LOGINI existed in monochrome. Then she walked in and set my world on fire. Now her name beats in my chest like a second pulse. And I won't stop until she's just as addicted to me.
View MoreViolette2:36 a.m.I stared at the digital clock on my bedside table. The neon-red numbers were the only thing cutting through the oppressive darkness of my room. I had given up trying to sleep hours ago. Every time I closed my eyes, I just saw the cold, closed-off look on Renzo’s face in the car, heard the finality in his voice when he shut me out.No calls. No texts. Just silence.I guessed he wasn’t coming either.Tears stung my eyes, hot and shameful. I bit my lip, hard, to keep them at bay. God, I was so pathetic. Wanting to cry because we had our first real argument. Was it even an argument? It felt more like a door slamming in my face.I closed my eyes, trying to force my body to relax, but I was hyper-aware of everything. The silky, expensive feel of the burgundy La Perla nightgown he bought me—a stupid, hopeful choice when I got ready for bed. The cool weight of the sapphire drop necklace resting in the hollow of my throat, another gift. I felt like a traitor to my own anger,
Renzo The address Alessandro sent was a studio apartment in the West Loop. Tenant: a Mike Floyd. The building was a bland, modern thing. I took the stairs, my footsteps silent on the concrete. Apartment 4B. I stood in front of the brown door and knocked twice. The re-screwed the silencer into the gun, the metal threads catching with a soft, final click. I flexed my hand. It had been a long time since I’d held one like this, not that I was out of practice. I made sure to stay sharp. But I usually let other people take care of my business for me. Not today. Not this business. This was mine and mine alone. I raised my fist to knock for the second time, my jaw clenched so tight it ached. Whoever was behind this door had five seconds to open it before I— The door swung open to reveal a shirtless, lanky guy with wet hair and an annoyed expression on his face. "Yeah, what?" he grunted. We stared at each other. Him, annoyed that I was staring without saying what I wanted. Me,
Renzo Papa always said one thing whenever Marco questioned him about how he met Mama. My brother was a hopeless romantic even with his knuckles perpetually scraped from fights, already obsessed with the idea of a soulmate at eleven years old. And Papa would always reply with the same words. You don't find her. You recognize her. It's like coming home. No noise. No questions. Just a quiet certainty. I thought it was the dumbest thing I'd ever heard. I didn't think that anymore. The hum of the jet was a low, steady sound, but it was nothing compared to the silence inside me. A good silence. The kind of silence you find in the eye of a storm, a perfect, peaceful center where everything just stops. That was what her weight against my shoulder did. It stopped the noise. For most of my life, my head had been a loud place. A constant, grinding calculation of business, of strategy, of threats, of power. It was how I was raised. It was how I built what I had. It was a relentless engine
RenzoThe penthouse is unsettlingly quiet when I walk in, the kind of quiet that makes me briefly wonder if I’ve stepped into the wrong place. All the lights are off, not even the soft glow of the hallway sconces greeting me. New York hums beneath us, horns, a siren in the distance, the muted chaos of the city that never goes to bed, but up here, on the top floor, it feels like I’ve entered another world.I loosen the noose around my neck—otherwise known as my tie, and sling it over the arm of a chair by the foyer. It's been one hell of a day at work, finalizing details for the Manhattan project before we head back to Chicago tomorrow. The kind of day where numbers blur into each other and my phone never stops buzzing. And truth? I barely registered any of it. Because all I could think about, obsess over, really was getting back here, to her. Back to Violette.If I hadn’t forced myself to go handle this last bit of business, I already know what I’d be doing: booking a return flight he
VioletteThe night smelled like saltwater and champagne before we were even close to the docks. New York had that way of pressing itself against your senses all at once: the hum of the West Side Highway, the glittering skyline carved against obsidian, and the restless tug of the Hudson, black but a
Violette I slide into the cool leather of the back seat, the faint scent of polished interiors and Renzo’s cologne lingering in the air as if he had been in the car the whole time. The door clicks shut softly behind me, and before I can exhale, Renzo slips in on the other side—two seconds, maybe l
VioletteWhen I wake up the next morning, I’m already dressed for work. Sleep hadn’t been much of a friend last night, so by the time dawn crept through the blinds, I simply gave up trying to wrestle with restless thoughts and slipped into straight black skirt and white top, and put on light makeup
VioletteThe water slid against my skin in silken ripples as I leaned back, arms sprawled along the edges of the floating wicker tray. Slices of pineapple, berries, and glistening grapes lay scattered around a bowl of chilled strawberries layered with whipped cream. The scent of fresh mango lingere





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