Bound by power and desire

Chapter 6

The world returned to me in fragments.

The dim room first, shadows clinging to the corners, pale silver light from the city bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Then the pleasant ache in my thighs. The tenderness between my legs. The ghost of his hands, his mouth, his voice whispering my name in the dark.

The sun hadn't risen yet. But there were movements in the room.

I extended my hand to the other side of the bed.

Cold. Empty. He was up already.

My eyes searched in the darkness, and there he was. Silhouetted against the window, adjusting his cufflinks. His back was to me, shoulders broad, posture rigid. The man who had held me through the night. The man who had kissed me like I was something worth cherishing.

He looked cold now. Distant. Like a stranger wearing the face of the man I'd spent the night with.

The contrast made my chest ache.

We were just strangers after all.

Three rounds. Countless whispers. Hours of his hands learning my body, his voice breaking against my skin. And yet now, in the cold light of dawn, he was nothing more than a stranger.

He raised his eyes. Our gazes met in the reflection.

He finished dressing and walked toward the bed. His footsteps were measured. Controlled. Every movement deliberate.

"You're awake," he said simply.

I nodded. My voice had abandoned me somewhere between the third round and the empty side of the bed.

He leaned down and kissed me. Softly. Something like a goodbye.

Then he turned and left.

I stared at the door as it clicked shut behind him. His dark curls, the ones my fingers had been tangled in, the ones I'd gripped as he drove me to the edge, were gone.

I stared at the door for a long time.

A one-night stand. But it felt more like a chapter being closed.

I rolled over and turned on the light. The brightness stung my tired eyes.

A card rested on the bedside table. Crisp white. Thick paper that felt expensive between my fingers. Elegant handwriting, deliberate and precise.

"If you ever need anything, and I mean anything, don't hesitate to contact me."

- S

Beneath it, an address and a number.

I smiled, picking it up. I didn't know why I might need him. I didn't know if I'd ever use it. But I slipped it into my pocket anyway. A souvenir of a night I'd never forget.

A reminder that for one night, I hadn't been the detective. I hadn't been the betrayed girlfriend. I'd just been a woman who let herself feel.

I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

Adrian?

The name floated up like a distant echo. A ghost of a memory. I'd forgotten I was supposed to be mourning. The grief was still there, buried somewhere beneath the surface, but it felt muffled now. Numb.

What I felt instead was regret—not for the night, but for everything I'd wasted on a man who never deserved it. The years. The money. The love I'd poured into a bottomless pit.

Sergio hadn't been joking when he said he'd help me forget.

Now all I could see were those green eyes. But he was gone.

I reached for my trousers, pulled them on, and felt the card in my pocket. It felt heavier than it should. Like a promise I wasn't sure I wanted to make.

Shower first. Then work.

I had a suspect to dig into this morning.

***

The fluorescent light filtering into the room was a little too bright. Harsh. Clinical. The kind of light that exposed every flaw, every flicker of uncertainty.

But not too bright for me to register the silhouette seated at the table.

Completely relaxed. Like he absolutely owned the entire building. Which, technically, he probably could. The watch on his wrist alone screamed generational wealth, sleek, understated, worth more than my annual salary.

Dark curls fell across his forehead. A tailored suit hugged his broad shoulders. He didn't look like a suspect. He looked like a man who had just stepped out of a boardroom and decided to grace the precinct with his presence.

I took a few steps and froze.

The green eyes. The curls. The sharp jawline.

They seemed so familiar.

My heart stuttered. No. It can't be. I quickly pushed the thought away. I was at work. Sergio had haunted me so much that I was now seeing him everywhere. This was just a coincidence. A cruel, unsettling coincidence.

I sat down, forcing my expression into something neutral.

"Luciano Vincenzo De Luca," I said, my voice steady.

He didn't answer. Didn't acknowledge me at all. His eyes traveled slowly from the strand of hair that had escaped my bun to the notepad I had just opened. He studied me like I was a puzzle he was already solving.

Rude. What an allure for a suspect. So much of a jerk. So sure of himself.

I picked up the photo of the victim—dark curls, like the man opposite me, just with dark eyes. I slid it across the table toward him.

"Rafael Moretti."

He didn't budge. Didn't even glance at the photo. His gaze remained fixed on me.

I swallowed hard and slid the crime scene photo next to the first. Charred metal. Melted plastic. The outline of a body that had once been a man.

"The man in this picture has been formally identified as the one found dead in this burnt car," I said. "The car isn't the victim's own. His vehicle was found abandoned near the river. Which means he climbed into this car with someone he knew." I paused, letting the silence stretch. "And this car belongs to you."

He tilted his head a fraction of an inch, as if examining me from a new angle.

"Interesting," he said. His voice was dry. Unimpressed.

"Mr. De Luca, I don't have a problem if you have the intention of putting us through a training of keeping silence. But you have a motive for this crime, and an object linked to the crime scene belongs to you. It doesn't look so good for you."

He chuckled. The sound was low and utterly devoid of warmth.

"And what looks good on me, Detective?"

I flinched at the way he pronounced the title. Like it was a joke. Like I was a joke.

"We are not here for that," I said, my voice hardening. "But if you desperately need to know, I'm sure all your money can help you afford a stylist."

Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement? Respect? It was gone before I could name it.

He leaned back, his mask drifting back to indifferent boredom. Like I was a minor inconvenience he was tolerating.

"Rafael Moretti was very close to you," I continued, pushing forward. "You practically grew up together. Until the day you discovered he had stolen from you. The construction company was all a lie. He was living somewhere else, with your ex-wife."

Oh, good Lord, just get me through this.

He looked completely bored. Like I was telling him a bedtime story. His gaze dropped to my lips, then my shirt, then my notepad. Calculating. Unreadable.

"And now," I said, leaning in, "he's found burnt in your car."

His eyes met mine again. Steady. Unwavering.

"I admire your ability to be so pretty and brilliant, Detective." His voice was smooth as silk. "But I have nothing to do with this crime."

So confidently lying. Interesting. I'd love to hear his alibi.

"So what's your alibi?"

He chuckled again. This time, there was something sharper beneath it. Predatory.

"You know, Detective, we can reach a very satisfying arrangement."

"You are in no position to make any demand, Mr. De Luca."

"Really?" He raised a brow. "I'm not the one begging for an alibi, you know."

"Yeah, it's just a step." I crossed my arms. "I can as well charge you with murder. I have proof."

"Which are only circumstantial." He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "And will crumble until my alibi is gladly given to my lawyer." His eyes bore into mine. "While the real killer is arranging everything so you are as far away from him as possible."

My throat went dry. I wanted to say something. Anything. But the words wouldn't come.

He raised a brow. Triumphant. Patient.

"So, Detective, do you want to hear what the arrangement entails?"

I slowly nodded. Afraid my voice would betray me.

"One dinner."

What the f**k?

I thought of anything. Anything at all. Even outrageous things. Not something as banal as a dinner. Yet something as dangerous as a crime.

He leaned back, staring at me. Waiting. His green eyes held mine, and for a moment, I felt like I was the one being interrogated.

I slid the two photos back into my notepad. My hands were steady. My heart was not.

"Remember, Detective," he said, a smirk playing at his lips. "No is still an option."

I stood up. "I accept." My voice was barely above a whisper, too ashamed to say it louder.

I was rushing out when I heard him behind me.

"I'll contact you, Detective."

I didn't know when. Or how.

And I didn't plan to. Not when my cold feet were threatening to give up on me.