The hum of the refrigerator in Celeste Hart's apartment was the only sound daring to interrupt the silence. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, eyes red-rimmed from sleepless nights, but her focus was razor-sharp. The kitchen table had become a war zone: scattered case files, cold coffee mugs, sticky notes like battlefield flags, and a growing mountain of contradictions.
What started as a simple environmental violation tied to Moretti Construction had evolved into something far darker. Shell companies. Offshore accounts. Contracts buried in thick legalese. On first glance, it all looked routine. But when layered together, they formed a tapestry of something criminal—something intentional.
Celeste leaned in closer, eyes narrowing as she traced funds routed through dummy corporations to accounts linked to Eastern Europe, South America, and Southeast Asia. The paper trail didn't reek of corporate fraud anymore. This was about influence. About territory.
And someone didn't want her seeing it.
Suddenly, her laptop blinked. A new anonymous file appeared in her secure inbox. No sender ID. Just a link and a file titled: **"Valdez Case - 7 Years Cold."
Her brows knit together.
She ran diagnostics. No trace of malware. Nothing pinged. Against her better judgment, she opened it.
Photos. Transcripts. Evidence linking a rival cartel out of South Florida—the Herrera Syndicate—to drug trafficking, smuggling, even political bribery. The data was dense and damning.
"Why would someone send me this now?" she murmured.
Then it clicked. A diversion.
Luca.
He knew she was getting close. And instead of using brute force, he sent her a different monster to chase.
She should've ignored it.
But part of her—a righteous part that had long outgrown black-and-white—took the bait. If the Herrera Syndicate was connected to anything going on in New York, it was worth checking.
So she did.
That same week, she took on a federal defense case. A man accused of laundering for the Herrera crew. She defended him in court, poking holes in the prosecution. It worked. He walked.
And that's when everything began to unravel.
---
Two days later, her tires were slashed.
Then her firm received an anonymous threat.
Then came the car.
---
It was raining. Hard. The wipers struggled against the downpour as she drove home from another late meeting. The city looked like a smeared oil painting through her windshield. She was thinking about Moretti. About the files. About the fact that she might be protecting the wrong people.
That's when she saw the headlights.
Too fast. Too close.
The SUV slammed into her rear. Her car fishtailed, spinning out. Her head snapped sideways as glass exploded. Metal crunched. The airbags deployed too late.
And just before everything went dark, she saw him.
A silhouette. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. The faintest trace of a familiar cologne. Sandalwood. Clean. Sharp.
Her pulse stuttered.
Luca.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Then—black.
---
Twelve hours later, she woke up in a hospital bed.
Ribs taped. IV in her arm. Lips dry. The scent of antiseptic burned her nose.
Marcus sat beside her, pale, anxious.
"You're lucky," he said. "Someone called it in. Told paramedics you were breathing. Disappeared before anyone could ask questions."
Her voice came out hoarse. "Did they say anything else?"
"Just... a black Maserati. That's all anyone remembers."
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
It was him.
She didn't need proof.
---
When she was discharged days later, her body still ached, but it was her instincts that screamed.
She reached her apartment and froze.
The door was open.
Inside, chaos. Her files were ransacked. Laptops smashed. Drawers overturned. Documents gone. Her safe—empty. The fake IDs. The duplicate hard drive. The evidence against Moretti.
All of it.
Gone.
She didn't panic. She called a discreet cleaning service and sat silently until they arrived.
Then, she texted him:
"Luca. Lunch. Tomorrow. My treat."
A few hours later, his reply came:
"I'll send a car. 5 PM."
She didn't smile.
As she turned to head to her bedroom, she spotted an envelope on her kitchen counter.
Plain. Cream-colored.
Inside: a photo of her as a child. With her father. Smiling in Central Park.
She nearly dropped it.
This wasn't intimidation.
This was personal.
The only person who could help her now... was the very man she was hunting.
---
Meanwhile, inside a sleek skyscraper overlooking the East River, Luca Moretti sat in his glass-walled office. A tailored navy suit hugged his frame. The meeting on his laptop screen showed four men, faces pixelated, voices encrypted.
Italian. Colombian. Turkish.
They discussed supply lines. Logistics. A container headed to Naples. Another rerouted through Panama. Cocaine wrapped in children's toys.
When the call ended, Luca took a breath.
His PA knocked. "Your father's on line two."
Luca answered.
"Papa."
The voice on the other end was colder than the wind off the Amalfi coast.
"Why haven't you handled the girl? She's a risk to our business."
Luca's grip tightened around the receiver. "She's being watched. I have it under control."
"Control is an illusion, figlio. You delay, and I will act."
"Stay out of this," Luca snapped. "She's mine to manage."
Silence.
Then: "Do not forget dinner next Friday. Everyone will be there. Royals. Speakers. Rival families. And they all want to know who inherits the throne."
"It hasn't been announced."
"No. But it's assumed. Your sister won't take the crown. It falls to you."
Luca stayed quiet.
"You'll need a partner. Someone beside you. Wife or right hand. They'll expect her."
Click.
The line went dead.
Luca sat back, staring at the skyline.
His jaw clenched. His pulse ticked.
He remembered Celeste in the café. Her voice. Her spine. The fire in her eyes.
He smirked.
He could play her.
Just like the others.
Or...
Would he end up the one at her mercy?