I'm not your possession, Mr Mafia. Or am I?

Maria’s POV

“Come on in, ma'am.” The Security personnel said as he moved away to let me in. I sighed a breath of relief as I thought I would get caught.

The invitation card I had shown wasn't mine. I had found it on the floor of the coffee shop where I worked. Since it has the name of a woman, I thought it was my chance to look at the great works of some top artists in the country.

As I walked past security into the main hall of the building, I could already feel the difference of this place. Everyone and everything in it felt expensive.

Well, if you're in Rome, you best behave like a Roman. I said to myself. So I stood up straight, raised my head and walked with fake confidence.

“Champagne?” A server asked as I was about to walk past him.

“Of course.” I said confidently. In my mind, I was already a rich lady who came in to buy an art.

As I walked from one art piece to another, I couldn't help but notice the quality of the art. Obviously, the kind of paint these artists must have used wasn't the kind I used. Theirs was obviously better.

I moved to another painting and as I stood in front of it, I sipped my champagne like I had seen rich people do in movies. Even the drink tasted rich.

I moved to another painting. It looked like something the painter only painted to show at this exhibition even though it’s a good painting.

“Alexa.” I heard a voice say but I didn't look back to see who it was. I'm not Alexa and I'm pretty sure that's not the name on my invitation.

“Alexa.” The voice said again. Now I had to turn back. I did and who I saw was a middle aged man in a well-tailored navy blue suit. One could tell he must have been a very handsome man when he was younger but that wasn't why I'm here.

“Excuse me?” I asked the man whose expression I couldn't read.

He didn't answer for a while, like he's trying to figure me out or something.

“I'm sorry… I thought you were… someone I knew.” He finally said.

“Alexa?” I said, hoping I could engage in a conversation with him.

“Yes… how did you know?” He asked, looking genuinely surprised like he didn't just call me that.

“Uhmm… I think you just called that.”

“Oh… right. Forgive me, I…” he apologised, stammering and trying to get himself back. He had a really deep Italian accent that made him sound like some soldier.

“It's fine, sir.” I tried to help him relax. “I'm Maria.” I said as I stretched my hand to him.

He looked at my hand, then at me. Then, like a man who had just seen an angel in real life, he took my hand slowly, looking into my eyes, calculating.

He held my hands for some time, until I cleared my throat. I removed my hand from his hand, even though it felt like he wasn't ready to let go of my hand.

I turned my face back to the painting. Hoping to strike a conversation. He came closer, looking at the painting I was looking at but instead of talking about the painting, he told me his name.

“Luca De Rossi. That's my name.”

“Mr De Rossi.” I repeated. Sounded really familiar.

“Please, call me Luca. Mr De Rossi makes me feel old.”

I chuckled, “but you are older than I am. Out of respect for that, I'll prefer to call you Mr De Rossi.”

He turned his attention back to the painting. "What do you see when you look at this?"

I glanced at it again. "A woman running."

"From something?"

I hesitate. "Or toward something."

Mr De Rossi hmmed, amused. "Interesting point of view."

His gaze shifted back to me, and suddenly, it felt like he was studying me, and not the painting.

"What about you, Maria?" he asked me, his tone was smooth but strange. "Are you running from something?"

The question sent a chill through me.

I opened my mouth to answer but before I could, Mr De Rossi stepped closer. Too close, infact. His presence and fragrance wrapped around me like a cloth.

"And more importantly…" he asked again, this time with a whisper. "Are you running toward something you shouldn’t?"

“What do you mean, Mr De Rossi?” I asked him, pretending not to know the direction he's going.

“Something tells me you're not supposed to be here.” He asked, not looking at me but at the painting.

I shifted, trying not to look tense because I knew he already knew the truth.

“And what do you intend to do about that, Mr De Rossi?” I said, also not looking at him.

He turned to me, studied me for a while and said, “Nothing, little doll, nothing. but I'd like us to meet again soon.”

“And why is that, Mr De Rossi?” I asked him, now looking back at him.

“I’d just like to but for now, enjoy the art, little doll.” He replied as he left. I watched him leave, but the name ‘little doll’ kept ringing in my mind.