Silence And Sin

*Silence & Sin*

*Chapter One: The Collision*

Elena Rivers had always been the kind of girl who went unnoticed.

In classrooms, her hand rarely shot up, though her mind overflowed with thoughts. In crowded streets, people brushed past her like she was part of the sidewalk. She didn't mind. There was comfort in quiet things-in the hush of libraries, the rhythm of rain, and the feeling of ink smudging against her skin as she wrote poetry no one ever read.

At twenty-one, Elena's world was Columbia University, her part-time job at a dusty old bookstore, and the tiny apartment she shared with her cat, Eliot. She didn't go to parties. She didn't date. Her most daring act in months had been wearing red nail polish to class.

And then it happened.

That day, the rain came hard and fast, catching her unprepared. Her umbrella flipped in the wind like a broken bird, and in her rush to cross the street before the light changed, she ran straight into a stranger.

Books, papers, and raindrops scattered everywhere.

"I'm so sorry!" she gasped, scrambling to her knees.

The man knelt too, his movements fluid, unhurried. His black gloves were immaculate. His coat was expensive-tailored to fit broad shoulders and a body built like it knew violence intimately. The rain seemed to avoid him, like even the sky respected his presence.

"No harm done," he said, lifting her soaked notebook with two fingers.

When Elena looked up, her breath caught.

His eyes were gray. Not blue-gray. Not soft or stormy. Pure, sharp silver, like the edge of a knife. His jaw was clean-shaven, his hair perfectly styled despite the weather. He was striking. Cold. Beautiful in a terrifying way.

"T-Thank you," she whispered.

He held her gaze for just a second too long. Then, with a nod, he stood, and without another word, he was gone-blending into the chaos of the city like a ghost in an Armani suit.

---

Elena didn't know why she couldn't stop thinking about him.

That night, curled up with a book in her lap and Eliot purring on her blanket, she kept picturing those silver eyes. The way he'd looked at her-not through her, but into her. It was unsettling. Unnerving. Unforgettable.

Was he a businessman? A foreign diplomat? He hadn't even given a name. Yet something about him whispered danger.

She went to sleep wondering if she'd ever see him again.

.....

Miles away, on the top floor of a high-rise that didn't even list its penthouse on paper, *Luciano Moretti* poured himself a drink.

The city glittered below him, unaware that its most brutal puppet strings were held in his hand. He was the Moretti name-son of Marco Moretti, one of Naples' most feared men. Now the reins were his.

Luciano was known for three things: his silence, his precision, and his lack of emotional attachments. The last thing he needed was a complication.

And yet...

That girl.

He had bumped into dozens of people in New York that week. But none had apologized like she had. None had eyes like hers-so wide and startled, like she'd never expected to be noticed, let alone helped.

He should've walked away and forgotten her.

Instead, he'd picked up her notebook.

Now, he flipped through its pages.

Her name was scribbled inside the cover. Elena Rivers.

Inside were poems. Short ones, raw and elegant. Words about loneliness, resilience, silence. He read one three times before closing the book.

He didn't do softness. He didn't do poets.

But now he wanted to know everything about Elena Rivers.

"Luca," he said to his right-hand man, who stood by the door like a shadow. "Find her."

---

Two days later, a white envelope arrived in Elena's mailbox.

She didn't recognize the seal-an intricate design of roses and daggers-and the paper was thick, textured, expensive.

Inside: an invitation.

*A private showing at Belladonna Gallery. Thursday night. Formal attire. One guest only.*

She stared at it, confused. No signature. No reason.

It felt... off. But something-curiosity? instinct? madness?-pulled her in.

She borrowed a black dress from her co-worker and brushed her curls into something that resembled order. She wasn't sure why she cared. She just did.

When she arrived at the gallery, her heels clicked nervously against the marble floor. The room was half-lit, the art strange and beautiful. A man waited at the far end.

Her stomach flipped.

It was *him*.

Luciano Moretti turned as she approached, dressed in black again, as if he were mourning something invisible.

"Elena," he said.

"You remembered my name?"

"I don't forget important things."

She didn't know what to say to that.

"Why am I here?" she asked.

"I wanted to see you again. And this seemed easier than chasing you around the Upper West Side."

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

"You dropped this," he added, pulling her notebook from his coat.

She reached for it, but he didn't let go.

"I liked what I read."

Her cheeks burned. "You-read it?"

"Several times."

The way he looked at her-focused, unreadable-made her heart beat faster.

"You're not... normal," she said quietly.

"No," he admitted. "But I'm not the villain you think I am, either."

Elena felt a chill crawl down her spine. "Who are you?"

Luciano tilted his head. "Someone who doesn't usually explain himself. But for you-I might make an exception."

The night passed in stolen glances and half-smiles. She asked him nothing personal. He offered nothing freely. But when he walked her to the car, something about the way he opened the door, the way his fingers brushed hers-gentle, careful-felt like a promise.

"Thank you for the invitation," she murmured.

He leaned closer, his voice a whisper of velvet. "This isn't over, Elena."

The door shut.

As the car pulled away, her chest thudded with nerves-and something else she didn't want to name.

She didn't know who Luciano Moretti really was.

But something told her... she was already in too deep.

......TO BE CONTINUED......