Alessio Gravano stood in the rain long after the girl had disappeared.
He twirled the silver keychain in his gloved fingers, the weight of it far less concerning than the message behind it. It wasn't the object—it was what it meant.
She had gotten close.
Close enough to take it.
Close enough to give it back.
That never happened. Not in his world. Not without consequences.
He returned to the car and slid into the driver's seat. The rain drummed gently on the roof as he stared ahead, unmoving.
Ivy Vexley.
He didn't need to run a background check. He'd already memorized her name, her face, her scent. She wasn't someone you forgot.
She had looked at him like she knew something no one else dared to say aloud. Like she was playing a game he hadn't realized had started. That amused him.
And it irritated him even more.
---
Miles away, Ivy stood in front of her bathroom mirror, drying her hair with a towel. Her coat hung neatly by the door. Her umbrella was already dry. Every move she made was silent and purposeful.
Her small apartment was tidy. Bookshelves, soft lighting, a bed with plush pillows—all the makings of an innocent girl's world. But if anyone looked closer, they'd notice the inconsistencies. The drawer that was always locked. The safe behind a false panel. The notebooks with neatly drawn diagrams of people's routines. Their weaknesses. Their sins.
She wiped away the steam on the mirror and stared at her reflection.
The girl who looked back at her had wide, sweet eyes and a heart-shaped face. People trusted that face. Men underestimated it. Women softened toward it.
But Ivy knew better.
That girl was a weapon.
And tonight, she had made her first real move.
Alessio Gravano. She had studied him from a distance for nearly five months. His business fronts. His meetings. His security patterns. He was untouchable to most.
But not to her.
She hadn't expected him to speak to her so soon. Or to call her out so directly. That little detail—the perfume—irritated her.
Sloppy.
But he had underestimated her, too. He hadn't asked why she was following him. He hadn't grabbed her, threatened her, or forced her to talk. That meant something.
He was curious.
That was her favorite kind of trap.
She moved to her desk, where a leather notebook sat open. On the current page was Alessio's name, underlined. Beneath it, a new entry:
First Contact: Rain. No weapon. Direct eye contact. He noticed the perfume. Returned the keychain. Eyes watched, not hunted. Curious.
She added a final line in smaller print:
He plays like a wolf. I smile like a doll. Let's see who starves first.
---
In the Gravano estate, the marble floors echoed with every step Alessio made as he entered the west wing. The lights were low. His office waited for him—silent, untouched, like a stage before a performance.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey and sat by the window, the city lights sprawled below him like fireflies.
"Ivy Vexley," he said aloud, tasting the name like wine.
She was either the smartest mistake he'd ever met…
Or the most dangerous gift he hadn't yet opened.
Either way, she had his attention.
And that never ended well.