I didn't ask who he was.
I didn't need to.
Because my body already knew the answer long before my mind could catch up.It remembered the weight of him. The violence.The way he fucked like he was punishing something—and the way I let him.
I hadn't spoken since.
Not to anyone. Not really.
The bruise on my hip had bloomed purple and green and gone. The bite mark at my collarbone was now a fading crescent. My thighs didn't ache anymore—but sometimes, when I closed my eyes, I could still feel them spread. Still feel the way he'd made me beg without using a single word.
He hadn't left a number. No name. No trace.
Except the way he haunted the mirror when I touched myself in the dark.
I told myself it was a one-time thing.
A mistake.
But then I heard it.
A name.
Not shouted. Not whispered. Just spoken like a warning, across the noise of some party I hadn't even wanted to be at.
"Dante Morelli."
The glass in my hand didn't fall. But it cracked.
Inside, I cracked.
The girls standing next to me kept talking. Laughing. Tossing out half-truths and rumors like confetti.
"He's back. Took over part of the shipping trade. People say he's unpredictable."
"Unstable."
"Un-fucking-touchable."
And I stood there, heart pounding so loud I barely heard the rest.
Dante.Morelli.
The words fit like bullets into a chamber. Cold. Heavy. Dangerous.
I slipped out.
No excuse. No goodbye.
Just my heels clicking against marble, my pulse hammering inside my ears, and a name I couldn't stop tasting.
In the bathroom, under dim lighting that turned my skin ghost-pale, I searched.
One word.
Dante Morelli.
And there he was.
The man from the alley.
The man who'd split me open with nothing but a whisper and a crooked smile.
His face filled the screen. His eyes. That scar under his lip. A photo that didn't capture a fraction of how it felt to have his fingers inside me.
A list of crimes followed.
Gun trafficking. Racketeering. At least three open murder investigations—no charges.
Each line made my breath shorter. My thighs tighter.
Because I didn't care about the crimes.I cared about the fact that I still wanted him.
No—
Needed him.
Like an addict needs the next hit.Like my body had decided he was mine before I even had the chance to disagree.
I should've deleted the page. Blocked the name. Pretended I never knew.
But instead— I mailed the contact on the impressum.
"It's me..."
Three dots.
Then silence.
I thought he wouldn't answer.
Until twenty minutes later—
A black car.
Parked outside.
I didn't think.
Didn't breathe.
I got in.
And he didn't speak.
He just looked at me like he knew I'd come.Like he'd always known.
The door closed.The lock clicked.
And I let myself fall—again.
Because whatever he was…Whatever name he carried—
He already had mine.