Chapter 2
1327 Words
Elena's Pov
The flashes from the camera were almost blinding. It was not out of place that Luca was part of our group picture because in all these years he has been like family and appears in almost every picture. My family has their heads in the idea that Luca and I are going to get married one day. Well, now is not the right time to think about that.
I stood between Luca and my grandfather, smiling so hard my jaw ached. Not from the lights. Not even from the crowd. But from remembering eyes darker than the marble we stood on. The mysterious man lingered in my mind like a melody I couldn't stop playing.
Camera. Light. Bright smiles.
"Elena," my grandfather whispered, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. "Stay closer to Luca. This is about unity, remember?"
Of Course I remembered. Unity and Legacy. The principles which my family was built on.
We posed for the picture of privilege and supremacy, dusted with gold and diamond. We were children of dynasty. And yet, all I could think about was a stranger who did not belong in my world, at least not the way we all did.
The second the photographers stepped back, I snatched a champagne flute off a silver platter and drank it faster than I should have. The bubbles pricked on my tongue, but they didn't ease the buzz beneath my skin.
"You disappeared," Luca said, falling into step with me, his voice pulled taut with irritation. "Where did you go?"
"I wanted some air," I lied, surveying the crowd over his shoulder.
He followed my gaze. "Were you with someone?"
I said nothing.
"You're not subtle, Elena."
"I wasn't trying to be."
His eyebrow shot up. "Who was he?"
"I don't know."
"That's strange, you always know."
"Well, not this time." I said and turned to move off before he could drill for information. The crowd gathered like fog: scented, flashing, rowdy. Everybody was the same: painted-on smiles, designer clothes, expensive perfume masking ambition and deception.
But he was nowhere to be found.
The spot where we'd been was now occupied by a couple of chuckling women and a bald guy flailing too wide with a cigar in his hand. I passed by the dance floor, and then the pianist playing something classy and forgettable, and even around the bar. Nothing.
The disillusionment cut deeper than it should have. I didn't know him, not even his name, but something in the encounter had marked itself on me. The way he looked at me. The way he didn't raise an eyebrow when he looked.
"Elena," a new friendly voice called out
Uncle Matteo! He appeared out of nowhere like a plume of smoke, lean and tall in an expensive suit that probably paid more than a whole month's salary. His mouth was a line of constant disapproval, his eyes sharp as knives.
"Having a good time?" he asked, taking a tumbler of scotch to his lips.
"Oh, certainly," I said, hugging him warmly. "It's a beautiful event." I said as I stood up straight again.
"It is, but you do look pretty. distracted."
"I was just getting a drink, Uncle."
He leaned in slightly, his breath smelling like oak and ice. "Mind who you contact in a place like this. Not everyone here worships the Moretti name. I don't want my heiress hanging out with the wrong sorts you know" he said, and winked at me.
I stood there,staring at him as I tried to digest what he'd just implied, It was like a threat dressed in silk. Had he seen me with the stranger?
I grinned a stiff, strained smile. "Noted."
And then he vanished, off into the crowd like always, shouting greetings over his shoulder with his usual cheerfulness.
The rest of the night blurred into noise and glitter. I conversed with contributors, smiled hello at other competitors, and danced once with Luca under my grandfather's keen watching eyes. But my mind wasn't actually there.
And when I finally collapsed into bed hours later, heels discarded, and my hair still smelling jasmine, all I could remember was a pair of dark eyes that shadowed me across the room.
……….
The world went back to work and politics the next morning.
Rosa was up in the kitchen with a hot cup of espresso, silk pajamas, and a matching robe on. Her hair was stuck in a loose knot, and she had glossy prints from the night before laid out around her- her version of morning news.
"Look at this," she said, waving a photo like a badge of honor. "You were stunning. Like royalty. Well, to me, you are royalty."
I took the photo and smiled half-heartedly. "I looked tired."
"Preposterous. You looked like power. And look here, Luca was literally clinging to you."
I raised an eyebrow and set the photo aside. But just as I turned,I saw another one. Another angle, a bigger frame.
And there just behind the column, was him. Half concealed, head tilted. A phantom in Armani. I grasped the photo as though it would evaporate. "Do you know who this is?"
Rosa leaned in, squinting her eyes. "He is certainly not one of ours."
A thrum vibrated low in my chest.
If he was a DeLuca like Luca said… that explained the suit, the attitude, the subdued confidence.
It also explained trouble.
I found myself walking into the second floor private archives suite that afternoon, a room with climate control where the PR staff kept files on every socialite, business partner, and potential enemy we'd ever had.
"I need to see the anniversary guest list," I told the assistant.
She was taken aback but didn't question it. "Of course, Ms. Moretti."
I paged through guest books, internal reports, and all available electronic feeds. The face-matching software whirred in the background, systematically sifting through photos taken at the gala. Most of the names matched what I already had on record—politicians, socialites, movers and shakers with predictable agendas.
And then. he was there.
Marco DeLuca.
Second child of the DeLuca clan. CEO of a major humanitarian organization. Received an award for his overseas work: natural disasters, conflict areas, places most people only hear about on the news. No personal social media presence.
He hardly took pictures but he was highly respected.
And he was officially listed… as the representative of the DeLuca family.
So he hadn't crashed the party. He hadn't snuck in anonymously. He'd been sent. His being here was sanctioned. That should have made me happy. But it didn't.
Because no one had told me he was coming. And more importantly, he hadn't acted the way a man on official business would behave.
He'd glared at me as if I was why he was there. Not the anniversary. Not the company.
Me.
I whispered his name once, softly and silently. "Marco…"
It curled against the back of my throat like smoke—toxic, foreign, and intoxicating.
He hadn't tried to overwhelm me, impress me, or provoke me like those other men in that ballroom had. No! He'd simply looked at me.
And with one look, he had unwound something I didn't even know was coiled tight. A part of me wished with all my heart that it was nothing. Perhaps it was some passing moment. But I could not ignore the way the air electrified when he turned to face me. The way the room's noise receded when he spoke to me.
The way he didn't look away.
But if he was of the enemy's blood, though he felt real, it would only be a dream. I couldn't help but wonder if he had come as a messenger.
Because the deadliest men did not come armed with guns or threats.
They came quietly. With eyes that brimmed over with passion and voices that made you forget your own name.
- Writer
