Milan outskirts.
Old stone shell on the outside.
Underground, the air changed—
metal, alcohol, a hidden empire breathing in the dark.
Glass rigs lined the workbench, whispering steam.
The centrifuge hummed through the floor.
Cooling water ran slow.
Luca rolled his sleeves.
Silver spoon dipped into the white crystal.
Light caught in it—pure, perfect.
A ghost of a smile.
Her voice came from behind, soft but low.
"Last batch."
Elena.
Wine-red hair tied back.
Lab coat over a slip.
The basement didn't touch her composure.
She set the tray down—small glass vials, neat as bullets.
"If it's from your hands, there's no mistake."
His eyes stayed on the vials.
"Want me to show you?"
From her pocket—
a soft gelatin capsule, pale blue liquid shifting inside.
"You'll be the measure," he said.
A brow arched.
"Test subjects charge extra."
"If your reaction's good, you'll make it back."
She swallowed it with water.
Minutes passed.
Breath shorter.
Color rising in her neck.
Heat pushing through the slip.
"…heart's fast."
"Afraid?"
"No… calmer. But everything's—"
She exhaled.
"—alive."
He wrote it down—time, changes, her face.
Researcher's cold eye.
Hunter's quiet focus.
She slid onto the bench edge,
fingers catching his wrist.
"At a party, this would ruin people"
"That's the point."
The words lit something.
Her breath hitched.
The drug was already running through her like static.
"Luca…"
Her voice dropped.
Feet closing the gap.
The lab coat swayed—
glass clinked somewhere on the bench.
He moved back.
She caught his tie.
"You think you can stop now?"
No answer.
Only breath meeting breath.
She stripped buttons fast.
Cold air found his skin.
He stopped counting.
Arms around her waist, lifting—
bench shivered under her back.
Her breath sharpened.
"Elena—"
She cut him off with her mouth.
Tongues collided.
Breath tangled.
Hands didn't wait.
Glass. Wires. Dangerous close.
He didn't break the kiss—
pulled her in, arm under her thigh.
"Don't move," low and flat in her ear.
Her breath caught.
Then he lifted her.
One step. Two.
Black leather couch in the corner.
Papers scattered behind them, lights strobing off metal.
Her back sank into the cushions.
No air left to steady herself.
He leaned in, hand sliding her skirt high.
Fingers slipped under her silk.
"Faster than I thought," he said,
the corner of his mouth lifting.
She grabbed his wrist, pushed deeper.
Heat built quick.
The coat slid from her shoulders.
Skin burned under his hands.
Her fingers tore at his tie.
"Elena—"
She answered by lifting her hips, closing the gap.
Friction. Breath quickening.
The drug was peaking.
Her voice broke on his name.
His touch claimed her now—
no testing, only taking.
His mouth traced her throat.
She clutched his hair.
Bodies shifting in the cushions.
A deeper push—her back arched, shuddering.
Short, sharp cries in his ear.
His breath roughened to match.
He moved slow at first, deliberate,
mapping each twitch of her breath,
every shift in her hips.
Then faster, following the heat spiraling higher.
"Lu…ca—"
Her voice tightened around him like a grip.
He didn't hold back—drove deeper
until the air was thick with heat
and their breathing came in ragged sync.
The couch creaked,
her grip on him tightening,
both of them riding the last hard wave until
it broke and left them sinking into the aftermath.
For a moment—
only breath. Sweat cooling on skin.
Heartbeats loud in the silence.
He slid back, sitting against the couch.
She stayed on his lap, shoulder limp against his chest.
He brushed damp hair from her face.
"Test… passed."
His smile slow. His eyes cold.
She said nothing.
Fingers curled in his shirt.
She knew she'd take the drug again.
Luca listened to her uneven breathing,
watching his shadow in the window.
This wasn't just a stimulant.
It was a memory you'd pay any price to repeat.
Faces flickered in his head—
heiress, political aide, high-rolling gambler.
They'd want this.
They'd pay.
He buttoned his shirt, murmured to himself,
"Two horses… time to run them both."
One last glance at Elena,
then he was already thinking about the next meeting.
Pleasure ended here.
Profit started now.
Near dawn,
he walked into a private salon in central Milan.
Champagne glasses clinked;
politicians, artists, and magnates mingled
in a haze of perfume and smoke.
He smiled when it suited him,
moved like a shadow when it didn't.
Back at the villa,
Bianca sat on the second-floor balcony,
wine glass in hand,
lamp light catching in her hair.
She knew where he was.
She knew there were always women where he was.
She was used to waiting.
But tonight, the weight of it was heavier.
The butler, Matteo, stepped in.
"He'll be late again, signora."
"Of course."
Her smile was brief, fading as soon as it came.
The longer he stayed away,
the slower her jealousy moved—
but like poison, it spread without failing.