Chapter 4 — The Pen, the Profile, and the Problem
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Ava Moretti didn't sleep that night.
She tried — really, she did. But her brain refused to shut up.
Every time she closed her eyes, all she saw was his smirk… and those two engraved letters gleaming on the pen in her hand.
L.D.
Lorenzo DeLuca.
The same initials printed at the top of the psychological case file sitting on her desk.
The same man she'd roasted, argued with, and accidentally flirted with… twice.
Her entire existence was now a very complicated joke. And the universe was still laughing.
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By morning, she was pacing her tiny apartment, muttering to herself.
"Okay. Breathe, Ava. He's just a guy. A terrifyingly powerful, illegally charming mafia guy who could probably have you kidnapped in a Prada trunk. Totally fine."
Her best friend Serena groaned from the bed. "Are you still having your 'I roasted the mafia' breakdown?"
Ava turned, waving the file dramatically. "Serena. He's Profile Forty-Seven. The man I'm supposed to analyze in class. The literal case study!"
Serena sat up. "Wait. You're telling me your project is on him? Like, Mafia McHandsome?"
"Exactly."
Serena blinked. "Okay, that's… insanely hot but also terrifying. What are you gonna do?"
Ava collapsed into a chair. "I don't know! If Professor Hayes finds out I know him, I'll fail. If Lorenzo finds out I know this—" she shook the file— "I'll probably end up sleeping with the fishes. Not metaphorically."
Serena sighed. "Girl, you're living in a Wattpad story."
"Don't say that," Ava groaned. "That's my nightmare."
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Later that day — Campus Library.
Ava tried to focus on her notes, but concentration was a myth. Every student noise sounded suspicious. Every passing shadow made her jump.
Then a low voice murmured behind her,
"Studying hard, Miss Moretti?"
She almost threw her notebook across the table.
Turning slowly, she found Lorenzo leaning casually against the bookshelf, looking too good to be legal in that dark turtleneck and long coat. His smile was soft, but his eyes — sharp, assessing.
"Do you ever knock before appearing out of thin air?" she demanded, clutching her chest.
He chuckled. "Not usually. I like seeing genuine reactions."
"Well, congrats. You almost got hit with a psychology textbook."
He smirked. "A brutal weapon, I'm sure."
She rolled her eyes and tried to hide the file under her notebook. But Lorenzo wasn't stupid. His gaze flicked to the folder just long enough to notice her subtle panic.
"What's that?" he asked casually.
"Nothing." Too quick. Too defensive.
He tilted his head. "That's not an answer."
She forced a smile. "It's just a class project."
"About?"
Her brain screamed don't say mafia, so she said, "Um—leadership styles."
Lorenzo chuckled softly, walking around the table until he was beside her. "Interesting. I didn't think they taught charm and chaos in leadership."
Ava looked up at him, pulse racing. "Oh, they don't. I just happen to be studying a living example."
His eyes lingered on her face for a long moment, and then he smiled — that quiet, knowing smile that made her stomach drop.
"I see," he said finally. "Then I hope your study is thorough."
Before she could reply, he reached down — and plucked her pen from the table. The engraved one.
"You still have it," he murmured, rolling it between his fingers. "Good."
"Of course," she said lightly, trying to sound normal. "Wouldn't want to lose another pen and risk another 'accidental meet-cute.'"
His gaze softened. "You make it sound like you regret it."
"Maybe I do," she said, lying through her teeth.
"Then it's a good thing I don't."
And with that, he set the pen back down in front of her — gently, like a warning disguised as a gift — and walked away.
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The moment he was gone, Ava slumped against the chair, whispering,
"Oh, I am so dead."
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That night, she sat in her apartment again, staring at the file.
She flipped through the notes, reading what the psychological report said about him.
> "Subject demonstrates a rare combination of emotional detachment and moral code. May exhibit protective instincts toward specific individuals deemed 'worthy.' Possible internal conflict between violence and empathy."
Ava frowned.
Violence and empathy.
It sounded impossible — but it also sounded exactly like him.
And as much as she hated to admit it, she wanted to understand him.
Not for the project. Not for grades.
For herself.
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She picked up her pen — his pen — and began writing in her notes.
> Hypothesis: People like Lorenzo DeLuca aren't born monsters.
They become one to survive in a world that mistakes silence for weakness.
She stared at the words for a long time.
Then she smiled bitterly and whispered, "Maybe I'm the one who needs a psychology session."
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Meanwhile — elsewhere in the city.
Lorenzo sat in the back of his car, scrolling through a dossier.
On the screen: Ava Moretti — 22 years old.
His driver glanced at him through the mirror. "You think she knows?"
Lorenzo's jaw tightened. "Not yet."
"But she's not… ordinary."
"No," Lorenzo said quietly, eyes narrowing. "That's exactly the problem."
He looked out the window — rain sliding down the glass — and smiled faintly.
"She's too smart for her own good. And I can't decide if that's going to save her…"
He paused.
"Or destroy her."
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End of Chapter 4.
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