Morning in Florence arrived softly, brushed in pale gold and the scent of roasted coffee drifting from narrow streets below Isabella Moretti's apartment window.
But Isabella had barely slept.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.
Black gloves. Controlled voice. Winter-colored eyes.
Florence is smaller than you think.
She sat up in frustration, pushing her auburn hair away from her face. "It was nothing," she muttered to herself. "Just a stranger with a dramatic personality."
Yet her pulse betrayed her.
By noon, she had convinced herself to forget him. She walked toward Piazza della Signoria with her sketchbook tucked beneath her arm, determined to focus on work. Art first. Feelings never.
The square buzzed with tourists and locals alike. The towering presence of Palazzo Vecchio cast a proud shadow across the open space, as if silently guarding the city's secrets.
Isabella chose her usual bench near the fountain, inhaling deeply.
Peace.
Until a sleek black car pulled to a quiet stop across the square.
Her heart stilled.
She didn't need to look twice.
Alessandro De Luca stepped out as though the world had arranged itself for him.
Today he wore charcoal instead of black. No gloves.
That should not have mattered.
But it did.
He spoke briefly to the driver before his gaze lifted — directly to her.
Not searching.
Not surprised.
Certain.
Her stomach flipped.
He crossed the square with measured steps. People instinctively shifted aside. Power followed him like a second shadow.
"Buongiorno, Isabella," he greeted calmly.
She closed her sketchbook with more force than necessary. "You've made a habit of appearing without warning."
A faint curve touched his lips. "Would you prefer I announce myself?"
"I would prefer you explain how you know my name."
He studied her in silence. The quiet between them felt charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Instead of answering, he extended an envelope.
Cream-colored. Heavy paper. Her name written in elegant script.
"I don't accept gifts from strangers," she said.
"It's not a gift."
"Then what is it?"
"An opportunity."
She hesitated before taking it.
The envelope bore the crest of the De Luca family — subtle, expensive, undeniable.
Inside was an invitation.
A private gallery showcase. Exclusive. By invitation only.
Hosted at the De Luca Estate.
Her throat tightened.
"You're hosting an art event?" she asked carefully.
"My mother is," he corrected. "She supports emerging artists."
"That seems… convenient."
"For you?" His eyes darkened slightly. "Or for me?"
She hated that she couldn't read him.
"I don't attend events like this," she said. "I don't belong in rooms filled with people who measure worth in euros."
A flicker — barely there — crossed his expression.
"You assume too much about me."
"And you assume too much about me," she shot back.
Silence again.
The air felt thinner.
"You deserve to be seen," he said quietly.
Her breath caught.
Those words felt too personal. Too intentional.
"You've seen my sketchbook for five seconds."
"That was enough."
She looked away first.
Dangerous. He was dangerous — not because he was cruel, but because he seemed to understand parts of her she kept hidden.
"Why me?" she asked.
Finally.
The question that mattered.
His jaw tightened.
"For reasons that don't concern you."
Anger sparked in her chest. "Then I'm not coming."
She moved to stand, but his hand gently wrapped around her wrist.
Not forceful.
But firm.
The warmth of his bare skin against hers sent a sharp current through her body.
Their eyes locked.
"You should come," he said, voice lower now. "Because whether you like it or not, Isabella… our lives are already connected."
Her pulse pounded in her ears.
"Connected how?"
A beat.
Then—
"Ask your father."
Her world tilted.
"My father has nothing to do with you."
"You're certain of that?"
Her father rarely spoke about his past. He had moved them to Florence years ago and refused to discuss why.
A cold thread of unease slipped down her spine.
"What aren't you telling me?" she demanded.
But Alessandro stepped back, control sliding back into place like armor.
"Saturday. Eight o'clock."
He turned.
"That's not an explanation!" she called after him.
He paused briefly.
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
And then he left her standing there again.
But this time, the rain did not fall.
The sky was clear.
And somehow that felt more ominous.
That evening, Isabella returned home with the invitation still clutched in her hand.
Her father sat at the kitchen table, reading quietly.
"Papà," she said carefully.
He looked up, warmth in his tired eyes. "Isabella."
She placed the invitation in front of him.
The color drained from his face.
Just slightly.
But enough.
"How do you know the De Luca family?" she asked.
He exhaled slowly.
"Where did you get this?"
"That's not the question."
Silence stretched painfully between them.
"It was a long time ago," he finally said.
Her stomach dropped.
"How long?"
"Before we moved here."
Her fingers trembled. "Did something happen?"
He looked at her in a way that frightened her more than any answer could.
"Yes."
Her heart raced.
"What kind of something?"
But he stood abruptly, pushing the chair back.
"You will not attend that event."
Her breath hitched. "You don't get to decide that."
His voice hardened. "You don't understand the kind of people they are."
"I met him."
The confession slipped out.
Her father's eyes widened. "You what?"
"He's not what you think."
"And how would you know?" he demanded.
Because he sees me.
She didn't say it.
Instead, she whispered, "What happened between you and the De Lucas?"
Her father's expression turned distant. Regretful.
"I trusted them," he said quietly. "And they destroyed everything."
The words landed like shattered glass.
Isabella stepped back slowly.
Destroyed everything.
A past stained with betrayal.
Alessandro's voice echoed in her memory.
Our lives are already connected.
Her chest tightened.
Saturday was only two days away.
And for the first time in her life, Isabella Moretti wasn't sure whether she was walking toward love…
Or walking straight into the ruins of a war that had started long before she ever picked up a pencil.