Part 2:

The residents manager appeared at her elbow, vibrating with excitement. It arrived at 6 this morning, Miss Davenport. Mr. Moretti’s people handled everything. Delivery, tuning, placement. You’re to choose where you’d like it positioned permanently. Allesandre Moretti had been on top of her for 30 seconds, had spoken to her for less than two minutes, and he’d replaced her mother’s piano with a Steinway.

She ran her fingers over the polished keys. They responded with a clear, perfect note that echoed through the marble lobby, like a promise or a warning. Her phone buzzed, shattering the moment. A text from her father. Seline, my office at 10:00 a.m. We need to discuss your encounter with Mr. Moretti yesterday. Seline’s stomach dropped. He knows.

Security cameras, witnesses, and now there’s a Steinway in the lobby with Aleandro’s name on it, she realized, panic flooding cold through her veins. “What have I gotten myself into?” she thought. She stared at the piano, at the card clutched in her hand. And in two hours, her father would tell her exactly three things about Aleandro Moretti.

One, he owned half of Monaco’s underground. Two, he didn’t do favors without reason. Three, stay away from him. But by then it would already be too late. Selene sat across from her father in his office. The Steinway’s perfect note still echoing in her memory. Richard Davenport didn’t waste time. You heard what I said, Seline.

His voice was measured. diplomat calm, but his jaw was tight. Aleandro Moretti is a dangerous man. Stay away from him. He paused, holding her gaze. In my profession, I have to work with all kinds of people. But you, you stay away from them. Understood. Seline bit her lip. Should I send the piano back? Richard’s expression shifted.

Frustration mixed with resignation. No, he could take offense. We have to keep it, unfortunately. He leaned forward. If he contacts you, don’t respond. His voice dropped lower, something harder underneath. Don’t make me have to fix this, Seline. The warning landed heavy between them. Dad, what are you talking about? I barely met him.

Richard studied her with those sharp diplomats eyes that missed nothing. The Morettes have run Monaco for the Lombardi organization for five generations. Old money mixed with newer, less legitimate enterprises. Aleandro handles most operations now. Lombardi organization. The words clicked into place, cold and certain.

Mafia, she realized, ice spreading through her veins. Selene heard herself ask, “What kind of operations?” Richard’s tone went hard, the diplomat mask slipping. The kind where people make decisions in rooms and others don’t walk away. Do you understand me? He held her gaze unblinking. Selene’s mind flashed back to the encounter.

The bodyguards, the controlled movements, the scar through his eyebrow. A story written in violence. I work with him professionally. Can’t avoid it in my position. Richard paused, the weight of his next words deliberate, but working with him and letting my daughter anywhere near him are two very different things.

Seline lifted her chin, something defiant flashing in her chest. I’m not a child, Dad. I’m 23. I can handle myself. Richard’s intensity bled through his control. Can you? Can you handle a man who’s been groomed since birth to take over his family’s interests? Who’s been in situations most people can’t even imagine? Nausea rolled through her stomach, but something else coiled underneath, something that felt dangerously close to fascination.

They stared at each other across the desk, protection waring with independence. Finally, Richard sighed, exhaustion creeping into his features. I’m just trying to keep you safe. I know. Seline squeezed his hand. I’ll be careful. I promise. But as she said the words, Seline’s mind drifted back to storm blue eyes and calloused hands, and the faint scent of cedar and danger.

He’s connected to the mafia. He’s dangerous. Everything I should stay away from, she thought. So why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? 2 days later, Selene knelt on the gallery floor, cross-referencing inventory numbers with Friday’s auction catalog, learning the unglamorous side of junior curator work, memorizing which collectors preferred impressionists, which clients needed careful handling, the precise art of matching paintings to appetite.

The gallery door opened, bells chiming, and when she glanced up, her breath stopped completely. Aleandro stood in the doorway in white linen that caught the sunlight perfectly. Two bodyguards flanking him like shadows, and when their eyes met across 20 ft of polished floor, every warning her father had given came screaming back.

She rose quickly and turned toward the far wall, focusing on the painting there with sudden, desperate intensity. A couple on opposite sides of a room, bodies angled toward each other but not touching. The space between them charged with everything unspoken. The brass plate read, “Study in distance.” Anais Lauron, 1959.

Footsteps approached across the floor, quiet and deliberate, and then his voice came from right beside her. An interesting piece to hide behind. Seline’s pulse kicked hard, but she forced herself to turn and meet his gaze. I’m not hiding, Mr. Moretti. I’m working. Aleandro’s mouth curved as he studied the painting with what seemed like genuine interest.

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