Chapter3
1212 Words
Elena’s Pov
The Moretti last name always came with a shadow. Wherever I went, even into glass buildings constructed to foster hope and healing, the weight of heritage trailed as an extra layer of skin. Tonight's fundraising gala was held at one of those glass skyscrapers downtown—one of those faceless, upscale structures where you might not even be able to tell if a person had come in to make a difference or sign a deal.
My heels clicked against shiny marble floors as I entered, greeted by the hum of refined voices and the clink of crystal. Tonight, I was in a dark burgundy dress. Simple, classy, and authoritative. I'd been here in my grandfather's place, but also to quash some of the rumors regarding our political affairs. There's no more effective way to convey "we care" than with a generous donation and a few well-placed words.
The moment I stepped in I felt the air still and the heads turn, but what I did not expect was to see him.
He was leaning against the donation wall, in his tailored navy, with the air of property on the cover of a lifestyle mag about himself: slightly rolled-up shirt sleeves, no tie, one hand jammed into his pocket. Marco DeLuca.
Our eyes met.
No smile, no flicker of recognition designed to unnerve me. But I saw his eyes soften a bit.
Before I could make up my mind on whether to stay or flee, he started walking in my direction.
"Ms. Moretti," he murmured with a voice smooth as fine bourbon. "You're a sight tonight."
My heart stumbled, but I lifted my chin. "Mr. DeLuca. It's such a lovely surprise meeting you."
He rose, his eyes flashing a fleeting spark of surprise. "Mr. DeLuca?" he repeated, a slow smile creeping up his features. "The last time I checked, I was careful to not let the cat out of the bag, so how do you know my name?"
I smiled at him, a tiny, calculated one. "I did my research."
That seemed to shock him and I noticed his head tilt to the side, curious. "So you blew my cover, eh?"
"Don't judge me, I was just curious. And I don't like to walk into a room without knowing who is going to try to own it."
He laughed, a deep, rich sound, eyes shining with respect. "A business woman who knows exactly what she wants. My type of woman."
“Are you flirting with me Mr DeLuca?”
“Depends on what you consider flirting, gorgeous.”
There was a moment of silence, a hush wrapped in awareness. "Would you have a drink with me?" he asked.
"Where would it end? An interrogation or a negotiation?" Given my history, neither was a possibility but I asked anyway.
"Neither," he replied, extending his hand. "Just a talk. Just two people enjoying a conversation over wine. Come with me."
I watched his stretched out hand and looked at the crowd around us. Our families are enemies and that was no news to any one, what if I wake up to a glossy paparazzi update the following morning? But I threw caution to the wind regardless, putting my hand in his as we walked together.
He brought me to a secluded part of the rooftop patio where the city shimmered beneath us like a spilled treasure chest. A server came over with drinks. He gave me one, a chilled white wine- dry, my favorite. I didn't ask how he knew or if it was just a wild guess. I simply drank.
"So, Elena," he said leaning against the railing, elbows extended, loose in a way that made me contract. "Do you ever ask yourself who you'd be if you weren't a Moretti?" His words hit me like a violin note, piercing and beautiful.
"Every day," I admitted, startling myself.
He smiled, slow and content. "Me too."
We talked. Of power, of politics, of expectations. And then of music, of travel, of food. He was clever, wickedly so, with a disarming grin that made me laugh uncontrollably for weeks. There was a levity to the evening I'd not anticipated.
"You know," he said to me, eyes fixed on mine, "I once thought your family was a wall. Cold, impenetrable. But then you smiled at me. And now I think the family is just a name and it doesn't reflect the people that make up that name."
I bit down on my smile, my cheeks flushing. "That's very poetic for one who spent their childhood behind enemy lines."
"Poetry," he replied, taking a step closer, "is found even in battlefields."
His proximity was a gravitational force. I could smell the cologne he wore—woodsy, clean, and quietly high-end. There was something in the way he looked at me: not that he wished to conquer but that he wished to know.
And that was so much more dangerous.
He did not ask me about my life in that hungry, curious way most men did. He asked what made me happy. He asked what I was afraid of. And when I hesitated, he waited. Not for a performance. For truth.
"Do you think people like us can be more than our last names?" I murmured, swirling the wine in my glass.
He tilted his head. "Only if we stop letting other folks decide what our names mean."
Conversation was dancing in bare feet along the edge of something that might hurt you. I was falling into a habit I hadn't expected, and maybe didn't want.
Hours passed.
When the party wound down, he walked me to my car, hands in pockets, shoulders rolled back. The night was cool now, the city quiet. We stood beside the black car that waited for me.
"Thank you," I said, stiff all of a sudden, not knowing how to anchor myself in this moment.
He leaned in, close enough that I could feel the brush of his breath against my cheek. But he didn't kiss me.
"You have a beautiful mind, Elena," he said softly. "I hope you don't seal it behind gold walls forever."
And then he stepped back, making space for me, letting me go.
I slid into the car silently, heart pounding like a secret.
As we pulled away, I looked out at the city skyline, darkened. The wine lingered on my tongue, but his words echoed louder.
Marco.
The name curled in my chest again, but not as smoke today, as fire. He had unraveled me with words, with the softness of true interest. I was considering his dazzling smile, the laughter, the way he made my heart a wild thing for no reason at all.
I should have been victorious, charmed and above it all. Instead, I was naked. And he was different.
But he was DeLuca. I was Moretti. We were legacy in blood and flesh, destined to oppose, never entwine.
And yet, tonight felt like the start of something neither of us could define. Something that was supposed to be impossible. Something dangerous.
I shut my eyes in thought, because the most deadly thing in this world wasn't war. It was hope.
And he had given me just enough of it to burn.
- Writer
