Chapter 5 - THE OFFER

The glass façade of De Luca Enterprises gleamed in the morning sun like a monument to power. Fifty stories of tinted windows and steel, rising above Milan’s financial district — elegant, cold, unyielding.

To most, it was a symbol of modern success.

To Isabella, it was enemy territory.

She stepped from the taxi and took a steadying breath. Her reflection in the glass door was perfect — confident, composed, unreadable. The new name on her ID card, Isabella Moretti, felt strange on her tongue, but the forged credentials in her portfolio were flawless. She had practiced this moment for months.

The lobby was a cathedral of marble and silence. Two security guards flanked the entrance, while a sleek receptionist looked up with a professional smile.

“Buongiorno,” Isabella said. “I have an appointment with Signor De Luca.”

The woman checked the list. “Of course, Miss Moretti. You’re expected. Take the private elevator to the top floor.”

Expected.

That word tightened something in Isabella’s chest. He had known she would come.

The elevator doors slid shut behind her, and the city fell away. Her heart thudded once, twice — sharp and deliberate. The mirrored walls reflected her image back from every angle: the tailored cream suit, the calm expression. She looked like a woman in control.

But beneath the surface, she felt the faint electric hum of danger.

When the doors opened, the scent of espresso and polished wood greeted her. The top floor was quiet, the air thick with power and precision. His world.

Lorenzo De Luca stood at the window, hands in his pockets, gazing down at the city. The skyline framed him like a portrait — the ruler of his own kingdom.

“Miss Moretti,” he said without turning. “You’re punctual.”

“I try to be,” she replied. “It gives the illusion of reliability.”

He turned, and the hint of amusement in his eyes made her stomach twist. “Illusion?”

“Isn’t that what I’m being hired to create?”

He smiled faintly. “Touché.”

He gestured toward the seat across from his desk. “Sit.”

The office was minimalist — black marble, chrome, and glass — but beneath the modern polish, there was something old-fashioned about it. Like the man himself. Control disguised as refinement.

“Your résumé is impressive,” he said, flipping through the papers she’d given him. “Rome, London, New York… and yet, no one seems to know much about you.”

“Isn’t that a good thing for someone in public relations?” she said smoothly.

He looked up. “Depends. People who hide often have something to protect.”

She tilted her head. “Maybe I just prefer the work to speak for itself.”

He leaned back in his chair, watching her. “And what does your work say about you, Miss Moretti?”

“That I make complicated men look human,” she said.

He chuckled, low and rich. “That sounds almost like a threat.”

“More like a promise.”

He set the papers down. “I’ve had PR consultants before. Most of them bored me within the first five minutes. You didn’t.”

“Should I be flattered or concerned?”

“Both,” he said simply.

There was a silence — not awkward, but charged.

Then he stood and walked to the window again, his back to her. “You understand what this company represents, yes? It’s more than business. It’s power, legacy… and scrutiny. Every deal, every photograph, every rumor matters.”

“I understand,” she said. “You want control of the narrative.”

“I want control, period,” he said quietly.

The honesty of it caught her off guard.

She leaned forward slightly. “Then you need someone who can make people believe what you want them to believe — without ever knowing they’ve been led there.”

He turned, studying her face. “And that’s you?”

“I’m very good at making lies look like truth,” she said, and then cursed herself silently. Too sharp. Too revealing.

He didn’t react immediately. He just watched her — the way predators watched movement in the dark.

Finally, he said, “I believe you.”

He walked to the desk again and opened a drawer, sliding a single contract across the surface. “This is an initial offer. Three-month consultancy. You’ll report directly to me.”

She blinked. “Directly to you?”

“Problem?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Just… unusual.”

“I don’t delegate what interests me,” he said.

Their eyes met, and her pulse tripped.

There it was again — that unspoken current, the one that made her want to step closer and run at the same time.

She reached for the contract, scanning it quickly. The terms were generous — more than generous. The kind of money that would tempt anyone.

He watched her hands. “Do you always read every line before you sign?”

“Only when I suspect fine print hides danger.”

“Then you should never stop reading, Miss Moretti,” he said softly.

She signed.

The pen felt heavy in her fingers, the ink a quiet declaration: she was inside his world now.

When she handed the contract back, Lorenzo took it, but his gaze lingered on her instead of the page.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said, almost as if testing the idea.

“I don’t scare easily.”

“You should.”

He smiled slightly as he said it, but the weight beneath the words was real.

She smiled back, refusing to flinch. “Then maybe you’re not as terrifying as they say.”

He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence, the subtle scent of expensive cologne and danger.

“Or maybe,” he murmured, “you don’t know me yet.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, the city a blur beyond the glass.

Then his phone buzzed. He broke eye contact first, picking it up with an annoyed glance.

“Yes,” he said into the receiver. “Send in Matteo.”

His tone shifted — colder, controlled again.

When he hung up, he said, “You’ll start tomorrow. My assistant will brief you. For now, enjoy your victory.”

“Victory?” she asked.

“You wanted into my world,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Now you’re in. Be careful what you do with that.”

As she left the office, the elevator doors closed behind her, sealing her reflection into mirrored steel once more.

She exhaled slowly, realizing she’d been holding her breath since she signed.

Victory, yes — but it didn’t feel like triumph. It felt like stepping onto thin ice, the kind that cracked quietly before swallowing you whole.

Her pulse hadn’t stopped racing since she first saw him. Every look, every word between them had felt like part of a chess game — one she wasn’t sure she was winning.

When the elevator reached the ground floor, she pressed her back against the cool glass and whispered to herself,

“Keep control, Isabella. Remember who he is. Remember why you’re here.”

But her reflection looked back at her — calm, beautiful, composed — and for the first time, she wondered which part of it was still real.

Upstairs, Lorenzo watched the city again, the signed contract on his desk.

He should have felt satisfied. Another hire, another strategic move. But something about Isabella Moretti unsettled him.

She had looked him in the eye when others looked away.

She had challenged him — not with arrogance, but with something sharper.

And that name… Moretti. He couldn’t place why it felt familiar.

He poured himself a drink, the amber liquid catching the light, and muttered under his breath,

“She’s either a brilliant choice… or a mistake I’ll regret.”