Chapter 65: Calm Storm

Luca's POV

For the first time in a long while, I was alone.

No driver, no Alex moving close like a shadow. Just me behind the wheel, moving through the quiet streets. It felt strange, almost too quiet. But I didn’t mind. It gave me space to breathe.

I’d sent Alex to Maria. He could handle showing her the new location. She’d trust him, and I trusted Alex enough for this. For once, I didn’t feel the need to control every second.

My hands tightened on the steering wheel. Maybe I wanted the silence because it reminded me of something I’d nearly forgotten. What it was like to be a man before I was a boss. Before everything had to be about control and power.

The gallery came into view before I even knew that was where I’d been heading. It had been months since I walked into one.

The last time was with Maria, just a few days after we’d met. I could still see her in my mind that day. Her eyes moving from piece to another piece, her face lighting up in a way I rarely see anymore.

That day had been interrupted, though. Some loud homosexual decided to throw threats my way, trying to look tough. A man who wanted attention.

 Normally, I wouldn’t have let it pass, but Maria was there. And back then… all I wanted was her. She was the distraction I needed. The one who filled the space Alexa left behind.

I parked the car and stepped inside. The air was cooler here, touched with the faint smell of paint and wood polish.

A quiet hum of voice drifted through the halls. My eyes moved across the walls, the paintings, the sculptures. For a moment, I wasn’t Luca De Rossi the mafia boss. I was just Luca. A man looking at art.

I stopped in front of a canvas that caught me. Blues and greys mixing together, like a storm over the sea. Something about it reminded me of myself. The storm in the inside and the calm outside that everyone gets to see.

“You look like you’re about to step into it.”

A voice came from beside me. Soft, feminine, but with a hint of playfulness. I turned and saw her, a woman, maybe mid-thirties. Dark hair pulled back, sharp eyes that studied me the way she probably studied the painting.

“Storms don’t scare me,” I managed to reply.

“Good,” she smiled faintly. “They shouldn’t. The storm is just the sea showing its strength.”

I nodded, looking back at the painting. “Most people only see the destruction. They don’t see the strength.”

“Or the beauty,” she added.

I glanced at her again, this time a little longer. I don't think she was just making small talks. I think she understood.

We moved from one painting to another, as though it was natural for us to walk together. She paused in front of a portrait of a woman covered in silk cloth, her lips slightly opened, her eyes looking down. The description below spoke about longing. Desire.

“It’s not really about her dress,” the woman beside me said, her voice lower now. “It’s about what isn’t said.”

I looked at her. “The way she looks down. Like she’s waiting for someone to tell her what to do.”

“Or maybe…” she shifted her head, "maybe she’s deciding if she’ll let them.”

That made me chuckle quietly. “So you think she’s in control?”

“Maybe not fully,” she said. “But she knows the power she holds. You see her lips? Just slightly open, like an invitation. She doesn’t have to say a word. He’ll come to her.”

We stood there, both looking at the painting but not really seeing it anymore. Our words had drifted somewhere else.

“Do you like control?” she asked suddenly, almost casually, though her eyes stayed fixed on the painting.

I let the question sit for a second before answering. “I’d say I like balance. I don’t need to control everything. But I don’t like being controlled either.”

She turned to me then, her lips curving slightly. “That sounds like a man who knows what he wants.”

“I do,” I said. My voice was steady, calm, but the air between us felt different now.

We moved again, this time to a smaller piece. A sketch of two hands barely touching, the space between them filled with tension.

“This one…,” she said softly, “this one isn’t about touch. It’s about the moment before it.”

I leaned closer to look. “The anticipation.”

“Yes.” She smiled, her eyes moving to mine. “Sometimes that’s stronger than the act itself.”

Her words hung in the air. For a moment, I thought about Maria, about how once I couldn’t stop thinking about touching her, holding her, having her. Now it was different. Too familiar. Almost routine.

I shook the thought away. This woman wasn’t Maria. And yet, something about her reminded me that I was still a man, not just the role I played every day.

We lingered by the sketch longer than necessary. Neither of us said much, but there was no need. The silence was heavy enough.

Finally, she broke it. “Aren’t you going to ask me to dinner?”

Her eyes met mine, steady, challenging.

A slow smile spread across my face. “Yes,” I said simply. “Come to dinner with me.”