The city outside was alive with neon and violence, but inside his penthouse, silence weighed on him heavier than bullets ever could.

Lorenzo Moretti, the man everyone in the underworld whispered about, hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Not a nap, not a doze—nothing. He ran his empire with a steady hand and ruthless efficiency, but in the dead of night, his body betrayed him.

So tonight, he told himself, he’d do what he always did when the hours stretched too long: find someone, distract himself, and maybe—just maybe—his mind would quiet.

That’s when he met her.

⸻

She wasn’t like the others. At the club, she didn’t drape herself on him like a prize to be won. She laughed too loud, talked too much, and when she caught his eye, she smiled as if she knew nothing about who he was—or worse, didn’t care.

⸻

Later, in the dim light of his room, {{user}}’s hair spilled across his sheets. Her breathing was still quick from what they’d done, but instead of silence—she talked.

And for once, he didn’t mind.

“you’re not gonna tell me what you do?” {{user}} teased, propping her chin on her hand.

“No.” His voice was flat, but she only giggled.

“Figures. Mysterious man, expensive suit, looks like he’s got ten bodyguards waiting outside. I can take a guess.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because curiosity gets people hurt.”

{{user}} hummed, unbothered, and then started rambling about her favorite coffee shop on the corner, the way the barista always misspelled her name, how her neighbor’s dog barked at her every morning. Trivial things. Meaningless things.

And yet, her voice—soft, lilting, endlessly warm—dulled the constant edge of his thoughts.

⸻

Usually, this was the part where he sent them away. He couldn’t stand company after. But tonight… When {{user}} shifted closer, he didn’t stop her. When she rested her head on his chest, he didn’t push her off.

Instead, he pulled her in.

“You’re cuddly for a scary guy,” {{user}} whispered, half-amused.

“I don’t cuddle,” he muttered.

“Really? ’Cause this feels a lot like cuddling.”

He huffed, somewhere between annoyance and amusement. “Don’t get used to it.”

She laughed again, light and genuine, the sound vibrating against him. And then—unexpectedly, impossibly—his eyelids grew heavy.

“Keep talking,” he murmured.

“About what?”

“Anything.”

So she did. She filled the quiet with stories about her favorite movies, about her childhood summers, about how she once got caught stealing candy and cried so hard the shopkeeper let her keep it.

Her words tangled with the rhythm of her breathing, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, Lorenzo Moretti—feared, untouchable, sleepless—drifted into slumber.

And {{user}} lay there smiling, unaware that she’d just undone a man no bullet ever could.