His Quiet Addiction

CHAPTER 3— A Complication

ALESSANDRO

I'd seen men break in a thousand different ways.

Some begged. Some cried. Some tried to bargain their way out with information they thought was valuable enough to save their miserable lives.

Marco Bellini did all three.

He knelt in the alley behind the Belladonna Gallery, blood dripping from his split lip, his hands bound behind his back, and his voice cracked with desperation.

"Last chance, Marco." I kept my voice even, controlled. There was no need to shout. Fear was always more effective when delivered quietly.

"Where is Dante hiding the shipment?"

Marco's jaw tightened. His eyes, swollen and bloodshot, met mine with a defiance that would have been admirable if it weren't so stupid.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I sighed. Loyalty was a rare thing in our world, but when it did exist, it was infuriatingly stubborn.

"You've worked for Dante Caruso for three years," I said. "You move his shipments. You arrange his deals. You expect me to believe you don't know where he's keeping ten million euros worth of stolen Renaissance artifacts?"

"I don't know."

"Wrong answer."

I pulled the gun from inside my jacket. The movement was smooth, practiced, as natural as breathing. Marco's eyes widened, and the defiance crumbled.

"Wait. Wait, please." His voice broke, desperation flooding in. "I have children. Three of them. The youngest is only five. Please, they need their father."

I paused, gun raised but not yet aimed.

"Dante's using the old church," he said quickly, words tumbling over each other. "San Stefano. The catacombs beneath it. That's where he's keeping everything. Please. I told you. I told you what you wanted. My kids, they're just babies. They didn't ask for this life."

I tilted my head, studying him. Watching the hope flicker in his eyes.

"You're right," I said quietly. "They didn't."

"Thank you. Thank you. I swear I'll disappear. You'll never see me again. I'll take my family and go. Please."

"You misunderstand me, Marco."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. Too late.

I raised the gun to his temple. "Your children didn't ask for this life. But you gave it to them anyway."

I pulled the trigger.

The sound echoed through the alley, sharp and final. Marco crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Then I heard it.

A gasp.

Soft, startled, horrified.

I turned sharply. A figure stood near the back entrance of the gallery, partially hidden in shadow. Small. Female. Frozen in shock.

She'd seen everything.

"Go," I said to my men without looking at them.

"Bring her."

She bolted.

Smart girl. Not smart enough.

I heard her footsteps, frantic and desperate, echoing down the alley. Then Luca's voice, sharp and commanding.

"Stop!"

She didn't.

I nodded at Dante, my second in command. He raised his gun and fired a single shot into the air.

The footsteps faltered. Stopped.

Good.

I waited, hands in my pockets, while my men dragged her back. It took less than two minutes. When they rounded the corner, I got my first clear look at her.

And something in my chest shifted.

She was beautiful.

Not in the polished, calculated way of the women who frequented my world. Not the kind of beauty that was bought and maintained and weaponized.

This was different. Natural.

Disarming.

Dark hair falling loose around her shoulders. Wide eyes, brown and bright with terror. Skin flushed from running. She was small, delicate, like she might shatter if someone held her too tightly.

But there was something else. Something beneath the fear.

Fire.

She looked at me, and I saw it in her eyes. Defiance. Survival. A refusal to go quietly.

Interesting.

"Let me go," she said, her voice trembling. "Please. I won't say anything. I didn't see anything."

I said nothing. Just watched her.

"I'm nobody," she continued, words spilling out in a rush. "Seriously. I'm just a girl who restores paintings. I eat instant noodles four nights a week because I can't afford real food. My apartment has mold in the bathroom. I'm not a threat to you or your operation or whatever this is."

I almost smiled. Almost.

"Please." Her voice cracked, and I heard genuine desperation there. "I'm an only child. My parents are getting old. My mom has a bad heart. If something happens to me, it'll kill her. Literally kill her. And my dad, he just retired. They're planning a trip to the coast. They've been saving for years."

She kept talking. About her cousins. Her neighbor's cat. Her unfinished thesis.

And then, in a moment of pure panic, she said it.

"I'm a virgin, damn, I should've let Damon knock me up."

Silence.

Even my men went still.

Her face flushed bright red. "I don't know why I said that. That's not relevant. Forget I said that."

But she didn't stop. She kept going, desperate and rambling and utterly unaware of how entertaining she was becoming.

I felt it then. That pull. That rare, inexplicable thing that made me want to keep watching, keep listening.

