CHAPTER TWO: NO NAMES

The morning air outside the hotel hit my face like a slap.

I stood on the sidewalk for two full minutes, watching a yellow taxi hit a puddle near the curb, my mind completely blank. My dress felt wrinkled. My feet ached in my heels. In my right coat pocket, the heavy weight of the stolen cufflink pressed against my hip bone every time I took a breath.

When the cab finally pulled over, I practically threw myself into the back seat.

"Lower East Side," I told the driver, leaning my head against the cold glass of the window.

My phone vibrated in my lap. I flinched, almost dropping it onto the floorboards.

Sofia: Landing in an hour. Have the espresso machine running or I will personally throw your favorite boots in the trash.

A sudden wave of heat washed over my face, straight down to my chest. I looked at the screen, my thumb hovering over the glass.

If you only knew, I thought, a strange, nervous knot twisting in my stomach.

I closed the text thread, opening a blank note instead, staring at the blinking cursor. I wanted to write it down—just to prove to myself that it had actually happened, that I hadn't hallucinated forty stories of glass, a dark suit, and a voice that felt like velvet. But typing the words I slept with a stranger felt too real, too reckless. I locked the screen and shoved the phone deep into my bag.

When I got to my apartment, the silence felt deafening. I kicked off my heels at the door, walked straight to the bathroom, and turned the shower on as hot as the pipes would allow.

I stood under the steam until my skin turned pink, letting the water wash away the faint, lingering scent of cedar and expensive scotch. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn't get rid of the phantom weight of broad, calloused hands on my waist, or the quiet, absolute way he had looked at me right before he lifted me onto the marble counter.

I rested my forehead against the wet tile wall, closing my eyes.

You don't even know his name, Bella. You're never going to see him again.

That was the point of a night like that, wasn't it? Clean. Anonymous. No strings, no follow-up texts, no awkward morning coffee. It was supposed to feel liberating.

So why did my apartment suddenly feel so small?

I dried off, threw on a faded oversized NYU sweatshirt and a pair of worn leggings, and walked over to my purse sitting on the kitchen island. I unzipped the side pocket and tipped it over.

The cufflink hit the granite counter with a solid, metallic clink.

In the bright morning sun filtering through my blinds, the gold gleamed. I picked it up, tracing the raised pattern with the pad of my thumb. The details were ridiculously precise—the subtle curve of the lion’s mane, the tiny crown sitting above its head, the sharp edge of the broadsword running vertically behind it. It wasn't standard jeweler stuff. It looked old. Bespoke. Custom-crafted for a man who didn't buy anything off a rack.

I set it down next to my coffee mug, staring at it while the pot brewed.

He was probably awake by now. He’d reach for his watch, look at the empty side of the bed, and realize his cufflink was missing. Would he think I dropped it? Or would he know I took it?

The thought made my cheeks burn, half in shame, half in a strange, nervous thrill I had no business feeling.

Across town, on the top floor of the penthouse suite, the light was entirely different.

Alessandro stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, an unlit espresso cup in his hand, watching the morning traffic crawl along the avenue below. He was fully dressed in a crisp white shirt, the top button undone, his dark trousers tailored to perfection.

On the bed behind him, the sheets were stripped back.

He turned around slowly, his gaze sweeping the floor near the nightstand. Among the dark threads of the rug, something caught the light. He stepped over, kneeling casually to pick it up.

It was a small, delicate pearl stud, the silver post slightly bent.

He held it between his forefingers, his expression unreadable. He didn't usually let women up here. His life was built on strict compartmentalization—business in the office, family at the estate, and silence everywhere else. Bringing a woman to his private suite was a rare breach in his discipline, one he usually regretted by sunrise.

Except he didn't feel regret. He felt an unusual, persistent itch in the back of his mind.

He remembered the way she had laughed on the balcony—not the polite, rehearsed laugh of the women his associates tried to set him up with, but a sharp, genuine laugh that showed she wasn't easily impressed. He remembered the feel of her hands in his hair, the heat of her skin under his palms, and the way she had looked at him like she saw right through the expensive suit.

He set the pearl stud on the polished wood of the nightstand, next to his watch.

Then his eyes narrowed.

The leather valet tray was missing its pair. One gold cufflink rested in the tray. The other space was empty.

Alessandro stared at the empty velvet slot for three long seconds. A slow, subtle rise of his eyebrow was the only physical reaction he gave.

She had taken it.

A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't anger; it was an amused, quiet recognition. She had sneaked out like a thief in the night, leaving a single pearl behind and taking a piece of his family’s mark with her.

He picked up his phone from the nightstand, pressing a speed dial.

"Don De Luca," a sharp, formal voice answered on the second ring.

"Marco," Alessandro said, his tone turning instantly businesslike, smooth and devoid of the warmth it had held hours earlier. "Have the car brought around to the side entrance in twenty minutes. And check the security footage from the terrace lounge last night."

There was a brief pause on the line. "Is there a security concern, sir?"

Alessandro looked down at the single cufflink resting in his palm, running his thumb over the lion's crown.

"No," he said softly, his dark eyes fixing on the skyline. "Just a minor accounting error. I'll be down shortly."

He locked the phone, slipping it into his pocket. He took one last look at the pearl on the table, left it where it lay, and turned toward the door.

My phone chimed on the kitchen counter, cutting through the hum of the coffee maker.

Sofia: I'm in the Uber! Open the front gate, I have three suitcases and a tragic story about a flight delay in Frankfurt.

I quickly slid the gold cufflink back into the zipped pocket of my purse, shoved the bag into the hall closet, and wiped down the counter.

"Back to real life, Bella," I whispered to myself, running a hand through my damp hair and walking toward the intercom.

"Real life."

I pressed the button to buzz Sofia up, forcing a bright, welcoming smile onto my face, blissfully unaware that the man whose cufflink was hidden in my closet was the exact same man whose portrait hung in the grand foyer of the house I was about to visit.