Beneath the Black Rose

Two

When I finally got to my new apartment, my heart was still racing.

I closed the door, leaned against it, and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The small studio had a faint smell of lavender and old wood, comforting scents that should have made me feel at ease.

But they didn’t.

All I could think about was him.

The dark eyes that held me.

The quiet confidence in his voice that was both frightening and captivating.

The way he moved, as if the world opened up for him.

I ran a hand through my braids and headed straight for the window. My apartment overlooked a narrow street filled with cafés and small shops. Tourists passed by, laughing. A couple argued loudly below. A street musician played guitar, singing in Italian about love and heartbreak.

Normal.

Safe.

Beautiful.

Nothing like that alley I had wandered into. Nothing like the man whose presence still felt like a second skin.

I opened my laptop to email my mother, something casual to reassure her—I made it safely. Florence is beautiful. Love you.

But my fingers hovered uselessly over the keys.

I couldn’t shake his voice.

“Florence is beautiful. But not always safe.”

Who talks like that?

Who looks at a stranger with a blend of warning, curiosity, and, God help me, attraction?

It felt like he had been memorizing me.

And I hated how alive it made me feel.

I needed a distraction, fast.

So, I unpacked.

I rearranged the tiny kitchen.

I showered twice.

I made tea but didn’t drink it.

But it didn't matter what I did—my thoughts kept returning to him.

I didn’t even know his name.

Yet he felt like a storm I had stepped into without checking the forecast.

By late afternoon, I forced myself back out into the city—this time, I stuck to the busy streets. I wandered around the Ponte Vecchio, letting the scents of leather and fresh pastries calm my nerves, watching the river glitter in the sunlight.

Slowly, my heartbeat returned to normal.

I convinced myself it had just been bad luck.

Wrong place, wrong time.

I was there for art. For a fresh start. Not for—

“Daniela?”

My head jerked up.

My heart sank.

Because the man who stepped out of the boutique wasn’t the stranger from the alley—

But someone just as unexpected.

“Gianna?” I managed to say.

My childhood friend from back home smiled and pulled me into a hug.

“Girl! I can’t believe you’re actually here!” she exclaimed.

Relief rushed over me so quickly that my knees felt weak.

We talked, laughed and caught up on past times as she took me to her favorite café. It felt grounding and familiar, like a piece of home had crossed the ocean to steady me.

Eventually, she had to leave for a photo shoot but made me promise we’d meet again soon.

When I stepped out of the café, I felt lighter.

Just then I saw him.

Across the street, leaning against a stone wall as if he belonged in a Renaissance painting. He wore the same black shirt as earlier, sleeves rolled up, tattoos glinting in the setting sun. His eyes were locked on me.

My breath seized.

He didn’t try to approach me.

He didn't have to.

His presence cut through the crowd like a knife.

For a moment, everything slowed—the chatter, the cars, the world.

His gaze held mine.

Not in a threatening manner.

Not angry.

Intense.

As if he was trying to figure something out about me.

Then his jaw tightened.

A car honked. Someone bumped into me. When I looked back—

He was gone.

Just disappeared into the crowd, leaving me trembling with a single, terrifying thought:

That man wasn’t a coincidence.

He was watching me.

And part of me wanted to know why.

*****************

I hadn’t planned on seeing her again.

I told myself I wouldn’t.

I convinced myself she was just an unfortunate witness—one I could manage, one I could ignore.

But the truth?

I checked the security feeds near the alley that night.

Just to ensure she got home safely.

A foolish move.

A reckless one.

By morning, I had convinced myself that curiosity was a luxury I didn’t have time for.

Then I saw her again.

Not by chance.

Not fate.

No—Florence is big, but not big enough to hide something from me when I choose to look.

I found her walking near Ponte Vecchio, laughing with another woman, sunlight catching the small gold hoops in her ears. She threw her head back when she laughed—unrestrained, warm, alive.

Everything I wasn’t.

I stood across the street, blending into the crowd.

I shouldn’t have watched.

But I did.

Every gesture, every smile, every detail I shouldn’t have cared about embedded itself beneath my skin like a splinter.

When her friend left, she lingered outside a café, checking her phone. Innocent. Unaware. Vulnerable.

And that… that was the problem.

Not her beauty.

Not her softness.

Not her stubborn innocence.

Her vulnerability.

A woman like her drew too much attention—not the safe kind. The Romanos weren’t fools. Anyone could have seen her enter that alley. Anyone could follow her now.

Anyone but me.

I didn’t follow.

I watched.

When she stepped onto the street, still bright from laughter, something inside me tightened—not in desire, not entirely, but in warning.

She didn’t see the shadows in this city.

Didn’t see the wolves hiding in plain sight.

And she definitely didn’t notice the two men at the corner pretending not to track her movements.

Romanos.

Of course, they’d noticed her.

Of course, they’d want to know why she had wandered into Vescari territory and made it out alive.

And, of course, I should have walked away, let my men handle it, let things unfold naturally.

But the thought of one of them getting close to her—

Of someone else’s eyes landing on her the way mine had—

Ignited something dark and violent in me.

I stepped out of the shadows.

“Boss?” Lino’s voice came through my earpiece.

“You're not supposed to be out yet.”

“I’m adjusting the plan.”

He swore quietly. “Is this about the girl?”

“It’s about security,” I snapped.

A half-truth.

The Romanos didn’t get to hover around something I’d seen first.

She was halfway across the street when she felt it. I could tell by how her steps faltered, how her eyes slowly lifted—cautiously searching for the source of the surrounding tension.

Then her gaze found me.

The reaction was immediate.

Her breath caught.

Her hands tightened around the café cup.

Her eyes widened—not in fear, not entirely, but in recognition.

A spark.

A dangerous spark.

For a moment, we just stared.

People moved between us, horns blared, and the world kept going—but none of it mattered. Her presence hit me harder than it should have, digging into a part of me I thought was long gone.

She looked away at first—heart racing, shoulders tense, as if she was fighting her own reaction.

Good.

She should fight it.

Because I wasn’t the kind of man a woman like her should ever look at twice.

Someone bumped into her. She stumbled. My body tensed instinctively—ready to cross the street, ready to reach her, ready to—

She looked back up.

And I knew she felt it.

This pull—whatever it was.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Then a bus passed between us.

When it moved on, she was out of my sight—but I already knew exactly where she would go, which streets she would take, how long she would stay outside.

And I knew one more thing:

If Romanos moved on her,

I’d burn every inch of Florence to stop them.

Even if I didn’t understand why.

Lino's voice crackled in my ear.

“Boss, what’s the order?”

I watched the direction she disappeared into, my jaw tight.

“Keep her safe,” I said.

“And keep your distance.”

“And you?”

My hand clenched into a fist.

“… I’ll handle the rest.”