Hidden Truths and Vengeance

Chapter 1~ Bad Decisions & Better Kisses Lena Vescari swirled the amber liquid in her glass; she had no intent of taking a sip from it; she preferred wine. But today, everything seemed to go the wrong way. ****** Lena’s POV It started with a drink. Because, of course, it did. I was three whiskeys in, sitting in a half-lit bar on the outskirts of Milan, Northern Italy. The kind of place where people came to forget, or to make choices they didn’t want witnesses for. I wasn’t there for either. At least, that’s what I told myself. The glass was sweating in my hand. My head was loud with too many names, too many ghosts. I hadn’t slept in thirty hours. I was running on caffeine, rage, and some mix of grief I didn’t have the vocabulary for. Then he sat down. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask permission. Dominic. His suit was black. Shirt open at the collar. No tie. He looked like he hadn’t slept either — like the darkness under his eyes had been there for years and just decided to get comfortable. And yet somehow still managed to look breathtaking “Are you following me now?” I asked, barely looking at him. “Only when you make it easy.” I took a sip. “What do you want?” He didn’t answer. Just signaled for a drink and studied me like I was a puzzle he was already halfway through solving. “What do you want Dominic?” I said, irritated by the silence. “I heard of the case you're working on. You may think it's nothing serious,” he said quietly. “I hope you understand what you’re walking into.” “And what am I walking into, exactly?” He leaned in slightly. “Something that won’t care if you walked out dead.” The silence between us cracked like ice. “Do you ever stop talking in riddles?” I asked. “Do you ever stop pretending you’re not scared?” Well, that landed differently. So I turned to face him fully, finally. “I'm not scared, really," I said, "I'm just... super tired. I’m angry. And I’m one mistake away from burning everything down, including you.” His eyes didn’t flinch. “Good.” The air shifted. It wasn't romantic. It wasn’t even flirtatious. It was heavier than that. Something old and aching. Our hands brushed, but neither moved. I didn’t move. Neither did he. We stayed like that — a second too long. Long enough to make it mean something we weren’t ready to name. It wasn’t supposed to happen. But it did. In my apartment, somewhere between the fourth silence and the fifth lie. No declarations. No soft music. No careful undressing. Just clothes half-ripped, mouths crashing, skin on fire. His hands in my hair, mine pulling him closer like I was trying to drown in him. It was selfish. Desperate. I didn’t want comfort. I wanted chaos. I wanted the pain to shut up for a while. And he... he gave me that. He kissed like a threat. Touched like he knew exactly where I was broken. At one point I whispered, “This is a bad idea.” His answer was a kiss on my neck that made my knees betray me. “I don’t do good ideas,” he murmured. “And neither do you.” Afterwards, we were both just quiet. I laid on the edge of the bed, breathing a little fast, and I felt kind of... weird, like I was stuck between feeling bad about something and just being really tired. Dominic pulled on his shirt, didn’t button it. Just stood there, watching me like I was something rare and already halfway ruined. “You’re not weak, Lena,” he said softly. “But you keep pretending you have to be cold to survive.” I laughed bitterly. “Don’t psychoanalyze me. Especially not after—” He stepped in front of me. Tilted my chin up. His eyes weren’t cold this time. “They’re coming for you,” he said. “These people, they’ll come quiet. You won’t see it until it’s too late.” I swallowed. “why are you helping me out?” He leaned closer, his lips almost touching mine, like he was trying to decide if he wanted to give me a quick kiss, or just... stop right there. “you just... you remind me of someone I wish I could have helped.” And then that was it. He was gone. Door closed. No goodbye. Just the echo of something that almost meant something. I didn’t sleep. Again. I told myself it was the case and nothing more. But that was a lie, and I was tired of lying — even to myself. It was him. His hands. His voice. His mouth. The moment kept playing in my head like it had been branded there. Every detail. Every inhale. Every goddamn pause. The way his jacket hit the floor. The way his breath hitched when I bit his lip. The way his body moved — slow at first, like he was checking to see if I’d stop him. I didn’t. I never even thought about it. His hands explored my body, It felt like he was looking at me like he was drawing a map in his head, trying to remember exactly what I looked like. Fingers at the back of my neck, tracing all the way down my spine, lingering at my hip like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hold me or leave bruises. And when he looked at me — right before everything blurred into sensation — there was something wild in his eyes. Like he hated that he wanted this. Wanted me. I hated that I wanted it too. But in that moment, nothing existed except the heat, and the way he whispered my name like a secret he wasn’t supposed to say out loud. And the worst part? It wasn’t just s*x. There were moments — sharp, unexpected ones — where it felt like we weren’t just trying to forget the world. We were trying to remember something about ourselves. Something soft. Something dangerous. Now, lying in bed alone, I could still feel where his hands had been. Could still feel the ghost of his mouth on my neck. I hated how warm that made me. I hated that I wanted more. I pulled the sheets tighter around me like they could erase what happened. Like they could muffle the echo of his voice when he’d said— “You remind me of someone I couldn’t save.” What the hell was I supposed to do with that? He was gone. No note. No message. Just silence, like it hadn’t happened at all. But it had. And now I was haunted knowing this wasn't the last time we'd meet.