Luca Romano stepped out like a man stepping off a private stage, dressed in an ash-grey coat over dark slacks, unhurried, flanked by two silent men in bespoke suits.
No one said a word.
Phones were lowered.
Conversations died mid-sentence.
He didn't look at the assistants. Or the analysts. Or the enforcers posted by the west hall. He walked through Navarro's empire like it wasn't worth noticing.
Straight toward her.
Lina didn't move from her desk.
He stopped in front of it, hands in his coat pockets, gaze steady.
"I'm offering you a position," he said. "Better pay. Real protection. A window."
Whispers started in the corners. A chair creaked behind her. Someone audibly swallowed a breath.
Lina blinked slowly.
"You walked into Navarro's headquarters," she said, "to offer me a job?"
"Yes."
She leaned back in her chair. "Are you insane?"
"Possibly," he replied. "But I'm not wrong."
One of Navarro's lieutenants — Alvarez — stepped forward, hand drifting near his jacket.
Luca didn't flinch. He didn't even look at him.
"I won't ask twice," Luca said, eyes still locked on hers.
"And I won't dignify that offer with an answer."
A flicker of a smile ghosted across his mouth. "You just did."
He turned to leave.
His men followed. No one stopped them.
Lina sat still at her desk, back straight, heart a hammer inside a velvet box.
No alarms were triggered.
No security was called.
No Navarro appeared.
But as the elevator doors closed, she caught sight of one man — one of Navarro's inner circle — still staring at her.
Not curious.
Not confused.
Just… evaluating.
Lina didn't stand.
She didn't chase after Luca or call Navarro Jr.'s line or storm into someone's office demanding to know what the hell that was. She just sat at her desk, opened her planner, and wrote a note she didn't need to remember:
ROMANO — PUBLIC OFFER = CONTROL MOVE.
She underlined it twice.
Around her, the floor buzzed softly with whispers, like static in the air. Someone from accounting pretended to print something just to walk past her desk. Someone else — she didn't know their name — typed rapidly, eyes flicking up toward her every few seconds.
But no one spoke to her.
Not even Alvarez, who had watched the entire thing with his jaw tight and his hand twitching near his hip like he wanted permission to reach for something he wouldn't survive using.
An hour passed.
Navarro Jr. didn't call her in.
Two hours. Nothing.
By lunch, Felix brought her a boxed salad she hadn't asked for. "From Mr. Navarro," he said awkwardly, placing it on her desk without meeting her eyes. "He said, uh, you've been loyal."
Lina stared at the box.
Then at Felix.
Then, finally, at the cameras mounted in the corner of the ceiling — the ones she'd always pretended weren't there.
She ate slowly. Not because she was hungry.
But because it kept her still.
That's when she saw him again — not Luca.
Navarro's man.
The same one who'd watched her after Luca left.
He stood by the coffee bar across the floor, stirring a cup of nothing, watching her like she was being measured for something. Not a dress. Not a coffin.
A replacement.
Lina held his gaze.
Didn't blink.
Didn't smile.
She finished her lunch and went back to work — calmly, efficiently, like she wasn't counting the seconds between now and whatever would come next.
The hallway smelled like bleach and loneliness.
Lina stepped off the elevator just after 10 p.m., key in hand, tired but alert — the kind of alertness that came from long years around men who taught her to listen more than speak, to notice everything.
Her boots clicked once, then paused.
The door to her apartment wasn't closed.
Not all the way.
Just enough for the deadbolt not to catch.
She stood still, heart flattening into silence, every muscle going still.
No creak. No flicker of movement.
Just the long, deliberate opening left by someone who wanted her to know they had been there.
She slid the key back into her pocket and pulled out the small blade she kept strapped to her thigh beneath the hem of her slacks. Nothing fancy. Just sharp.
Pushing the door open slowly, she stepped inside, switching on the light with her free hand.
The apartment was too quiet.
Not ransacked — no broken furniture, no shattered glass. But drawers were pulled open. Papers scattered. The kitchen cabinet was ajar. Her closet had been moved through. Her desk chair was turned at the wrong angle.
It wasn't a robbery.
It was an audit.
She walked room by room, checking corners, checking locks. Nothing missing. Just… touched. Like someone had gone through her life with gloved fingers, cataloguing the details of who she was.
She found one thing out of place.
A photograph.
It was from her college years — hidden behind a stack of tax folders. Her and her brother. Younger, laughing. Smudged at the edges.
It had been taken out and laid face-up on her pillow.
A message.
She didn't call the police.
She didn't call Navarro.
She locked every door and window, poured a half-glass of bourbon, sat on her couch in silence, and stared at the wall.
It wasn't Navarro's style — too subtle. Too clean.
This was Luca again.
But not like before.
This wasn't an obsession.
This was an escalation.
Lina didn't dial 911.
She dialled the private building line — the one Navarro had insisted she have programmed into her burner. Direct to security. Supposedly.
No one picked up.
She tried again.
Still nothing.
Ten minutes later, she heard the knock.
Not loud. Not frantic.
Just precise.
Three knocks. The kind that weren't afraid of being ignored.
Lina stood and crossed the room quietly, barefoot, blade still in hand.
She looked through the peephole — and her stomach coiled.
Luca.
Alone.
No guards. No car is waiting with the engine running. Just him, in a dark coat, one hand in his pocket, like he'd dropped by to borrow sugar.
She didn't open the door.
"Not tonight," she said through it, voice flat.
"You called security," he replied.
"I didn't call you."
"They work for me."
Silence.
He added, almost gently, "Open the door, Catalina."
She hated how he said her name. Like he owned the vowels.
Still, she unlocked the chain.
The door swung open. He stepped inside without waiting for permission and shut it behind him, locking it with one smooth motion.
She moved back two paces and held up the blade.
He looked at it, mildly amused. "If I wanted to hurt you, you'd already be bleeding."
"I'm not in the mood for metaphors."
"It's not a metaphor."
He scanned the room. Eyes grazing the scattered papers, the shifted furniture, the photo on the pillow.
"You know who did this?" she asked.
"Yes."
"And?"
He turned to her, calm. "Navarro sent someone. Not to kill. To look."
"Why?"
"To see if you're still his. To see if you're already mine."
The words dropped like a shot of cold water down her spine.
"I'm no one's."
He stepped closer. "Not anymore."
She didn't move.
He stopped just out of reach.
"I told you what would happen," Luca said. "You said no. He took it as permission to start testing the cracks."
"You're enjoying this."
"I'm not." He meant it. That was the worst part.
He looked around again. "Next time, you won't have time to call anyone."
Lina stared at him. "And what — you'll just keep showing up?"
"No," he said. "Next time, I might be too late."
She hated the quiet in his voice. Hated the way it made her feel.
Vulnerable.
Not just in danger, but unprotected.
There was a difference.
And Luca knew it.