2. FIRST TOUCH

KADE

I watched Seline from a distance as she laughed with her cousins, pretending to drink herself into oblivion. Bachelorette party, they called it, drunken chaos, losing control.

Only, she never did.

Her cousins slurred. Their friends stumbled. But not her.

Either her tolerance for alcohol was superhuman, or she was switching her drinks when no one was watching.

She didn’t get drunk. She only acted like she did.

Such a good little actress.

All her friends left, and she remained, waiting alone outside the club.

I knew the moment I saw her that she was more than what meets the eye.

She is hiding something.

I knew it in my heart.

Her records were clean. Too clean.

Arthur claimed to have adopted her when she was ten years old. Then why did he share about a twenty five percent of her DNA?

Who are Seline's parents?

What is that old geezer hiding?

I don’t jump to conclusions without proof. But my instincts? They’ve never failed me. And Seline set every one of them on edge.

Like the numerous plastic surgeries she did to her face just to look average, for example.

I have nothing against people who prefer to change how they look. Their body. Their fucking business.

But the world I live in is different.

You put on a mask and cap— you are avoiding the CC cameras.

You tug your hand into your pockets — you are pulling out a gun.

You dare to look me in the eye — you are a dead fish.

Seline did none of these things. She played the harmless little lamb.

But she is about to enter my family, become a part of my clan.

Even the timing is quite weird.

There are three potential girls in Arthur Dufort's family.

One of them ran away even before the marriage pact was made, and surprise, surprise, the girl who ran away was only in contact with Seline. I traced the latter's phone calls.

Aria was engaged to Luca, and right when she was about to get married, she was caught blowing some idiot.

What are the odds of Luca going to the same club where Aria was doing her thing?

And somehow, Seline was with Aria that day, but she couldn't prevent the disaster from happening.

Luca caught her red-handed.

If it were any other woman, she would have died in his hands on the grounds of disrespect.

She is a Dufort and hence, got replaced with another Dufort.

Did Seline set all this up?

Do girls really fight for a guy in reality, especially when the guy in question is Luca?

"Lusting over the underboss's fiancée is a very bad idea. I must say, a death wish." Dante drawled as he slid into the car, the most infuriating bastard I knew.

I scoffed, choking on nothing. “Why the fuck would I lust after someone so… ordinary?”

But my eyes stayed on her anyway.

Seline slung her bag over her shoulder, scrolling through her phone with a faint frown. Long dark hair fell to one side. Wired earphones. A detail most wouldn’t notice, but I did.

Dante leaned back, watching me watch her. “She’s not the type who commands attention like Aria. No sharp edges, no striking beauty. But if you look long enough, you start to notice. Her figure, for one. Not skinny. Not frail. She’s built. Muscles where it matters. A softness that hides steel. That waist—”

“Are you sure it’s me lusting after her?” I cut him off, flat. “That’s Luca’s fiancée.”

But his words wouldn’t leave me. Not the part about curves or softness. The way her body moved. The way she carried herself like someone stronger than she looked. Too controlled. Toned.

She’s hiding something. And I want to rip it out of her, piece by piece.

“I’m a man, I notice things,” Dante shrugged. “Anyway, can you get her already? Bad enough Luca sent you to fetch his bride in front of the capos. He’s belittling you.”

I smirked. He could try. But the truth didn’t change: without me, he’d crumble. He shines in the light only because I rule the dark. I am the shadow, the ghost of Bernan. Without the darkness, there is no light.

And Seline?

She’s not light either. Not innocent. She’s fractured, jagged in ways no one else sees. I can see it in her eyes, in her soft little smiles that don’t reach them.

She’s broken.

And broken things… they call to me louder than anything whole ever could.

As if she could hear my thoughts, Seline lifted her gaze from her phone and turned toward me. Her eyes, hazel and sharp, snared mine through the glass.

She pulled out one wired earphone with a casual flick.

They didn’t look the same as before.

Her eyes seemed… different. More intriguing.

Dante slipped out of the car to greet her, ever the smug bastard. She gave him a polite smile, and step by slow step, she moved toward us.

When she reached the car, just before she passed the first door, I let my voice cut through the air.

“Am I your driver?”

She paused. Closed her eyes for a beat, steadying herself, before opening them again. Then she opened the passenger door, the one beside me, and slid in without a word.

The door shut with a sharp, final thud.

I turned, glare sharpened and waiting.

She met it. Held it. Matched it.

There was no flinch. No retreat.

My lips curled, slow and dangerous.

'Well,' I thought, 'history will remember her as the only person alive who ever dared to glare back at me.'

And survive.

For now.

The black dress she wore clung to her frame as if it were stitched straight onto her skin. She has no jacket. Not even a shawl. Just bare arms and pale skin that had no business braving the night’s chill.

Her fingers, resting in her lap, trembled. Not dramatically, just the faintest shiver, like a secret she didn’t want anyone to notice. Anyone but me.

I leaned back, my eyes dragging over her slowly, deliberately, until I felt her stiffen. She hated my scrutiny, but I knew she felt it. She felt me.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. She ignored it, instead reaching forward toward the console, as though she owned the right to decide what music played in my car.

I caught her wrist before she could touch it.

She's warm. Too warm.

Her breath hitched. She turned to me, eyes flashing a warning she didn’t dare voice.

Before either of us could speak or sign, the low hum of an approaching engine cut through the night. Headlights flared in the rearview, a car slipping close to ours.

I shifted the gear with the same hand that held hers. The motion pulled her closer, her knuckles brushing the edge of the shifter.

Her pulse kicked against my palm. I felt it. Steady at first, then faster.

I didn’t let go. Neither did she.

For a breathless second, it was impossible to tell if I was steering the car or if the quiet heat between our hands was steering me.