Chapter Two: Bloodlines
989 Words
Elena Vargas didn’t believe in coincidence.
That belief had kept her alive.
From the moment she stepped into her hotel room, the man from the café stayed on her mind. Luca. The way he spoke, the way he watched her like he was cataloging every breath she took.
Men like that didn’t exist without purpose.
She dropped her jacket on the chair and walked to the window. Milan glowed beneath the clouds, alive and unaware of the wars fought in its shadows.
Her phone buzzed.
A secure encrypted message.
Mamá: You should not be in Europe alone.
Elena: I needed space.
Mamá: Space gets people killed.
Elena stared at the screen. Her mother didn’t use emojis, didn’t soften words. In the Vargas cartel, weakness was fatal.
She typed back:
I’m careful.
A lie.
She thought of Luca’s eyes.
⸻
Across the city, Luca Moretti sat in a private lounge above a silent nightclub, a glass of whiskey untouched in his hand. The rain had stopped, but his thoughts hadn’t.
“Who was she?” Marco asked, leaning against the wall. Marco was his cousin, his right hand, and the only man who spoke to him without fear.
“A woman,” Luca said.
Marco laughed. “That’s new. Women usually last five minutes in your thoughts.”
“This one won’t.”
Marco raised a brow. “You didn’t even get her last name.”
“I will.”
“Should I be worried?”
Luca’s gaze darkened. “You should always be worried.”
⸻
Elena couldn’t sleep.
She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, memories pressing against her skull. Her father teaching her how to hold a g*n. Her mother showing her how to read people. Her childhood shaped by blood and strategy.
She had sworn she’d never fall for a man in this world.
Then she met Luca.
Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
Luca: I told you storms always end.
Elena: You’re persistent.
Luca: You’re interesting.
Elena: You shouldn’t text strangers.
Luca: You shouldn’t give strangers your number.
She froze.
She hadn’t given it to him.
She typed slowly:
How did you get this?
Three dots appeared.
Luca: I have ways.
Her pulse quickened—not with fear, but something worse.
Curiosity.
⸻
The next day, she met him again.
Not by accident.
He was sitting in the hotel café when she came down for breakfast, reading a newspaper like a man with nowhere else to be.
He looked up and smiled like he’d been waiting.
“You followed me,” she said, sliding into the chair across from him.
“Followed is such a harsh word. I prefer coincidence.”
She folded her arms. “You tracked my number. You tracked my hotel.”
He leaned forward, voice low. “If I wanted to hurt you, you wouldn’t be sitting here.”
She held his gaze. “That’s not reassuring.”
“Good.”
He pushed a coffee toward her. “You didn’t sleep.”
“Neither did you.”
He shrugged. “I don’t sleep well after storms.”
She sipped the coffee, watching him over the rim of the cup. “What do you want, Luca?”
He didn’t hesitate. “To know you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only honest one.”
She studied him for a moment, then sighed. “Fine. Ask.”
“Why are you really in Milan?”
She stared at the table. “Vacation.”
“Liar.”
She smirked. “You’re obsessed with calling me that.”
“Because you’re very good at it.”
She met his eyes. “So are you.”
He didn’t deny it.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He paused. For the first time, there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
“I’m Luca Moretti.”
She waited.
“That’s it?”
“That’s enough.”
She almost laughed. That name meant nothing to her—but if she knew what it meant in Milan, she would have run.
⸻
That night, Elena stood on her balcony, the city lights glowing beneath her. Luca stood beside her, a glass of wine in his hand.
“You shouldn’t trust me,” she said.
“I don’t trust anyone.”
“Then why are you here?”
He looked at her, his expression softer than she’d seen before. “Because you’re not afraid of me.”
She looked away. “You don’t know that.”
He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel his warmth. “I know fear. You’re not afraid.”
She turned to him. “You’re wrong.”
He lifted her chin gently. “Then prove it.”
Her heart hammered.
She had kissed men before—dangerous men, powerful men. But none of them felt like this. Luca wasn’t just danger. He was destiny wrapped in arrogance.
She leaned in.
Their lips met.
The kiss was slow at first, testing, then deeper, urgent. His hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer. For a moment, the world disappeared—no cartels, no mafias, no bloodlines.
Just two broken people pretending they weren’t.
She pulled away first.
“This is a mistake,” she whispered.
He touched her cheek. “So am I.”
She swallowed. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
He smiled faintly. “Neither do you.”
⸻
Miles away, in a fortified villa, Elena’s mother stared at a surveillance report.
A photo sat on the table.
Elena. With Luca Moretti.
Her expression hardened.
“Of all the men in Europe,” she murmured, “she chooses a Moretti.”
Her assistant shifted nervously. “Should we intervene?”
She picked up the photo, eyes cold.
“No. Let her fall in love.”
She paused, then added softly:
“It will hurt more when we pull her out.”
- Writer
