Ana had always trusted her instincts.
They were what helped her paint, choose colors, read people. But ever since she landed in Rome, they had been screaming—and now they were whispering again.
*He was watching me.*
She tried to convince herself that it was nothing. That the man in the dark suit, with the carved jaw and cruel mouth, had just been another stranger. But her stomach twisted when she remembered his eyes—those obsidian pools that had locked on to her like she was prey.
And something deeper than fear had stirred in her.
Something she didn't want to name.
She spent the day at the gallery trying to distract herself, walking past marble sculptures and oil paintings, talking to curators and interns. Everyone was polite. Warm. But her thoughts kept drifting. She couldn't shake that look. That presence.
By evening, she was exhausted. And restless.
So she did what she always did when her head was too loud—she wandered.
Rome at night was something out of a dream. The city breathed with golden light and quiet danger. Couples strolled hand in hand. Music floated from open bars. Shadows stretched long and low along the stone walls.
She found herself near the Tiber River, heels clicking softly on the pavement. Her dress fluttered around her legs as she leaned against the railing, watching the water move like silk beneath the bridge.
*Calm down,* she told herself. *You're being paranoid.*
That's when she heard the footsteps.
Not rushed. Not hesitant. Measured.
Deliberate.
She turned—and there he was.
The man in the suit. The same one from the café. Closer now. Too close.
Tall, dressed in black, with a tailored coat and no tie. Sharp features, midnight hair swept back. Eyes like a blade pressed to her skin.
He didn't smile.
He just looked at her like she was already his.
"Beautiful night," he said, voice low, rich, dangerous.
Ana's fingers curled against the cold stone railing. "Do I know you?"
"Not yet," he said smoothly. "But I know you, Ana."
Her heart skipped.
No one here knew her real name.
Not her gallery.
Not her landlord.
She'd kept Nicholas buried.
"How do you know my name?" she asked, voice tense.
He took a step closer. "Because I've been waiting for you."
There was no fear in his voice. No hesitation. Just complete, unapologetic control.
"You need to step back," she said, lifting her chin.
He didn't.
Instead, he leaned in slightly, his cologne dark and expensive and laced with something sinful. "If I wanted to hurt you, Ana, you'd already be hurting."
The threat wasn't loud—but it was real. Clear. Not because he was being cruel.
Because he was telling the truth.
Ana swallowed. "What do you want?"
He tilted his head. "To talk. A drink. Maybe more. Depends on how honest you are."
"I don't even know your name."
He stepped into the moonlight.
And her world stopped.
She knew that face. Not from the café. From a lifetime ago. From smoke and ash and screams. From a night that had split her world in two.
He had been a boy back then. A child wrapped in flame and silence.
But now?
Now he was a man shaped by vengeance.
She whispered the name before she could stop herself.
"…Hayden."
He smiled. Cold. Beautiful. Wicked.
"Hello, Ana."
---
She ran.
She didn't think. Her body moved before her brain caught up. She turned from the railing and bolted down the street, heels clacking, breath sharp in her lungs. Tourists turned to stare. Cars honked. But she didn't stop.
*What the hell is he doing here?*
She made it to her apartment building, fumbled the key code, shoved open the door, and slammed it shut behind her.
Her heart thundered.
Her chest heaved.
She pressed her back to the door and slid down to the floor, fingers shaking.
He was real.
Hayden Moretti.
The son of the man her father had destroyed.
She remembered the look in his eyes the night of the fire. She'd never forgotten it.
And now he was back.
And he wanted something.
---
Across the street, Hayden stood watching her window from the shadows, expression unreadable.
"She remembers," he murmured.
Marco spoke into the earpiece. "Should we apply pressure?"
"Not yet," Hayden said softly. "Let her sweat tonight. Let her imagine a hundred reasons I could be here."
He turned away, stepping into the waiting car, the city light flickering across his face.
"She'll come to me," he said.
And when she did…
She wouldn't leave.
---
That night, Ana barely slept.
Her phone stayed clutched in her hand under the covers, her bedroom door locked, curtains drawn. She didn't call the police—what would she say? *That the son of an enemy her father never mentioned had tracked her across countries and threatened her under moonlight?*
Even she wasn't sure what was real anymore.
She dreamt of smoke. Of cold fingers on her throat. Of lips brushing her ear.
When she woke, drenched in sweat, the city outside was silent.
But on the windowsill, where there had been nothing before—
Lay a single red rose.
No note. No card. Just the bloom.
Soft. Seductive.
And deadly.