There are days when the world shifts so quietly, so deliberately, that you almost miss it. Like a scalpel slipping beneath skin — silent, precise, irreversible.
That’s what it felt like to be around Adrian Moretti.
A shift I hadn’t noticed until it was already too late.
I sat on the terrace of the Moretti estate — if that’s what you could even call it. It wasn’t just a home; it was a fortress disguised as a Tuscan dream. Olive trees, manicured hedges, the distant roll of Florence’s hills. It looked like peace, smelled like lavender, but it breathed something else entirely — power.
He hadn’t said much since the last conversation in the car. Just a few sharp nods and unreadable glances. But he’d insisted I stay here for “security reasons.” As if my opinion was a luxury I’d outgrown.
I should have protested harder. I should have said no.
But curiosity is a venom of its own. And I was already infected.
“Coffee?”
I turned. A housekeeper I didn’t know was holding a porcelain cup on a tray far too expensive for caffeine. I nodded silently, took it with a small “grazie,” and she disappeared as quickly as she came. They were all like ghosts here. Quiet. Efficient. Watching.
I stared into the black surface of the espresso like it held answers.
Why was I still here?
Why hadn’t I reported anything? The man was a literal mafia heir. His name alone could end my career. And yet, here I was, sipping coffee in his garden like it was just another post-call Sunday.
Because you want answers, Nyra. Because something in him makes the silence echo louder.
I hated that thought.
I hated that I’d started noticing him in ways I wasn’t supposed to. The way he moved — like he was born for silence. The way his voice dipped just low enough to make you lean in, like he wanted you off balance. Even when he was unconscious, bleeding out on that gurney, he’d looked like something carved out of shadow and fire.
And now?
Now he watched me when he thought I wasn’t looking. Now he said my name like it was a puzzle he wanted to solve. Now he stood too close. But never touched.
Not once.
A soft chime sounded near the garden doors. I turned, expecting a butler or a guard.
It was Adrian.
Black shirt. Rolled sleeves. No jacket. Just him and a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Dr. Kapoor,” he said, stepping out onto the terrace like he owned not just the estate but the very air. “You always look so... serious when you drink coffee.”
“Some of us have things to be serious about,” I replied, voice sharper than I meant. I hated how he made me sound defensive.
He raised a brow. “Do I look like I don’t?”
“No. You look like you know exactly how serious things are. You just don’t care.”
His smile flickered, then faded. For a beat, I saw something beneath the mask. Something exhausted. Bruised. It made my chest tighten in a way I didn’t understand.
“I care, Dr. Kapoor,” he said quietly. “I just can’t afford to look like it.”
The silence between us stretched.
He walked to the railing, stood beside me, not touching, just... present. The wind tugged at a few strands of his hair, and I had the stupid, inappropriate urge to brush them back.
“Why are you still here?” I asked. “You could’ve gone to any private clinic. You could’ve hidden. Why me?”
He didn’t answer for a long time.
Then, “Because you looked at me like a man, not a monster.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I sipped my coffee instead. It burned all the way down.
“I’m not your prisoner, right?” I asked after a moment. “I can leave if I want.”
He turned his head slowly toward me. “Technically, yes. But I wouldn’t recommend it. Not with whoever tried to kill me still out there.”
“And what? You think they’ll come after me next?”
“You’re the only person who knows the poison used. The only person who saw me vulnerable. That makes you valuable.” He paused, then added, “And dangerous.”
A shiver climbed my spine.
I wasn’t sure which part of that scared me more.
“You say these things like they’re facts, not threats,” I said.
“I don’t threaten, Nyra. I inform.”
That was the first time he used my first name.
It landed differently.
I cleared my throat and stepped back. “Well, thank you for the information.”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t. Instead, he just gave me a small nod, like some silent agreement had been struck between us — one I hadn’t consented to.
Later that evening, I locked the door of the guest room and collapsed onto the bed. The sheets smelled of rosewater and something faintly smoky — leather, maybe. Everything here was too expensive, too deliberate.
Like it had been curated for an illusion.
I opened my phone. Five missed calls from Kabir.
Shit.
I tapped the latest voicemail and held it to my ear.
“Nyra? Where the hell are you? You’re not at your place. I called the hospital — they said you haven’t clocked in since the incident. What’s going on? Call me back. Please.”
Guilt bloomed fast and sharp.
Kabir was my anchor. My best friend since college. The one person who never flinched when I broke. I owed him the truth.
Or at least a version of it.
I messaged: “Sorry. Medical emergency. I’m safe. Can’t talk. Will explain soon. Promise.”
Even that felt like too much.
I stood, restless, and paced to the window.
Below, two armed men stood by the gates. Another pair near the fountain. Every inch of the estate was covered like a chessboard. Adrian didn’t take chances. He calculated every move, every shadow.
And yet, he let me get close.
Why?
Because I’d seen him broken? Because I hadn’t flinched when his pulse flatlined?
Or was it something else?
I touched the windowpane and closed my eyes.
His voice echoed in my head. “You looked at me like a man, not a monster.”
God help me, I had.
Even now, when I shouldn’t. When every rational cell in my body screamed that this was dangerous, this was wrong.
But he didn’t feel wrong.
He felt like a question I couldn’t stop asking.
I turned away from the window and caught my reflection in the antique mirror by the door. My eyes were tired. My posture tense. But there was something else too.
A flush. A hum beneath the skin.
I wasn’t just afraid.
I was drawn.
To a man I barely knew. To a world I didn’t understand.
And that was the most dangerous line of all.
The one between fear and fascination.
Between survival and surrender.
Between me and Adrian Moretti.
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