was waiting for me at the far end of the restaurant, in a private booth beneath a chandelier that looked like it belonged in a royal palace. A bottle of wine sat untouched between two crystal glasses.
Luca stood when I approached, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.
He looked like sin dressed in Armani. Every detail deliberate. The open collar, the watch on his wrist, the way he didn't smile.
"Elio," he said, like tasting the name again.
I sat stiffly across from him. "You could've just called me."
"I don't like phones." He poured the wine. "They don't show expression."
"Is this dinner?" I asked.
"No," he replied, eyes fixed on mine. "This is a beginning."
A beat passed. "Of what?"
He tilted his head. "You came back to Milan."
"I did."
"You didn't call me."
"You changed."
"You disappeared."
We stared at each other, silence a third presence at the table.
He finally said, "Do you know who I am now?"
I hesitated. "They call you Il Re di Milano. The King of Milan."
His lips curved. "And you—my little mouse—walked right into my kingdom."
The nickname hit me harder than I expected. He used to call me that. Topolino. His little mouse. The boy he protected, teased, touched once—barely—and then never again.
My voice was steadier than I felt. "I'm not a kid anymore."
He reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine. "I can see that."
I pulled my hand away.
He didn't react.
The waiter brought food I didn't remember ordering—steak, vegetables arranged like art. I barely touched it. Luca didn't eat at all.
"You painted me," he said after a while.
I stiffened.
He leaned forward, voice lower. "You painted my face from memory. Why?"
I swallowed. "Because you haunted me."
A beat passed.
"I could haunt you again," he said quietly.
My chest tightened. "Why now? Why me?"
His eyes darkened. "Because I don't like loose ends. And because I've spent the last ten years wondering what happened to the boy I would've killed for."
He said it like a fact, not a threat.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping. "This was a mistake."
"Elio."
I paused.
"I'm not letting you disappear again."
I turned to face him. "You don't get to decide that."
He stood too, slowly, like a lion stretching. "You think you're still free?"
The room spun a little.
He stepped closer. "You showed me your pain on canvas. You bled in colors for the world to see. But I'm the one who remembers how you screamed at night. I'm the one who held you when your father broke you. Don't pretend you don't remember."
I stared at him. "You didn't come after me."
"I was seventeen," he growled. "And my father had just died in a car bomb. I didn't know where you went. I didn't even know you were gone until it was too late."
The anger dropped, leaving behind something raw.
His voice lowered. "I searched for you."
That broke me a little.
"I don't know what you want from me," I whispered.
He didn't answer. Just looked at me.
And then, so quietly I almost didn't hear it—
"Come home."
---
Back outside, Milan had never felt colder. The streets glowed under yellow lamps, the breeze biting at my cheeks. I walked fast, heart racing, mind louder than the traffic.
Come home.
He said it like I ever had one.
He said it like he was home.
I should've said no.
I should've told him to stay out of my life, out of my thoughts.
But deep down, in that broken place I never fixed, I knew the truth.
Luca had always owned me.
I just didn't know if I was still his boy—
—or if I'd become his toy.