chapter 2

A month passed.

I lived in a quiet one-bedroom apartment above a café. I cooked pasta with olive oil and basil, wrote in a fake journal at night, and drank tea on the balcony. I smiled at old ladies. I flirted with the waiter downstairs, just enough to stay hidden.

I had never lived like this before. No bodyguards. No whispered meetings in the dark. No coded messages or silenced guns. I was playing pretend—but somehow, I felt more real than I ever had.

Still, I hadn’t seen Alexandro.

Not until one rainy Wednesday

The shop was nearly empty. Rain tapped against the glass, soft and steady. I stood behind the counter, trimming tulips, when the bell above the door chimed.

I looked up.

And there he was.

Alexandro Campania.

Wearing black.

He stepped inside like he owned the place, which he probably did. Water dripped from his coat, and his eyes—dark, unreadable—met mine.

My heart skipped. Froze. Shattered.

He was more beautiful up close than I remembered.

“Buongiorno,” I said softly, trying not to let my voice shake.

He looked at me like he was trying to figure out if he’d seen me before. He hadn’t. Not like this.

“Are you new?” he asked.

His voice was low. Rough.

“Yes,” I said, smiling. “My name is Gilda. I just started last month.”

He looked around the shop like he didn’t care. Then his eyes returned to mine.

“White tulips,” he said. “Wrapped in brownpaper.”

I moved automatically, my fingers steady though my mind was spinning.

I wrapped the bouquet and handed it to him.

He took it, brushed my fingers.

I don’t think he meant to.

But when our hands touched—just for a second—I saw something in his eyes shift.

Curiosity.

Something small. Something dangerous.

“Grazie,” he said.

Then he turned and walked back into the rain.

I stood behind the counter for a long time, the smell of tulips and coffee in the air, my heart pounding.

I had done it.

He’d noticed me.

Now, the game had truly begun.

The next day, he came back.

This time, he didn’t say a word at first. He just stepped in, looked at the flowers, then at me. He was dressed in another black suit, no tie, jacket open. He moved with the kind of grace that came from power and pain—like every inch of him knew how to kill and how to command.

“You again,” he said.

I smiled. “Me again.”

He stared at me, then walked toward the lilies.

“You don’t sound local,” he said.

I shrugged. “I grew up in Ischia. Moved here for a fresh start.”

“Alone?”

“Mm-hm.”

His gaze flickered. Something passed through it—an interest, maybe. Or a warning.

“Not many girls move alone,” he said.

I tilted my head. “Maybe I’m not like most girls.”

He almost smiled.

It was small. Barely there.

But it counted.

That became a rhythm.

Alexandro came every three or four days. Sometimes he bought white flowers. Sometimes red. Once, he asked for wildflowers—rough, soft, tangled things.

“Who are they for?” I asked once, curious.

He had looked at me, deadpan. “No one.”

I blinked. “You just like flowers?”

“I like peace,” he said simply. “And flowers are quiet.”

I nodded like I understood.

But something inside me twisted.

Because I knew why he came.

It wasn’t the flowers.

It was me.

We talked more after that.

Not much. Just little things.

“What’s your favorite flower?” he asked once.

“Iris,” I said. “They stand tall, but they’re fragile.”

He nodded like he got that.

Another time, I asked him what he did for work.

He looked at me for a long second, then said, “Logistics.”

I almost laughed.

He didn’t blink.

I kept my face straight.

“Logistics,” I repeated. “Sounds… stressful.”

He looked at me. “Sometimes.”

I never asked again.

He never offered more.

That was our dance—half-truths and glances.

One evening, close to closing time, it rained again.

Thunder shook the sky. I was sweeping petals from the floor when the door opened. I looked up—and my heart jumped.

He was soaked. No coat. Shirt clinging to his chest. His jaw was tight.

“Rough day?” I asked gently.

He didn’t answer. Just walked in, breathing hard like he’d been running. Or pacing.

“Do you want me to wrap something up for you?” I offered.

He didn’t move.

Then suddenly—his eyes met mine, dark and wild.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said quietly. “But you’re not like the others.”

I froze.

“What do you mean?” I asked, too casually.

He stepped closer, slow and careful.

“You don’t look at me like you’re scared. Or impressed.”

My breath caught. “Should I be?”

He was close now. I could smell rain and smoke and something sharp—gunpowder maybe, or cologne that reminded me of war.

“No,” he said. “But most people are.”

I swallowed.

He looked down at my hands. “You don’t wear perfume.”

“No.”

“You don’t flirt.”

I smiled. “I thought I was.”

His lips twitched. Not a smile. But not nothing.

He reached out then—slow, deliberate—and touched a loose strand of my hair, tucking it behind my ear. His fingers were warm, but the air between us crackled.

“You confuse me,” he said softly.

“Good,” I whispered.

He stared for a second longer, then stepped back. The moment shattered like glass.

“Red carnations,” he said, voice clipped now. “Wrap them in ribbon.”

I moved fast. Hands trembling slightly as I tied the bow.

He took the bouquet. No words. No glances.

Then he left.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I sat on my balcony, knees pulled to my chest, thinking about him. His hands. His voice. The way he’d looked at me—like I was a puzzle. Like he wanted to figure me out.

It was working.

He was interested.

Not suspicious. Not yet. But intrigued.

And I had to keep it that way.

One wrong move and everything would collapse. If he ever found out I was Gild Leoni—the daughter of a mafia man he worked with, a girl who grew up surrounded by guns and blood—he would shut down. Cut me off. Maybe even kill me.

But if I kept playing the part—sweet, quiet, unknown—he might fall.

He might choose me.

And once he did… he’d never let me go.

The next week, he didn’t come in.

I told myself not to worry. Maybe he was traveling. Maybe something came up.

But on the fifth day, I started to panic.

What if he’d found out?

What if someone from Sicily had come to Campania and recognized me?

What if I’d already lost?

Then, on the sixth day, just before sunset, he walked in again.

This time, his shirt was clean. His eyes calmer.

But he didn’t go to the flowers.

He came to the counter.

“I have a dinner tomorrow,” he said. “A formal one. I need something... elegant.”

I blinked. “For the table?”

He shook his head. “For the girl.”

I hated the rush of jealousy that burned through me.

But I kept my face still.

“What’s she like?” I asked, forcing a small smile.

He paused. “She’s... quiet. Smart. She listens. But I don’t think she’s what she seems.”

My heart skipped.

“She dangerous?”

He looked at me. “I don’t know yet.”

I stepped away, hands shaking just slightly, and picked up a single stem—a dark rose, deep crimson. Almost black.

I wrapped it in gold paper.

“Give her this,” I said, voice soft.

He took it. His eyes met mine.

Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a card.

A dinner invitation.

“My mother’s birthday. Villa Campania. Tomorrow night. You’ll be arranging the flowers. Be there at seven.”

I stared.

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just turned and walked out.

And just like that, I was in.

Inside his world. His home. His life.

This was the next phase.

I had a foot in the lion’s den—and he didn’t even know I was a lioness.

Not yet.

But soon.

Very soon.