The night was a painting of thunder and shadows. Naples was never quiet, not even when rain blurred the lights and washed away the smell of the sea. **Elena Rossi** walked quickly down Via Toledo, her umbrella tilted against the wind, her heels tapping over wet stones. She hated working late, but the art gallery's new exhibit was opening soon, and she couldn't afford to lose her job.
The city whispered around her — the hum of scooters, the distant chatter from a bar, the sound of a church bell marking midnight. She thought she was alone. Until she felt it.
Someone was watching her.
Elena's pulse quickened. She turned sharply, her breath fogging the cold air, but saw only reflections — wet glass, moving shadows, nothing human. She exhaled slowly, trying to calm the fear that always lurked at the edges of her thoughts. Naples had stories, and she'd heard them all: the **Moretti family**, the **blood feuds**, the men who vanished. But she'd never believed she'd cross paths with any of them.
Until that night.
A car appeared from nowhere — sleek, dark, and silent — gliding up beside her like a predator. The headlights cut through the rain, casting her in harsh white light. She froze as the car stopped. The window rolled down, and she saw him.
The man inside looked like sin sculpted into perfection.
Black hair slicked back. Sharp cheekbones. A jaw that looked as if it had been carved from stone. But it was his eyes that held her — cold, gray, and merciless. Eyes that had seen things most people only feared in nightmares.
"Need a ride?" His voice was deep, smooth, slightly accented — Italian, but with something darker underneath.
Elena's fingers tightened around her umbrella. "No, thank you," she said quickly. "I'm fine."
He studied her in silence for a moment. Then the faintest hint of a smirk appeared on his lips. "People who walk alone in the rain at midnight rarely are."
She swallowed, uneasy. "Who are you?"
He leaned forward slightly, the dim light glinting off a silver ring on his hand. "**Leonardo Moretti**," he said simply.
Her heart stopped. *That* name. Everyone in Naples knew it — the man who ruled the Moretti family with quiet brutality. The man the newspapers called *Il Fantasma* — *The Ghost*.
Elena took a slow step back, every instinct screaming to run. But Leonardo opened the car door and stepped out. The rain soaked his black suit instantly, but he didn't seem to notice. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and moved with a calm, lethal grace — like a man who never had to raise his voice to be obeyed.
"I won't hurt you," he said softly, but there was something in his tone that made her shiver. "Get in the car. It's dangerous out here."
"I said I'm fine."
He tilted his head, as if curious about her defiance. "Do you always lie this badly?"
She glared at him, backing away another step. "What do you want from me?"
"Nothing," he said, and yet his eyes told a different story — something unreadable, intense. "At least, not tonight."
Elena didn't wait for more. She turned and walked quickly toward the main street, her heart thundering. But even as she walked away, she could feel his gaze on her, sharp and unrelenting.
When she reached her apartment — a small place on the third floor of a crumbling building — she locked the door and pressed her back against it, breathing hard. Her mind spun. **Leonardo Moretti.** Why her? Why tonight?
She peeled off her wet coat and went to the window. Outside, the rain had slowed, and the street below glistened under the lamplight. Then her stomach dropped.
The Maserati was parked across the street.
He was still there.
She watched, frozen, as the man stepped out of the car again. He lit a cigarette, leaned against the door, and looked up — directly at her window. Their eyes met across the distance. He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just looked at her — as if memorizing her face.
Then he got back into the car and drove away.
Elena didn't sleep that night.
The next morning, she told herself it had to be coincidence. Maybe he'd just been passing through. Maybe she was being paranoid. She forced herself to focus on her work. The gallery was buzzing — preparations for the opening gala were underway, and Elena's boss, Signora Vitale, was in one of her moods.
"Elena! The Moretti Foundation will be attending tonight," she announced, waving a clipboard. "They're our biggest donors. Do not make a mistake, capisci?"
Elena froze. "The… Moretti Foundation?"
"Yes, yes, the family funds half the art scene in this city," her boss continued, oblivious. "Be polite, smile, and don't spill wine on anyone important."
Her hands trembled slightly as she arranged a bouquet on the reception table. He wouldn't come personally, she told herself. Men like Leonardo sent others to handle such things. He probably didn't even remember her.
But when the evening came and the guests began to arrive, she felt it — that same shift in the air. That same silence before a storm.
The gallery doors opened, and he walked in.
Leonardo Moretti looked completely at ease in the room full of chatter and champagne. His suit was flawless, his expression unreadable. Men greeted him with cautious respect; women stared as if gravity itself bent toward him.
And then his eyes found her.
For a moment, the noise around them disappeared. Elena felt her heart race as he approached — slow, deliberate steps across the marble floor. When he finally stopped in front of her, he said in that same calm, velvety voice:
"Miss Rossi."
She forced a polite smile. "Mr. Moretti. Welcome to the Vitale Gallery."
He studied her face for a long moment, as if testing how much fear she could hide. "You clean up beautifully," he said.
Her cheeks flushed despite herself. "Do you usually follow women home after midnight?"
His lips curved faintly. "Only the ones who fascinate me."
Elena stared at him, torn between anger and something she didn't want to name. "I'm not someone you can just—"
"I know exactly who you are," he interrupted, his tone soft but final. "And I know you should stay away from men like me."
"Then why are you here?"
He looked past her to a painting — one of her own, though her name wasn't on it. A stormy seascape, all gray and blue and violent movement. "Because," he said quietly, "you paint like someone who's seen the dark."
Her heart skipped. "How do you know that's mine?"
He smiled slightly. "I make it my business to know everything, Elena Rossi."
And just like that, he walked away — leaving her standing there, breathless, confused, and more intrigued than she wanted to admit.
That night, when she closed the gallery, she found a white rose on the counter. No note. No signature.
Just a single white rose — and a small, silver pin with the Moretti crest pressed into its petals.