Chapter 1: The Stranger In The Dark

The rain fell in heavy sheets, soaking the city streets and washing away the sins of the night — at least for a little while. Elena Romano tightened her coat around her slender frame, her heels clicking against the pavement as she hurried through the quiet, shadowed street. She hated staying late at the bookstore, but she needed the extra money. Twenty-two didn’t come cheap — bills, rent, dreams.

She wasn’t prepared for him.

A sleek black car slid into view, engine humming low like a growl. Elena’s steps slowed instinctively. She felt it before she saw it — a presence, thick in the air. Danger. Her heart picked up speed, a tight flutter in her chest.

The car door swung open, and he stepped out.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark tailored suit that clung to his powerful body like a second skin. His hair was raven black, slicked back with the kind of effortless arrogance only dangerous men wore. A scar cut through the edge of his left eyebrow — a hint of the violence he carried so easily.

He was beautiful in a brutal, terrifying way.

And his eyes — cold, sharp, and grey as storm clouds — locked onto her.

Elena froze.

“You shouldn’t walk alone at night,” the man said, voice deep, rough, almost careless.

She swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. “I’m fine. I—I’m just going home.”

He cocked his head slightly, studying her like she was something he could break with a thought. Or maybe something he wanted to protect with a bullet. Elena couldn’t tell. And that terrified her more.

“You live around here?” he asked, stepping closer.

She nodded, even as every warning bell in her body screamed to run.

A smirk tugged at his lips — cold, mocking. But when his eyes fell to her trembling hands, something softened. Just for a second. So fast she almost missed it.

“Name,” he demanded.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

He took another step. Close enough that she could smell the rain on him, leather and smoke.

“Your name, piccola,” he repeated, this time quieter. Almost gentle.

“Elena,” she whispered.

Something shifted in his gaze. Recognition. Interest. Possession.

“Elena,” he repeated, tasting her name like it was a secret. “I’m Matteo.”

The name hit her like a bullet. She’d heard whispers about a Matteo De Luca — the youngest head of the De Luca mafia family, a man raised on violence, feared by everyone who mattered.

What the hell did he want with her?

Before she could speak, Matteo took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. His hand brushed her bare arm — rough skin against soft — and Elena shivered, not from the cold.

“You’re soaked,” he said, almost gruffly. “Come. I’ll drive you.”

She should have said no. She should have screamed, run, anything but nod and let him lead her to the car like a lamb to the slaughter.

But something about Matteo — the danger wrapped in a quiet, almost heartbreaking tenderness — pulled at something deep inside her.

She slid into the passenger seat, heart pounding, mind screaming.

One thought screamed louder than the rest:

This man would ruin her.

And part of her — the part tired of playing it safe, tired of being invisible — wanted him to.

Badly.

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