9-Five years of secret

[ SALVATORE’S POV ]

The fake tears vanished from Sofia’s face in an instance replaced with something sharper. Seduction and determination. 

Slowly, deliberately, her fingers went to the strap of her white dress . She didn’t look down, not even once . Her eyes stayed on me , dark and unblinking, daring me to look away first.

The fabric slid from her shoulder, then the other. She let it fall inch by inch, as if every movement was measured. The dress pooled at her feet in soft white folds.

She stepped out of it without breaking eye contact. No rush, no shame . Just a quiet challenge hanging in the air between us.

I didn’t raise my voice. Didn't ask her to stop her ridiculous show.

“ On your knees,” I said, calm as a verdict. “ walk slowly to me. Slowly.”

She obeyed. She walked herself to the floor with delicate care, the movement unhurried,like she’s in a soap opera, almost relevant. Then she began to move towards me. One measured step at a time , her posture gracefully, intentional. 

She swayed slightly with every motion. I tried if I could see her as Iris, maybe I would get to enjoy the show, but it’s not working. Her gaze never left my face,not even when she reached the space between my knees.

When she stopped in front of me , in-between my knees, she reached out and put her hands on my pants zip, light, testing like she’s asking for permission without a word.

I caught her chin between my fingers and lifted her face until she was now looking at me .  I looked into her eyes, maybe I would find the ocean blue eyeball that I have always yearned for, but instead . A green one was staring back at me .

“I’ve seen enough,” I said calmly,” you’re free to leave my room, and make sure you lock the door behind you. And next time you come into this room without a proper knock. You won’t go back with a complete body. If you want my dick inside of you, you wait till after the wedding. Sofia.”

I released her and stood, already turning away, as if she no longer existed in the same space with me. I Walked past her without a glance and disappeared into the bathroom,  the sound of the door closing final.

I heard her drag her feet softly against the floor, the faint sound  following her to the door. Then click, sharp, final, announcing her departure.

I stepped under the shower and let the water run over my head, hot and steady , as if it could wash away the moment. My thoughts slipped where they always did. Back to my little mouse. Back to the first time I saw her .

[ FIVE YEARS AGO ]

Autumn. Brooklyn.

    The rain was an insistent drum against the windscreen of the black Mercedes. I sat in the back , the tinted glass a barrier between me and the mundane world outside.

     I was nineteen, already a made man, already carrying the weight of the Moretti empire on my shoulders. Today, I was supposed to be observing a rival’s movements, but my focus was fractured. The monotonous drizzle, the endless stream of yellow taxis—it all blurred into a dull backdrop.

 Then I saw her. She was standing at the bus station. A small figure swallowed by a too-big raincoat, clutching a pile of textbooks to her chest. Her dark hair was plastered to her face and rainwater dripped from her chin.

    She looked utterly miserable , alone and oblivious about the world around her. She was perhaps fourteen or fifteen, thin and wiry , with a vulnerability that instantly snagged my attention.

     The bus finally arrived, pulling up with a hiss of brakes. She fumbled with her umbrella, dropped a book , and then somehow managed to trip while trying to get on. A group of older boys on the bus snickered . Her face burned crimson. She finally scrambled aboard, shrinking into a seat by the window, her head bowed.

I felt a strange, unfamiliar jolt. It wasn't a pity. It was something colder and a flicker of possession. I, Salvatore Moretti, who controlled thousands of men , who could break a knee with a glance , suddenly wanted to walk into that bus and silence those boys. I wanted to shield her , wanted to claim that raw, untamed spirit I glimpsed in her defiant , slumped shoulders.

“ Who is that ?” I asked my driver, Anton, who was also my most trusted guard.

Anton glanced at the retreating bus. “ Iris Russo, boss. The younger daughter . Goes to public school in this district. Not like her sister.”

Not like her sister. I repeat the word. Sofia was beautiful, but she was a cultivated rose, a predictable bloom. This girl, Iris. Was a wild orchid , blooming in the most unexpected places.

I hadn’t seen her before. The Russo family lived uptown , a world away from the gritty streets of his operations. I knew of Lorenzo’s daughters . Sofia the golden child , already making her debut in the society.

   And then there was the younger one , The one Lorenzo kept hidden , rarely brought to public events, well he failed. Because now she has been found.

“ Follow the bus.” I commanded.

Anton didn’t question me. He simply merged into traffic.

That day , I followed her home . I watched her walk into the grand , imposing. Russo estate, a stark contrast to the small unkempt apartment building that lined the bus route. She glanced back once , her eyes scanning the streets. She felt watched.

From that day on , she became my secret project . My obsession. Something I want to own, mark and control.

    I ordered reports. I  knew her schedule, her classes, her favorite coffee shop . A tiny, independent place that played folk music, not the polished uptown cafes her sister frequented. I knew she spent hours in the public library, devouring classic novels and history books. I knew she preferred sketching in a worn notebook to gossiping with friends. Though she has two friends that I don’t see with her much.

    

     I deployed my men, not to threaten, but to observe. They installed hidden cameras around the periphery of the Russo estate, focusing on her bedroom window, her favorite garden bench. Not to intrude, I told myself, but to protect. To understand.

One afternoon, a year after I first saw her , I watched from my car as she sat alone on a park work bench, sketching furiously in her notebook. A boy lanky and overconfident approached her, trying to flirt. She looked uncomfortable, her shoulders hunched.

I felt a hot, unfamiliar rage ignite in my gut. Mine. The word resounded in my mind, sharp and undeniable. She is mine.

And he dared flirt with her, he dared to make her uncomfortable.

“ Anton, I want that boy out of her sight in a minute.” I said, still boiling in rage.

“ should I kill him boss.” Anton asked, unclipping the car's belt .”

“ No, let him live. But make sure he’s never seen around her again.” I replied.

The encounter was brief. Anton simply stood by the boy, cleared his throat and gave him a card. Cold stare. The boy stammered apologized to Iris and scurried away, never looking back. Iris looked confused, because Anton was gone before she could raise her head from her drawing.

I watched it all. A possessive pleasure spread through me . I bought the coffee shop she frequented , installing my own manager, who would discreetly ensure no one bothered, the girl who liked black coffee. I acquired a small bookstore she adored , making sure her favorite authors were always in stock, occasionally leaving new releases on a specific shelf she always browsed.

    I sent the gifts anonymously. A vintage camera when she expressed interest in photography during a school project. Jasmine seeds for her small pot on her balcony knowing it was her favorite scent. I knew she likes a taste of rebellion so I sometimes left her tickets to underground art shows of illegal poetry slams and auctions. Making sure she’s safe and well protected.

[ Back to the present ]

Now that I’m here, inside the Russo estate. Everything has shifted.

Closer to her. Closer to the woman who dared capture my soul and trapped it without even trying.

I’m not leaving the Russo estate without her. If taking her means tearing through bloodlines and loyalties, so be it . Even if it means killing her father to claim what has always been mine for years.