STRINGS
397 Words
The dinner felt like a chess game played in candlelight. Every smile was a move, every question a feint. Adrian didn’t talk like most men — there was weight in his words, as though each one had been tested for value before leaving his mouth.
She listened, but she didn’t just listen; she read between the syllables, pulling threads from every pause, every flicker of his gaze. He was dangerous. She liked that.
“Tell me something,” Adrian said suddenly, swirling his wine. “What’s the last thing you ran from?”
She smiled faintly. “Who says I run?”
That earned her a smirk. “Everyone runs from something.”
“Maybe I just run toward things,” she replied, her voice light but her eyes unblinking.
His gaze lingered on her for a beat longer than comfort allowed, as though he was peeling away layers without her permission.
The plates were cleared, the check slipped discreetly onto the table. Adrian didn’t even glance at the bill. Just reached into his jacket, pulled out a sleek black card, and dropped it on the tray with the casual indifference of a man who’d never asked for a price in his life.
As they stood, the air outside was cool, sharp against her skin. The street was quiet, save for the deep, slow growl of an engine idling at the curb. His car waited under the amber glow of a streetlamp — a matte black Lamborghini Aventador, low and predatory, the kind of machine that didn’t just move but prowled.
He opened the passenger door for her, a gesture more commanding than polite. “Get in.”
She slid inside, the scent of leather and faint cologne wrapping around her like a second skin.
When he settled into the driver’s seat and started the engine, the rumble beneath them felt like power on a leash.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He glanced at her, one hand resting on the wheel, the other tapping against the gearshift. “To see a friend. Matteo Vescari.”
She caught the name, stored it away. Mafia A.
“Matteo?” she asked, feigning casual interest.
“He runs things differently than I do. You’ll like him.” Adrian’s lips curved slightly. “And if he likes you… well, that’s when the strings really start to pull.”
- Writer
