Chapter 1: Zion Moretti
657 Words
The door shuts behind me with a soft click, sealing the noise of the city outside. “Problem?” Matteo asks, falling into step beside me as we move down the corridor toward the private room. His hand never leaves the inside of his jacket. Old habit. Smart one.
“No,” I say. It’s not a lie. Not exactly.
The room is dim, lit by low amber lights that reflect off dark wood and leather. My space. My rules. The air smells like expensive liquor and smoke, familiar and grounding. I shrug off my jacket, draping it over the back of the chair as Matteo closes the door behind us. But my focus isn’t on the room.
It’s still on her.
The woman across the street. The one who didn’t look away.
I’ve learned to recognize fear. It’s a language people don’t realize they’re speaking, tight shoulders, averted eyes, the subtle step back when they sense danger. Most people don’t even know they’re doing it.
She didn’t do any of that.
She met my gaze like she wasn’t impressed, wasn’t intimidated, wasn’t trying to get my attention either. Like she was simply…there. Existing. Watching the city like it belonged to her just as much as it belonged to me.
That’s what bothers me.
“Is she anyone?” Matteo asks casually, pouring himself a drink. “No.”
I would know.
I know everyone who matters in this city. Every face worth remembering. Every threat worth eliminating. She wasn’t familiar, and that makes her dangerous in a way I don’t yet understand.
I take a glass from the table but don’t drink. My thoughts circle, slow and predatory. The memory of her eyes, green, sharp, unreadable, flares behind my eyelids when I close them.
She wasn’t dressed for attention. No forced curves. No desperate flash of skin. Nothing loud. Nothing trying too hard.
And yet.
“Have her checked,” I say.
Matteo doesn’t look surprised. He never does. “Name?”
“I don’t have one.”
That earns me a glance.
“Then I’ll find it,” he says simply. I nod.
The conversation shifts to shipments, borders, men who need reminders of who they answer to, but part of me isn’t here anymore. It’s still outside, on that street, replaying the way her gaze didn’t soften when it met mine.
Most women look at me like I’m a weapon. She looked at me like I was a question.
The meeting ends quickly. It always does. People don’t linger in my presence unless I allow it. When the room empties, I lean back in my chair, staring at the low ceiling, jaw tight. It’s been a long time since someone caught my attention without trying. Longer still since someone unsettled me.
I step into the bathroom, washing my hands slowly, deliberately, watching my reflection in the mirror. The tattoos along my neck shift as I tilt my head, forest green eyes darkening as the thought surfaces again.
If she’s a threat, I’ll find out.
If she’s nothing.
My mouth twitches, humorlessly.
Then why am I still thinking about her? I dry my hands and reach for my phone.
“Ghost,” I say into the line when he answers.
“Yes, boss?”
“Don’t scare her.”
A silence settles between us for a fraction of a second.
“…Anything else?”
“No,” I say. “I want her exactly as she is.”
The call ends.
I move to the window, looking down at the street below. She’s gone now. Of course she is. Smart women don’t linger where they’re noticed. Still, I find myself memorizing the empty space where she stood. Something tells me this won’t be the last time our paths cross.
And when they do…
I smile faintly, dark and unamused.
She won’t be watching me from across the street. She’ll be standing close enough to touch.
- Writer
