Chapter 2: Smoke & Silk

Elena didn’t remember running—only the roar in her ears and the blur of velvet walls as she fled the ballroom. Somewhere behind her, the music had died. Blood and glass replaced champagne and cello.

She slipped through a service door, heels clicking down a tiled hallway lit with sterile lights. Her chest heaved, breath sharp with panic and adrenaline. She ducked into a storage room, locking the door behind her.

Silence. Heavy. Pressing.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled out her phone and sent a single message to her handler:

“Hit at Belladonna. One dead. De Luca saw me.”

No reply.

She took off her earrings—the mic dead. Her cover was thin, and now, it was cracked.

Footsteps.

She pressed herself behind a linen shelf, gripping a letter opener she found on a nearby table. Not much—but enough to make a difference.

The door creaked open.

“Easy,” said a familiar voice. “It’s me.”

Alessandro De Luca stood in the doorway, a gun lowered in his hand and a storm in his eyes.

“You followed me,” she said.

“No. I saved you. Again.” He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “You're either very brave or very stupid, Signorina Rossi.”

“Or both,” she said, forcing steel into her voice.

He walked closer. His eyes studied her—not the dress, not the mask, but her posture, her stance, her fear. He was dissecting her with a glance.

“Who are you really?” he asked, quieter now.

“You first.”

He chuckled softly. “Everyone knows who I am. But you? You’re a ghost.”

“I’m a journalist.”

“That much I guessed. But not fashion. No. You’re not here for velvet gowns. You’re here for blood.”

Their eyes locked.

Something shifted between them—like the air charged with heat and danger.

“I should hand you over,” he said. “To my men. Let them ask the questions.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“Because I don’t know if you’re my enemy... or just in over your head.”

Elena swallowed. “Maybe both.”

A pause. He took another step.

“You saw who fired that shot?”

“No. Only the victim.”

He cursed under his breath. “That was Anton Carlo. Russo’s finance man. Someone wanted to send a message.”

“To you?”

“Maybe. Or maybe someone wanted to see what I’d do.” He glanced at her. “Or how you’d react.”

He was testing her. Again.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“You tell me why you’re really here,” he said. “And I decide whether I protect you… or destroy you.”

Elena stared at him, feeling her pulse thud against her ribs.

“If I talk, I’m dead. If I stay, I’m dead.”

“Not if I say otherwise.”

“Why would you protect me?”

He smirked. “Because for some godforsaken reason, I want to know more. About you. About what you’re hiding.”

The silence stretched.

Then, he stepped closer—so close she could see the faint scar under his left eye.

“You’ve got fire,” he said softly. “Don’t burn out too soon.”

Then he was gone.

Leaving her with the scent of smoke, silk…

…and the sense that her life had just twisted into something far more dangerous than she ever imagined.

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