The room was thick with shadow, but not darkness. Light pooled lazily from brass sconces along the walls, soft yet deliberate, as though the room itself demanded attention to every inch.
The scent of leather and polished wood hung heavy, mingled with the faint trace of smoke and something else—something sharp and magnetic that made the hairs on Elena's arms rise. She paused at the threshold, hand brushing the carved doorframe, chest tight.
"Luca Moretti ", sat behind the desk like a statue of authority, perfectly composed, perfectly calm.
His gaze fixed on her as if he had been expecting her all along, though the truth was no one ever truly expected to meet him. Few survived the first moments in his presence without crumpling.
He did not rise. He did not flinch. He did not speak. And yet the room itself seemed to bend toward him.
Elena took a step forward, chin high, heartbeat pounding.
The stories—whispered warnings, hushed threats had not prepared her for this. Most feared him. Most obeyed, either out of respect or terror.
She would do neither. She would not be a pawn. She would not be a debt. And she would not submit.
He leaned slightly forward, steepling his hands beneath his chin, studying her. His eyes were black, deep, unreadable, yet piercing, as if they could strip her bare without touching her. His presence was a command, a challenge, and a warning all at once.
"So," he said finally, voice low and controlled, smooth enough to be almost seductive, yet edged with something sharp, lethal, "you are the debt."
Elena's jaw tightened. "I am a person," she said, voice steady, carrying every ounce of defiance she could muster.
The words hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown down. Men in the room shifted uncomfortably. No one spoke to Luca Moretti like that. No one.
A faint curve tugged at his lips, almost imperceptible, like a predator acknowledging a spark of life in its prey.
"Not tonight," he murmured, his tone careful, but there was a weight behind it that made her blood hum.
"You don't own me," she said, sharper this time, leaning just a fraction into her own courage.
He rose slowly, deliberately, a silent demonstration of power. The desk was long, the office vast, yet his movement made the room feel smaller, more intimate, more dangerous.
He circled her, each step calculated, every movement measured. She could feel his heat, smell the smoke and leather clinging to him. His presence alone was a force, a warning, an invitation.
"I own what is placed on my table," he said, stopping close enough for her to feel his authority press against her skin without touching her. "And your father placed you carefully."
Her anger flared, bright and hot. "I will never love you," she said, trying to sound unwavering, though her pulse betrayed her, skipping in both fear and…something else.
He leaned slightly toward her ear, letting the warmth of his body brush hers in the closest proximity without actually closing the distance. "Good," he whispered, voice low and dangerous. "Love makes people weak."
He straightened, letting his gaze roam over her as if cataloging every reaction. Possession settled—not as satisfaction, but as curiosity. She would resist. She would fight. That much was clear. And Luca Moretti had always enjoyed a worthy challenge.
The silence stretched, dense and charged. Elena could feel it in the subtle shift of the air, in the way his eyes seemed to map every muscle of her body without moving.
She could feel the tension, the magnetic pull, the dangerous undercurrent in his calm demeanor.
For a moment, the room became theirs alone, the outside world forgotten.
"You have courage," he said finally, turning toward the window that looked down over the city.
Lights twinkled in the distance, a sprawling empire of obedience and whispered fear. "Few survive their first night in my world. Most crumble under the weight. We'll see which you are."
Her chest tightened, and she straightened instinctively. Courage battled fear inside her, while something unnameable—the pull she felt toward him—threatened to undo her resolve. It was intoxicating, maddening, and terrifying.
"I am not afraid," she said, voice firm, though her fingers flexed at her sides. A lie, but necessary.
"No," he said softly, almost a concession. "You are brave. Foolish, but brave. Dangerous, even."
He stepped closer again, this time closer than before, close enough that she could see the faint scar along his jaw, the hint of smoke clinging to his dark hair, the steady control in every line of his body.
She sensed the war within him—the constant balance between restraint and desire, dominance and curiosity.
"Do you understand what it means to be placed on my table?" he asked. The words were casual, but each syllable carried a quiet threat, a weight that could crush or consume.
"I understand survival," she said evenly. "And I intend to do it my way."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Bold. Very bold." He paused, letting the tension linger, letting her feel it in the space between them. "Most break under pressure. Most beg for mercy. But you…you intrigue me."
Elena's breath hitched slightly, though she tried to mask it. Her instincts screamed at her to step back, to flee, yet she could not tear her eyes away.
His presence was magnetic. He was danger incarnate, yet something more—a puzzle she wanted to solve even as it threatened to consume her.
He studied her for a long moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, he smiled. Not a warm smile, not a comforting one—but the kind of smile that acknowledged a challenge worth engaging. "This will be…interesting," he murmured.