The morning air in the office felt strangely heavy. Usually, Vincenzo Marino's presence lingered like a storm cloud—his sharp gaze, his silent authority—but today, his chair sat empty.
"Elena," Goldie whispered, leaning across her desk. "Have you noticed? Mr. Marino hasn't come in. Not even Caruso knows where he is."
Elena frowned. "Maybe it's business. He's the CEO after all."
Goldie arched a brow. "Business that makes even Caruso look nervous? No, Elena. This is something else."
Elena tried to brush it off, but unease prickled her skin. Vincenzo had left the previous evening without warning, his words clipped and final: "I'll be gone for two days. Hold the office steady." He hadn't offered more, and Elena hadn't dared ask.
What she didn't know—what none of them knew—was that as the city slept, Vincenzo shed his tailored suit for black attire and a silver mask.
Far from the glass towers of his company, in a dimly lit warehouse at the edge of the port, he now stood at the head of a long table. Around him, men in dark suits bowed their heads in respect.
"The shipment is secure," one of them reported, sliding a folder across the table. "The Russians tried to interfere again. They won't be a problem anymore."
Vincenzo opened the file, his masked face unreadable. Behind the cold steel of his disguise, his eyes burned with a power that could silence any room. To his enemies, he was Il Fantasma—The Phantom. A name whispered with fear in every alley of the city.
"Good," he said finally, his voice low and commanding. "But do not grow careless. Fear keeps order. Without it, this empire will burn."
The men nodded, their loyalty absolute.
For years, Vincenzo had lived this double life—the ruthless Mafia king by night, the untouchable CEO by day. No one outside his inner circle knew the truth. To the world, he was a businessman. To the underworld, he was a legend.
And yet, as he dismissed his men and walked to his black car waiting in the shadows, a single thought invaded his iron discipline: Elena.
Her laughter, her innocence, her wide eyes when she ate pistachio gelato for the first time—these things haunted him more than bullets or blood ever could. She didn't belong in his darkness, but the pull toward her was becoming impossible to resist.
---
Back at the company, rumors began to swirl.
Amara strolled through the office, her heels clicking against the floor, her lips curved in a mocking smile. She stopped by Elena's desk, her eyes glittering with cruelty.
"Looks like your protector isn't here today," she sneered softly, so only Elena and Goldie could hear. "Tell me, countryside girl, do you really think he'll come back for you? Men like him always get bored."
Elena stiffened, her hand tightening around her pen. "Mr. Marino isn't like that."
Amara laughed, tilting her head. "Oh, how sweet. So naïve. Do you even know where he's gone? No. Because he would never tell you. To him, you're just… amusement."
Goldie stood up sharply, her eyes flashing. "Careful, Amara. Or you'll choke on your own bitterness."
Amara's smile faltered for a moment before she regained her composure. "We'll see how long your little fairytale lasts." With that, she turned and strutted away, leaving tension in her wake.
Elena forced herself to breathe. She didn't want to believe Amara's words, but doubt gnawed at her. Where had Vincenzo gone? Why did he leave so suddenly?
The rest of the day dragged. Without his presence, the office felt both lighter and emptier. Every time the elevator chimed, Elena's head snapped up, hoping—but it was never him.
---
Meanwhile, under the cover of night, Vincenzo's car sped through the city streets. He sat in the back, mask removed now, his features grim. His work in the underworld was done—for now.
But as he leaned back against the leather seat, his thoughts betrayed him once more.
He had told himself for years that he would never let anyone too close. Love was a weakness, and in his world, weakness got people killed. Yet Elena's face refused to leave his mind.
For the first time in a long time, Vincenzo Marino—the Phantom, the feared Mafia king—felt the terrifying weight of desire.
Not for power. Not for blood.
But for a woman who had no idea who he truly was.