My feet ache from standing all day. The evening air is cool as I walk down the long driveway toward the main road, where the bus stop waits another half mile away.
Ten hours of scrubbing and polishing and pretending I don't notice the blood that sometimes stains the marble in the west wing.
The crunch of gravel behind me makes me turn.
A sleek black car rolls up beside me, the kind that costs more than my family's house. Probably more than our whole block. The tinted window slides down, and my heart stops.
Luca Moretti.
Steel-gray eyes. Scar cutting into his hairline like a badge of violence. Not a single thread out of place on his black suit.
He looks at me the way he looks at everything—like he's already decided my fate and is just waiting for me to catch up.
"Get in," he says. Not a request.
I hesitate, fingers tightening on my bag strap. "I'm fine, Signore Moretti. The bus stop isn't far. I don't want to trouble you."
"It's half a mile. You've been on your feet for ten hours." His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. "Get in."
How does he know how long I've been working? Has he been watching me?
The door swings open from inside, pushed by his hand.
I slide into the leather seat before I can overthink it, before the rational part of my brain can remind me that getting into cars with dangerous men is how girls like me disappear.
The car smells like expensive cologne and something darker. Leather. Power. Him.
God, he's even more intimidating up close. The sharp line of his jaw. The controlled stillness of his hands on the steering wheel.
The way he takes up space without even trying—not just physical space, but the air itself, the silence, everything.
Everything about him radiates command—the kind of authority that doesn't need to raise its voice to be obeyed.
"Where do you live?" he asks, pulling back onto the driveway.
I give him the address, my voice steadier than I feel.
The silence stretches between us like a living thing. I don't know what to do with my hands, so I fold them in my lap and try not to stare.
Try not to notice the way the fading sunlight catches on his scar, or the way his fingers drum once, just once, against the steering wheel before going still again.
"You've worked for us for two years," he says finally, his eyes never leaving the road. "Never late. Never complaining. Enzo speaks highly of you."
"I... thank you, Signore. I try to do good work."
"It's more than good work." He glances at me briefly, those steel-gray eyes assessing. "I know about your family's situation. The pizzeria. Your father's debts."
My stomach drops. "How do you…"
"I know everything that happens in my territory." His tone leaves no room for argument. "Your father owes money to people who work for people who answer to me."
I swallow hard. "I didn't know that."
"You weren't supposed to." Another brief glance. "But I've been watching you, Gianna. You've been trying to fix your parents' mistakes with honest work."
Something flickers in his expression—respect, maybe, or just curiosity. "Admirable. Most people in your position would have taken shortcuts by now."
"There's nothing admirable about it," I say quietly, surprised by my own honesty. "It's just what you do for your family. They're all I have."
"Is it?" He turns onto the highway, the city lights beginning to blur past. "Not everyone believes that. Not everyone would sacrifice their own future to clean up someone else's mess."
"I'd do anything for my family." The words come out before I can stop them, fierce and certain. "Anything. They're not perfect, but they're mine. And I won't let them drown if there's something I can do to save them."
Luca is silent for a long moment. The only sound is the hum of the engine and the whisper of tires on asphalt.
I wonder if I've said too much. Revealed too much. Men like him probably see vulnerability as weakness, and weakness as something to exploit.
"Be careful what you promise, signorina," he says finally, his voice low. "Some men would take you up on that. Some men would use that loyalty against you."
Is that a warning? Or something else entirely?
I study his profile in the fading light, drinking in details I've only glimpsed from across crowded rooms. The sharp angles of his face.
The way his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly when he's thinking. The way his hands grip the wheel—controlled, precise, like everything he does.
What would it be like to be wanted by a man like this? To have all that power and control focused entirely on me? To be seen instead of invisible?
The thought comes unbidden, and I shove it down immediately. Fantasies like that are dangerous. Men like Luca Moretti don't want girls like me. We're furniture to them. Background noise. Useful until we're not.
"You're staring," he says without looking at me.
Heat floods my cheeks. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."
"Don't apologize." His voice is low, almost soft. "Just don't make a habit of it."
The car pulls onto my street. My house looks even shabbier compared to the vehicle I'm sitting in—peeling paint, overgrown lawn, a porch light that's been broken for months.
I should be embarrassed. Maybe I am. But mostly I just feel... safe. Comfortable. Which is insane, because Luca Moretti has probably killed more people than I've had hot meals.
But there's something about his presence. The certainty of him. Like nothing bad could happen while he's there. Like the world itself would bend rather than cross him.
"Thank you for the ride, Signore Moretti."
"Luca," he corrects.
I blink. "What?"
"My name. Use it." His eyes meet mine for just a moment, and something passes between us—something I can't name. Electric. Dangerous. "We're past formalities now."
"I... thank you. Luca."
Something shifts in his expression—so brief I almost miss it. A flicker of heat, quickly extinguished.
"Get some rest, Gianna. You look tired. And..." He pauses, and for a moment he seems almost human. "Be careful. These next few weeks. Things are going to change."
Before I can ask what he means, he's looking away, dismissing me.
I climb out of the car on shaky legs. Watch it disappear down the street, taillights glowing red in the darkness like the eyes of some predator retreating into the night.
He knows my name. He's been watching me. And for the first time in two years, Luca Moretti actually saw me.
I walk into my house with his name on my lips and his scent still clinging to my clothes.
Luca.