She was terrified. Completely out of her depth. And yet she stood there, talking about chocolate soufflé and skincare routines like her life wasn't hanging by a thread.

Brave. Foolish. Fascinating.

I took a step forward. Her breath hitched, but she didn't move.

Our eyes met, and for a moment, I let myself see past the fear. Past the panic. There was something there. Something I couldn't quite name but recognized all the same.

Strength.

I made my decision.

"Bring her," I said to my men.

"Wait, what?" Her panic flared again. "Bring me where? Why? I thought we were having a moment. Wasn't that a moment?"

I didn't answer. I turned and started walking, my men falling into step behind me.

"Please," she called after me. "I have so much to live for. I haven't even finished my skincare routine tonight. Do you know how expensive that serum was?"

Luca chuckled beside me. I shot him a look, and he went silent.

The girl kept protesting as they guided her toward the car. She asked questions. Made observations. Complained about her ruined shoes.

I found myself listening to every word.

When we reached the SUV, she balked. "I'm not getting in there. That's how people disappear. I've seen movies."

"Get in," Luca said, his patience thinning.

"No."

I turned, meeting her defiant gaze. For a long moment, neither of us moved.

Then I stepped closer, leaning down just enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at me. "Get in the car, Elena."

Her eyes widened. "How do you know my name?"

I gestured toward the ID badge still clipped to her shirt. Belladonna Gallery. Elena Moretti. Restoration Assistant.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "Oh."

"Get in."

This time, she did.

The drive back to the estate was quiet. Too quiet. I watched her through the rearview mirror. She sat stiffly, hands clasped in her lap, eyes darting between the windows and the door locks.

Planning. Calculating.

Looking for an escape.

Smart.

We were halfway through the city when it happened.

The first shot shattered the rear window.

"Down!" I barked.

Elena screamed, ducking instinctively. Glass rained down around us. Luca swerved hard, tires screeching against asphalt.

Another shot. Then another.

"Caruso," Luca growled.

Of course. Dante had people everywhere. He'd heard about Marco. About the interrogation.

And now he wanted blood.

I pulled my gun, checking the clip. Full. Good.

But my focus wasn't on Caruso's men.

It was on her.

Elena was curled against the seat, arms over her head, shaking. Terrified.

Something primal surged through me. Something I hadn't felt in years.

Protectiveness.

"Stay down," I told her.

She looked up at me, eyes wide and glassy with fear. "What's happening?"

"Nothing you need to worry about."

Another shot hit the side mirror, shattering it.

Luca cursed, swerving again. "We've got three cars on us. Maybe more."

I turned in my seat, aiming through the broken window. I fired twice. Clean shots. The first car's tire exploded, sending it spinning into a lamppost.

Two more to go.

But then I heard it.

A soft whimper.

I glanced back.

Elena was bleeding.

A small cut on her temple, just above her eyebrow. Glass. It wasn't deep, but blood was trickling down the side of her face.

My jaw tightened.

"Luca," I said, my voice cold. "Lose them. Now."

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

He floored it, the SUV surging forward. I kept my gun raised, firing at the remaining cars, keeping them at bay.

But my thoughts were elsewhere.

On her.

On keeping her safe.

On the absurd, irrational fact that this girl, this stranger I'd known for less than an hour, had somehow become the only thing that mattered.

We rounded a corner, tires screaming. One of the pursuing cars tried to follow and lost control, crashing into a storefront.

One left.

I aimed. Fired. The driver slumped forward, and the car careened off the road.

Silence.

Luca slowed, checking the mirrors. "Clear."

I lowered my gun, turning to Elena.

She was still shaking, blood streaking down her face, eyes wide with shock.

"You're okay," I said.

She laughed. A short, hysterical sound. "Okay? You just got me shot at."

"You're not shot. You're fine."

"There's blood on my face!"

"It's a scratch."

She stared at me like I'd lost my mind. Maybe I had.

I reached forward, pulling a handkerchief from my pocket. Without thinking, I pressed it gently against the cut on her temple.

She flinched but didn't pull away.

Our eyes met.

And for a moment, the world went quiet.

Then her gaze shifted past me. To the road ahead.

Her face went pale.

"Um," she said quietly. "Is that car supposed to be there?"

I turned.

A black van sat blocking the road, its side door sliding open.

Men poured out.

Armed.

Ready.

And I realized, with cold certainty, that tonight was far from over.