One wrong turn led her to him.Luca Moretti doesn’t spare lives.He doesn’t keep people.And he definitely doesn’t feel.Until her.Now she’s trapped in his world—and he’s breaking all his own rules to keep her there.But in a life built on danger and secrets…Falling for the mafia king might cost her everything.

Chapter One — The First Name Was a LieMy first name was Amara.At least, that’s what the hospital bracelet said when I was born — smudged blue ink on thin plastic, tied too tightly around a wrinkled wrist. My mother whispered it like a prayer while sweat soaked the sheets and fear clung to her voice. Amara. Grace. Mercy. Hope.She didn’t keep it.Names, I learned early, were things people gave you when they wanted to believe in a version of you that didn’t exist yet.By the time I was ten, I was called Mara. Sharper. Cleaner. Less hopeful. My aunt said it suited me better. “You’ve got eyes that see too much,” she’d said once, brushing my hair with quick, impatient strokes. “Children with too much sense don’t get to keep soft names.”At school, they called me M.At home, they called me nothing at all.And in my own head, I answered to a name I never said out loud.I lived between names the way some people live between countries — belonging everywhere and nowhere at once.Maybe that’s why I learned how to disappear so well.⸻The bus ride to Kingsbridge College took forty-two minutes if traffic behaved. Forty-two minutes to pretend I was someone else. Someone bold. Someone untouched by history. Someone whose past didn’t feel like a locked room with no windows.I pressed my forehead against the glass and watched the city smear into colors — yellow danfo buses, red dust, blue shop signs fading under sunburnt skies. My reflection stared back faintly. Brown eyes. Full lips I rarely smiled with. A scar near my eyebrow from a childhood fall I barely remembered but somehow still carried.First semester. New environment. New lies.I adjusted the strap of my bag and practiced the version of myself I’d be selling today.Hi, I’m Amara. I’m studying Mass Communication. I love writing. I’m easy to talk to.All technically true.Just incomplete.⸻Kingsbridge smelled like ambition and overpriced perfume. Students clustered in tight circles, laughter floating like bubbles. Everyone looked like they already knew who they were becoming.I didn’t.While I searched for the orientation hall, I collided with someone solid enough to knock the breath out of me.“Oof — sorry!” I blurted.He steadied me instinctively, hands warm through the thin fabric of my sleeves. Our eyes met for half a second too long.Dark lashes. Lazy smile. The kind of face that knew it could break hearts and didn’t apologize in advance.“No worries,” he said easily. “You’re not bleeding. That’s a win.”I laughed before I could stop myself.Something flickered between us — curiosity, maybe. Or danger.“What’s your name?” he asked.There it was. The question that always felt heavier than it should.I hesitated just a breath too long.“…Mara.”A half-truth slid out smoothly.He nodded. “Nice to meet you, Mara. I’m Zion.”Of course he was.We walked together toward the hall. Casual conversation. Where you’re from. What you’re studying. Favorite music. His laugh was low and reckless. He spoke like someone who didn’t carry invisible baggage.I wondered what it felt like to be that free.Before we separated, he flashed me a grin. “See you around, yeah?”“Yeah,” I said — even though I knew “around” could mean anywhere fate felt mischievous enough to drag him back into my orbit.And something in my chest whispered, This one matters.Chapter Two — The Second Name Was a ShieldBy mid-semester, people thought they knew me.Mara the quiet writer.Mara the girl who always sat by the window.Mara who never talked about family.Mara who smiled but never stayed too long.I liked it that way.Zion, unfortunately, didn’t.He had a habit of finding me — in the library, at the cafeteria line, leaning against random walls pretending to check my phone. He asked too many questions. Teased too easily. Looked at me like I was a puzzle he genuinely wanted to solve instead of conquer.“You disappear a lot,” he said one afternoon, stealing my seat before I could object.“I’m busy.”“You’re mysterious.”“I’m tired.”He smirked. “Same thing.”The truth was uglier. I wasn’t mysterious. I was hiding.Because if anyone learned the name I buried — the one tied to a past I never finished running from — the version of me I carefully built would shatter like thin glass.And Zion? Zion had the kind of eyes that noticed cracks.