Furia
She’d slammed the door so hard the marble floor trembled.
Alessandro stayed standing in that over-perfumed lingerie shop, the black lace set still in his hands. His fist slowly closed around the fabric.
His men glanced at him out of the corner of their eyes, not daring to move.
“Have it wrapped. Grab the bags.”
His voice was calm. Razor-sharp.
He walked out of the store without waiting.
Outside, Palermo’s heat pressed down like a hammer. The sun was so fierce it erased all shadows. But he didn’t see any of it.
She wasn’t there.
Hope.
Goddamn Hope.
Her name burned inside him. She was everywhere — in his head, in his nerves, under his skin. She was the needle and the antidote. Pure provocation. Every step she took away from him woke something primitive, brutal, untamed inside him.
But it wasn’t just desire. It was worse.
She defied him.
She played by no rules but her own. She gave nothing unless she chose to give it. And that… that drove him mad. With rage. With frustration. With admiration, too, maybe — but he’d never admit that. Not even to himself.
He pulled out his phone, dialed.
“Discreetly. She’s alone. I want her location in five minutes.”
His right hand on the other end acknowledged the order.
He hung up, raked a hand through his hair, lifted his head.
She thought she could escape him.
She thought he was just another man.
She didn’t know yet she already belonged to him far more than she would ever admit.
And he was going to prove it.
Not with force.
With patience.
With strategy.
And with the burning thirst she fed with every glance, every word, every sidestep.
“Where are you running, Hope?” he murmured with a soft smile.
He wasn’t finished with her.
He hadn’t even started.
Palermo’s alleys blurred in a sweltering haze — uneven cobblestones under her heels, white sunlight crushing everything, the scent of gas and oregano.
Hope was running.
Not like a lost girl. Like a woman who refused to be just another piece in a game whose rules she didn’t know.
Her breath pounded in her ears. Her leather jacket clung to her skin. She crossed glances — curious, surprised, indifferent. Passers-by, kids, a fruit vendor staring too long. But no one stopped her.
No one saved her either.
She slipped into a narrower street. Fewer people. More shade.
And then… silence.
“Where exactly do you think you’re going?”
She froze.
Her neck tingled.
His voice. Calm. Low. Right behind her.
She turned slowly. He was there. Standing. Not threatening. Not mocking. Just… there. Dark eyes, strangely soft. His shadow cast across the sunlit wall behind her.
“You’re following me?” she snapped.
He didn’t answer right away. He simply moved closer, hands in his pockets, as if he were strolling.
“You got lost in my city. I let you breathe.”
She clenched her jaw.
“Send me back to New York.”
Silence.
Then he shook his head slowly.
“Not yet.”
“You don’t have the right.”
He stopped a few steps from her. And then, what he said next, she didn’t expect:
“When we get back to the estate, I’ll give you your phone. You can call whoever you want. And tonight, you choose the menu.”
She blinked.
“You’re joking.”
He shrugged, almost casual.
“I don’t always have to be the monster, Hope. You want to play runaway? Fine. But you deserve better than running under this sun like a thief.”
She stared at him, suspicious.
“And why the sudden generosity?”
A faint smile. Almost invisible.
“Because you intrigue me. And because I wonder what you’d choose if you actually decided.”
She crossed her arms. She hesitated. For a long time.
Then she exhaled:
“Scallop risotto.”
He tilted his head.
“Perfect.”
And without another word, he turned. Without touching her. Without grabbing her. He left the choice to her.
She watched him walk away, that calm, sure stride.
He didn’t need chains.
He knew she would follow.
And she hated him for it.
But her legs moved anyway.