The night it happened, the rain wouldn't stop.
It fell like the sky itself was trying to drown the city — relentless, cold, and angry.
Elara Moretti pressed herself against the alley wall, clutching the small silver locket at her throat. Her fingers were shaking so hard she could barely breathe. She wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be home, asleep, safe.
But her brother hadn't come home. And something inside her had whispered — go find him before they do.
Now she was standing in the shadows behind an abandoned warehouse, watching headlights cut through the storm.
Three black cars.
Tinted windows.
Men with guns.
She'd grown up in this city — she knew what those symbols meant. The DeLuca crest painted on the license plate was enough to make anyone disappear.
Elara's pulse quickened. She spotted her brother, Matteo, standing near the warehouse door, arguing with a man who looked like he owned the night itself.
Luciano DeLuca.
Even from the distance, he was unmistakable — tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a tailored black coat. His presence wasn't loud, but it demanded the air around him. His movements were calm, too calm — the kind that said he didn't need to shout to be feared.
Elara couldn't hear what they were saying over the pounding rain, but she could see Matteo's desperation — the way his hands shook, how he tried to explain something, how Luciano's face didn't change.
Then Luciano raised his hand.
And the world exploded.
A single gunshot cut through the night. Matteo's body jerked backward and hit the ground with a sound Elara would never forget.
"No…" The whisper slipped from her lips before she could stop it.
Luciano's head snapped up.
For a fraction of a second, his gaze found hers across the darkness. Even through the rain and the distance, it felt like he saw right through her — the fear, the horror, the brokenness.
"Elara, run," she heard Matteo's last whisper echo in her head.
She turned and bolted.
Her boots splashed through puddles, breath ragged as she darted through the labyrinth of backstreets. The city blurred into a mess of lights and rain. She didn't know where she was going — only that she couldn't stop.
Behind her, she heard the engines roar to life.
They saw me. God, they saw me.
A car screeched around the corner, headlights blinding her. She dove into a side street, slipping through a rusted gate and crashing into a pile of trash cans. Pain shot up her leg, but she forced herself up, heart pounding so violently she thought it would break her ribs.
She sprinted toward the docks. It was the only place she knew the cops sometimes patrolled at night.
But when she reached the edge of the water, she realized her mistake.
There was no one there.
Just the rain, the wind, and the black ocean stretching endlessly.
She turned to run again — and slammed into someone.
Strong hands gripped her shoulders.
"Easy," a low voice said, smooth and deep, like velvet laced with poison. "You'll fall if you keep running like that."
Elara looked up — and froze.
Luciano DeLuca stood in front of her. The rain slicked back his dark hair, and his sharp features looked carved from stone. His eyes — cold gray, unyielding — watched her like a wolf cornering prey.
He didn't look angry. That was the worst part.
He looked amused.
"Let me go," she gasped, pushing against him.
He didn't move. "You shouldn't have been there, bella."
Her breath hitched at the word — beautiful. He said it like an accusation, not a compliment.
Her nails dug into his coat. "You killed him. You murdered my brother!"
Luciano's jaw tensed. For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes — regret? pain? — but it vanished just as quickly. "He knew the rules," he said quietly. "He broke them."
Elara slapped him. Hard. The sound cracked through the rain.
Luciano didn't react. He simply tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.
"You have spirit," he said finally. "I don't know whether to admire that or crush it."
"Go to hell."
He almost smiled. "I've been there, amore. You'd hate it."
Before she could move, one of his men appeared behind her. A cloth pressed against her mouth. The sharp scent of chloroform filled her nose.
Her vision blurred.
The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her was Luciano's face — calm, unreadable, and hauntingly close.
When Elara woke, her head throbbed. The world was dim and expensive — marble floors, chandeliers, the faint hum of jazz playing somewhere far away. She was lying on a velvet sofa, still in her rain-soaked clothes.
She sat up too fast. Pain stabbed behind her eyes.
A voice spoke from the shadows.
"Try not to move too much. You hit your head."
Luciano stepped into the light, dressed now in a crisp white shirt and black slacks, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His forearms were inked — intricate tattoos that looked more like symbols than art.
Elara's throat tightened. "Why am I here?"
He poured himself a drink, his movements unhurried. "Because you saw something you shouldn't have."
"I won't tell anyone. I swear—"
He chuckled softly. "You think I'm worried about you telling someone?" He leaned forward, resting his hands on the table between them. "You saw me, Elara Moretti. You know my face. You know my name. You think I can just let you walk away?"
Her blood ran cold. "Then what are you going to do? Kill me too?"
Luciano's eyes met hers — steel gray, cold fire. "If I wanted you dead, you would already be a ghost."
He walked closer, slow and deliberate, until he stood right in front of her. "No. You're going to stay here until I figure out what to do with you."
"You can't—"
He cut her off with a look. "I can do anything I want."
The air between them thickened, the silence heavy with defiance and something else she couldn't name.
"I'm not your prisoner," she said finally.
Luciano leaned in, his breath brushing her ear. "Then don't make me treat you like one."
That night, Elara lay awake in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling. The rain had stopped, but her thoughts were louder than ever.
Her brother was dead.
The man responsible was just down the hall.
And somehow, she was still alive.
She should've been planning her escape. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Luciano's face — the look in his eyes when he'd caught her, the strange softness beneath the cruelty.
She hated that she remembered it.
She hated that part of her wanted to understand it.
Because deep down, she already knew something she didn't want to admit:
The night her brother died was the night her story with Luciano DeLuca began.