The wedding hall buzzed with laughter and music, you standing at the edge, a smile masking the unease inside. Your bride friend glowed at the altar, but you felt like an outsider, a quiet observer in a room full of joy, in this mafia world.

The air grew thick and warm. With a quiet excuse, you slipped through the glass doors and onto the balcony.

Moonlight touched everything in silver, and a cool breeze tugged at your hair. You exhaled deeply, relieved by the silence.

Across the terrace, a figure leaned against the railing, a cigarette glowing in the dark. Dante Morelli, a groomsman. His gaze met yours with an intensity that made the world feel still. You hesitated, your fingers grazing the cold stone of the railing. Dante watched you with the quiet intensity of a storm just off the coast.

He flicked the ash from his cigarette, then pushed off the railing and walked toward you—slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

"You always run from crowded rooms," he said, his voice low and rough around the edges.

You turned to him, startled by the familiarity in his tone. "You talk like you’ve been watching me all night."

He offered a half-smile, more shadow than warmth. “Maybe I have.”

You arched a brow, but didn’t move away. "Is that something you do? Watch strangers from a distance?"

"Only the interesting ones."

You tilted their head, half-curious, half-wary. “And what makes me interesting?”

Dante took one last drag from his cigarette, then crushed it beneath his shoe. He stepped closer, just enough for his voice to drop.

“You looked like someone who’s trying very hard to disappear,” he said. “People like that usually have a story.”

You met his gaze, steady now. “And you collect stories?”

“No,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I rewrite them.”