Introducting you all with the book characters
Alina Moore
•Mafia
•BusinessWomen
•Age : 25
"Alina Moore doesn't raise her voice to be heard.
She lets her silence speak, her eyes warn, and her strength remind the world that softness and power can exist in the same woman."
Silas Grey
•Tattoo Artist
•Famous Artist
•Age : 30
"Silas Grey doesn't chase attention or forgiveness.
He stands in his silence, lets fear speak for him, and carries a darkness so calm that people realize too late — he was never meant to be saved."
And some side characters
FAMILY OF ALINA MOORE
~Father
Alexander Moore
~Mother
Elara Moore
~Brother
Lucas Moore
FAMILY OF SILAS GREY
~Father
Victor Grey
~Mother
Helena Grey
~Brother
Marcus Grey
~Sister
Selene Grey
Prologue
Alina Moore never entered a room quietly.
Not because she made noise — but because the air shifted when she arrived.
The world seemed to pause, recalibrate, as if unsure how to hold a woman like her. She walked with measured confidence, heels echoing like a countdown, posture sharp enough to cut. Dark eyes. Calm face. A silence that wasn't empty, but deliberate. People often mistook her composure for softness.
They were always wrong.
Alina Moore was control dressed as elegance. Intelligence wrapped in restraint. She didn't demand attention — she commanded it by existing. Every step she took carried intention. Every glance weighed consequences. And behind the polished exterior lived a mind that never stopped calculating.
She believed in preparation.
In observation.
In knowing everything before making a move.
Which is why, when the heavy door closed behind her and the city noise dulled into nothing, she finally allowed herself to breathe.
The room was dim, lit only by the glow of multiple screens. No mirrors. No windows. Just technology, quiet hums, and truth stripped bare. Alina shrugged off her coat and moved toward the desk, fingers brushing the surface like she owned the space — because she did.
Her gaze lifted.
There he was.
Silas Grey.
Captured through a hidden camera, framed in cold precision. The angle was perfect — unassuming, invisible. He sat alone, unaware, posture relaxed yet coiled, like a predator conserving energy. Even through pixels and glass, his presence was suffocating.
Dangerous.
Beautifully so.
Alina studied him the way others studied art or storms — with fascination sharpened by restraint. She knew the exact time he arrived. The way his jaw tightened when he thought. The barely perceptible pause before he spoke. She had memorized his habits long before he ever noticed her existence.
He was feared by many. Untouchable to most. A man wrapped in reputation and darkness.
And yet — here he was. Seen. Tracked. Known.
A slow smile curved her lips, not warm, not cruel — intentional.
"Still pretending you're alone," she murmured softly, eyes never leaving the screen.
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs with unhurried grace, watching him move, breathe, exist — unaware that every detail of him was already etched into her mind.
This wasn't curiosity.
This was not chance.
This was fixation, dressed as patience.
And as the screen flickered quietly in the dark, one truth settled deep into Alina Moore's bones —
Some stories don't begin with love.
They begin with watching.
And Silas Grey had no idea
he was already the center of hers.
Silas Grey had learned long ago that danger didn't always announce itself.
Sometimes, it breathed quietly.
Sometimes, it watched.
He sat alone in the muted glow of the room, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the scars he never explained. His posture was relaxed — deceptively so. Every muscle knew its purpose. Every instinct stayed awake. Men like him didn't survive by chance. They survived by listening to what others ignored.
And tonight, something felt… off.
Not a sound.
Not a movement.
Just the unmistakable pull of awareness crawling up his spine.
Silas lifted his glass, eyes steady, expression unreadable. He had been watched before — by enemies, by rivals, by people who wanted something from him. Fear. Money. Blood. That kind of attention was loud, clumsy.
This was different.
This was quiet.
Patient.
Intentional.
He scanned the room without turning his head, trusting reflections, shadows, instincts sharpened by years of violence and survival. Nothing revealed itself. No cameras he could see. No misplaced wires. No disturbances in the air.
Still, the feeling remained.
A slow exhale left him as he set the glass down. His jaw tightened, not in panic — in interest.
Whoever it was, they were good.
Silas Grey did not believe in paranoia. He believed in patterns. And this pattern whispered one dangerous truth: someone knew him well enough to stay hidden.
A faint smirk touched his lips — brief, humorless.
He stood, adjusting his cuffs with precise movements, every step deliberate. If someone was watching, he would give them nothing. No reaction. No weakness. Only the calm confidence of a man who had faced worse than unseen eyes.
Yet somewhere beneath the steel and discipline, a strange spark flickered.
Not fear.
Curiosity.
Because for the first time in a long while, Silas Grey felt like prey — and the thought did not unsettle him.
It intrigued him.
Some men run when they sense the dark closing in.
Others turn toward it.
Silas Grey had always been the latter.
And whoever was watching him tonight had just stepped into a game they didn't yet understand — because Silas Grey never stayed unaware for long.
Sooner or later,
he always found the eyes that followed him.