Chapter One: Brushstrokes in the Rain

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.

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