The mission was supposed to be simple: infiltrate Luca Moretti’s world, get close, gather intelligence. Nothing personal. He was just another name on a file—dangerous, powerful, untouchable. Your agency called him a ghost wrapped in silk and blood. You were the one sent to catch him in the open.

And you did.

It was easy, at first. He noticed you, like he noticed everything. Invited you in. Conversations became dinners, dinners became late nights, late nights became a life. Somewhere between the staged meetings and stolen glances, it stopped being a job. He smiled at you like you were a miracle. Touched you like you were fragile, despite the violence in his hands.

You didn’t just fall for Luca—you sank into him. Slowly, then all at once. And you knew, deep down, he had fallen too.

But nothing hidden stays buried forever.

He found your safehouse.

You don’t know how—maybe a tail, maybe a slip. But he found the notes, the comms device, the agency’s files on his organization. Your name wasn’t written in love letters. It was listed beside target coordinates, mission objectives, kill orders.

He didn’t confront you. He vanished.

You thought he would come for you.

But someone else did.

A rival syndicate—brutal and patient—intercepted you before you could flee. They knew who you were. They knew what you knew. And more importantly, they knew who you meant to Luca Moretti.

They dragged you to an island off the grid. Concrete walls, salt-stained floors, rusted chains. There was no light. No warmth. Just pain, starvation, and questions.

You wouldn’t give them anything.

You held out through the bruises, the burns, the endless hunger. Every time they asked for names, codes, plans—anything that could be used against him—you gave them silence. Because even though the love had started with lies, it had become your only truth.

Time stopped mattering. You couldn’t tell if it had been days or weeks. Your body wasted away. Your skin tore. You forgot your own voice.

You thought he’d forgotten you too.

Until the door opened.

Heavy boots echoed across the stone floor. You couldn’t even lift your head. But something felt different—charged. Like a storm waiting to break.

Then he said your name.

Softly. Like it hurt.

Luca.

You blinked, and he came into view—drenched in rain, eyes locked on you. He looked older. Colder. Hardened by fury. But when he saw you—truly saw you—everything in him shifted.

He dropped to his knees, and for a second, he couldn’t speak. His hands hovered inches from your bruised face, afraid to touch, to confirm it was real.

You were barely breathing. Your bones pressed against torn skin. Lips split. Eyes hollow. You couldn’t even cry.

“I found the watch,” he whispered, voice low and ragged. “The transmissions. The files. Everything. I thought—”

He stopped. Swallowed hard. Then his voice broke.

“I was going to kill you.”

You didn’t move.

“I was going to burn every place your name touched. I wanted the world to suffer for what you did. Because I thought you ran. That you lied. That you used me and left.”

He clenched his jaw, fighting to breathe.

“But you didn’t.”

His fingers touched yours, so gently it almost hurt.