"Looks like we're stuck," he said lightly.
Elena smirked. "Storms don't last forever."
Something about her voice stayed with him.
They talked. About nothing important—music, travel, the strange loneliness of big cities. Luca didn't mention he ruled half the docks. Elena didn't say her father controlled a cartel feared across borders. For once, neither identity mattered.
When the rain slowed, Luca offered to walk her to her hotel. She hesitated, instinct screaming caution, but something softer won.
That walk changed everything.
⸻
Their second meeting wasn't coincidence—it was fate with a cruel sense of humor.
A week later, Luca attended a private negotiation meant to prevent a bloodbath between two criminal empires. When Elena entered the room at her father's side, dressed in elegance and authority, the air left Luca's lungs.
Cartel royalty.
Her eyes widened just slightly. Mafia king.
Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken realization. The tenderness of that rainy night clashed violently with the reality of who they were.
After the meeting dissolved into tense politeness, Luca found her alone on a balcony.
"We should stay away from each other," Elena said before he could speak.
"I know," he replied. "That doesn't mean I will."
She laughed softly, bitter and warm all at once. "You're dangerous."
"So are you."
From that moment, their connection became a secret rebellion.
They met in quiet places—rooftops, empty museums, long midnight drives where the city hummed below them. Luca learned the weight Elena carried as her father's only child, groomed to inherit an empire she never asked for. Elena saw beyond Luca's reputation, into the man who read poetry alone and hated unnecessary violence.
Their touches were restrained but charged—fingers brushing, foreheads resting together, stolen kisses that felt like promises and sins all at once. Every moment whispered this can't last, yet neither wanted it to end.