In the underworld of New York City, where silence was more dangerous than gunfire and loyalty was measured in blood, one name made even the fearless flinch—Luciano Moretti. Known as "The Wolf," he was the heir to the Moretti crime family, a syndicate woven deep into the city's shadows. He never smiled. Never loved. And never forgave.

Across the city, Amara Wells lived a life that couldn't be more different. Raised by a schoolteacher and a florist, she had never even held a cigarette, let alone imagined a world ruled by bullets and blood money.

But sometimes, fate doesn't ask.

It crashes.

Rain had a way of washing away the noise of New York City—dulling the honking horns, muting the screech of tires, and turning angry shouts into distant murmurs. It was in that peculiar kind of quiet that Amara Wells found herself walking along the slick sidewalk, her sketchbook clutched to her chest, and her umbrella half-snapped by a sudden gust of wind. She was already soaked, her boots squishing with every step, but she didn’t mind. Rain reminded her of watercolor—unpredictable, soft, and messy.

She had just exited the small Midtown gallery where she worked part-time. Her day had been uneventful: a few tourists asking about abstract expressionism, her boss criticizing her brushstroke choices for the hundredth time, and her sketchpad only half-filled with ideas. But the quiet, the melancholy atmosphere of the storm, gave her a strange kind of hope. It made the city feel slower, gentler and maybe peace too.

As she rounded a corner, a sharp sound sliced through the muffled air—pop, pop, pop. Her heart stuttered. Gunshots? Her mind struggled to make sense of it. She ducked instinctively into a nearby alley, pressing her back against the cold brick. Her breathing came out in shallow pants.

Moments later, heavy footsteps echoed off the walls. She peeked out just in time to see two men in black suits slump to the ground across the street, blood pooling beneath them. A third man stood over them, gun still in hand, his shoulders rising and falling with practiced calm.

Amara’s breath caught.

The man turned his head. Their eyes met.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, his tailored black suit stained red at the collar. His jaw was sharp, his lips tight, and his eyes—ice gray, emotionless. Except for a flicker. Something unreadable passed through his gaze.

Amara didn’t scream. She didn’t run.

She stepped out from the alley, stupidly, blindly, her voice barely audible. "Are you hurt?"she asked her eyes instead of fear hold concern

The man froze in his place.

In all his years of bloodshed, no one had ever asked him that. No one had looked at him—Luca Moretti, the Wolf of the East Side—like a person. Certainly not a woman with rainwater dripping from her eyelashes, eyes full of concern rather than fear.

"What’s your name?" he asked quietly, almost to himself.

"Amara," she whispered.

He blinked, then pocketed the gun. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance. Luca took one last look at her, then turned and walked away into the storm, disappearing like a phantom.

Amara stood rooted in place, her heart thudding painfully. She didn’t know who he was or where he was from. She didn’t know why she felt a shiver that wasn’t from the cold but perhaps from something else.

But something told her she had just stepped into the beginning of something dangerous.

And there was no turning back or no escape from it.

...****************...

Since that day Amara couldn’t stop thinking about the man in the storm.

Days passed, but his face lingered behind her eyes every time she blinked or closed her eyes. His presence had imprinted itself on her, not just because of the violence—though that had certainly shaken her—but because of the moment after. The moment where, instead of running, she had spoken. Instead of fearing him, she had pitied him but to be precise can't even say it was a pity but something else.

She didn’t know what possessed her to do it. It wasn’t bravery. If anything, it was instinct. Something about the look in his eyes—empty, but not dead. Sad, but controlled. That contradiction fascinated her more than she wanted to admit.

She returned to her routine: classes at the university, shifts at the gallery, and evenings spent painting in her cramped apartment above the used bookstore. But everything now felt offbeat, like a song missing its rhythm.

Outside her working area

She swore she saw shadows that weren’t hers. The same dark car parked two days in a row outside her work. A man in a black coat loitering near the alley where she first saw him. She told herself it was coincidence. Big city, after all. But her gut said otherwise.

Luca Moretti hadn’t forgotten her either.

He sat behind the tinted glass of his armored Bentley, a glass of Scotch in one hand, eyes trained on the bookstore entrance. He didn’t know why he kept coming back here. There were a hundred reasons to forget her. His world didn’t allow for softness. And yet here he was…. .

He remembered the way she said his name.The way she looked at him. Not with fear, not with hatred—just quiet curiosity. As if she saw the man he used to be, before blood turned him into legend.

He had tried to dismiss it. To return to the cold logic that governed every choice he made. But then his younger brother Nico—always too eager, too reckless—had found out about her.

“She’s pretty,” Nico had said. “That's why you’ve been distracted lately?”said teasingly

Luca didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The threat was clear. In this life, anything he cared about became a target.

So when the Castelli family—old rivals looking for a crack in the Moretti armor—sent one of their men to tail Amara, Luca knew he had to act before something happen something terrible which he doesn't want.

It was no longer a matter of curiosity.

It was survival.

That night, Amara came home to find her door ajar. Panic seized her chest. She stepped inside cautiously, only to find a single white rose on her kitchen table. No note. No explanation,nothing.

She should have been afraid. Maybe she was. But more than anything, she felt…. watched.

And in a city of millions, she suddenly felt entirely alone

...****************...

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