4

ELENA

I WASN'T IN CONTROL.

I lost the reins of the mad horse holding my desire the minute I looked into this man's eyes, and now it was driving me to my death.

I didn’t plan on leaving with him.

Hell, I didn’t even plan on talking to anyone tonight. I was supposed to have one drink, maybe two. Watch the chaos unfold from a safe distance, pretend to enjoy the music, and slip back into my old life like nothing happened.

But then he showed up, and I suddenly wanted the whole narrative to change.

The way he looked at me like I was some kind of mystery he wanted to unravel. Normally, that kind of attention would set off every internal alarm I had. It should’ve.

But tonight, the old rules didn’t apply. Tonight, I wasn’t Elena Russo, the lady whose eternal life was hellbent on revenge. I was just Elena—the woman who hadn’t felt anything real in over a year.

I thought it didn't matter, but when I looked into his eyes, I knew it did. I wanted to feel something, anything, so long as it was real.

“Wanna get out of here?” I’d whispered, half-daring him to say yes.

He took a breath, leaning in just enough to whisper, "Are you sure you want to get involved with someone like me?" He couldn't stop the smirk that tugged at the corner of my lips, I could tell.

My eyes didn't waver from his. "You don't scare me." Maybe it was the whiskey talking or maybe it was something else entirely.

He leaned forward, brushing his lips against my ear, and I shuddered. "Good." He murmured, his breath hot against my skin.

I pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes again, that same confident glint in them. "Then lead the way."

His hand slid into mine, warm and sure, and the next thing I knew, I was in his car, racing through the night.

I should’ve been afraid. I wasn’t.

I should’ve told myself to walk away. I didn’t.

The elevator ride up to wherever he was taking me was suffocating in the best way. Every inch of space between us felt charged, sparking with something reckless and raw. He leaned against the wall, one hand in his pocket, the other flexing like he was trying to keep himself in check.

“You always stare at women like this?” I asked, teasing, needing to fill the silence before I drowned in it.

“Only when they’re worth staring at,” he said.

It was a stupid line, but something in the way he said it, low and just for me, made it feel different.

It sure as hell felt real.

I wanted more.

When the doors opened, I half-expected some lavish palace, all gold and marble and tacky wealth. Instead, his place was sleek, modern, and surprisingly understated. Like the man himself—a contradiction I couldn’t figure out.

The second the door shut behind us, there were no more words. His mouth found mine, urgent and hungry, and I melted into him before I could second-guess myself. My fingers ran into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan against my lips.

We didn’t make it to the bedroom right away. The wall, the couch, the floor—every surface became part of our messy, desperate dance. Clothes peeled off in frantic movements, his hands on my skin, my nails dragging down his back. It was needed, pure and unfiltered, a kind of craving I hadn’t felt in so long; I almost forgot how consuming it could be.

How good it felt.

His voice was rough in my ear, whispering things I barely processed, promises or praises—I couldn’t tell which. All I knew was that I wanted more.

And for one night, I let myself have it.

---

The morning after felt like a hangover.

Not the alcohol kind—the emotional kind. The kind that gnaws at your gut the second you open your eyes and realize what you’ve done.

I sat up in his bed, the sheets tangled around my waist, my head pounding—not only from the drinks but from reality crashing back into me at full speed. The sun reflected through the massive windows, every bad decision I’d made in the last twelve hours playing before my eyes like some sort of tragic drama.

I was supposed to be smarter than this. I was supposed to be focused. Marco’s face flashed in my mind, and I felt sick.

You’re not here for this, I reminded myself. You’re here for revenge.

I slid out of bed as quietly as I could, gathering my clothes from the trail we’d left across his floor. Each piece felt heavier than it should like it carried the weight of my mistake.

That’s when I saw it.

A small silver emblem on the edge of his desk—a ring, casually discarded like it meant nothing. But I knew that symbol. I’d spent months memorizing it. The coiled snake wrapped around a dagger, the mark of the Moretti family.

My breath caught in my throat.

No! This can't be true.

I stood frozen, staring at the ring like it might come alive and bite me. My hands were shaking as I fumbled for my phone, my mind scrambling to piece it all together.

I stepped into the hallway, still barefoot, and dialed a secure number—one of the few I trusted in this city.

“Conner,” I said the second he picked up.

“Elena? Damn, it’s early—”

The sense of urgency in my voice made him shut up. “I need you to look into someone for me. Now!"

"God, Elena!” He groaned. " Aren't you supposed to be with that man from last night? Isn't that good enough? I didn't know you had such high standards…”

"Just shut up and listen, Conner!” I snapped. "This is important.

There was a beat of silence, then a low disapproving grunt. "Fine, who is it?”

I glanced back at the penthouse door, the ghost of Luca’s touch still lingering on my skin. My stomach churned, as I held tighter onto my phone.

“...the man from last night."