2 | The Girl in Pink
SANTO
Power is the easiest thing in the world to acquire—the hard part is keeping it.
Men spend their lives clawing their way to the top, only to choke when they get there.
They mistake fear for loyalty, money for influence, and distance for respect.
They forget that power isn’t about who talks the loudest—power is about silence.
It’s commanding a room with a single glance.
It’s when no one dares take a drink until the one in charge has done so first.
And here I am, lifting my glass to my lips while the others wait.
My gaze glides across the room as I swirl my whiskey around in its tumbler. All eyes are on me, cufflinks reflecting the light from the chandelier glittering above as the men watch, frozen in place.
I take a long pull of my Yamazaki, and set my tumbler down with a soft thud.
The minister of finance leans in close, cigar smoke heavy on his breath. “The legislation will pass, Signor Valenti. You have my word. The banks will remain… cooperative.”
I let the silence stretch just enough to make him uncomfortable. He clears his throat, sweat beading at his temples. Finally, I incline my head—a single nod, but it makes him sag with relief.
Marco hovers a few paces behind me, keeping a watchful eye. He doesn’t speak unless I ask him to—that’s why I keep him around. A man who knows the value of silence is rare, and incredibly necessary in this line of work.
More men drift toward me, eager to get on my good side. I let them. I listen to their ramblings, but only halfway. My mind drifts, away from politics and monetary gain, and toward her.
The girl in pink.
I noticed her the second she walked in.
It wasn’t the lingerie at first—though the color is impossible to ignore in a room dripping with black lace and blood-red silks. No, what caught me was her stillness. Everyone here is performing, desperate to be seen. Men puffing their chests, women flashing their smiles and flaunting their assets.
Not her, though. She’s trying to disappear.
Which makes her impossible to ignore.
Her eyes darted too quickly when mine first found hers, thick lashes fanning her cheekbones as she averted her gaze. But I caught the blush staining her cheeks, the flush of color that crept up her throat and down between her breasts.
That alone would have been enough to interest me. But then she kept glancing back when she thought I wasn’t looking. And that’s what makes this dangerous.
Because I was. I’ve been keeping her in my peripheral since the second she stepped into this room. Clocking any movement of the men she’s serving. Noticing every glance she throws my way.
She doesn’t know who I am. She might have a hunch—I am at the head of the table, after all—but she doesn’t know what she’s walked in on.
If she did, she’d be trembling. She’d be praying she never caught my attention.
Instead, she blushes.
And I can’t fucking look away.
“Signor Valenti,” one of the industrialists presses, “our factories in Turin are at your disposal. We can—”
“Later,” I cut him off, my voice flat. His words die a quiet death in his throat. He nods quickly, already retreating. Smart man.
I take a sip of wine and let my gaze wander again. It’s easy enough to pretend I’m surveying the crowd, scanning my kingdom. But the truth is simpler, and far more dangerous.
I’m hunting her.
And there she is—half-hidden near the marble column, a tray of champagne in her hands. She’s not talking, not smiling like the others. She’s watching—cataloguing. Calculating everyone’s next move. Keeping a careful distance.
I wonder if she realizes that makes her like me.
Conversation swells around me—territory disputes, shipments moving, new trade routes—important matters, worth millions. Normally I’d relish it, because every deal offered here depends on my approval or permission. But tonight the words roll past me, just white noise.
I let the chatter fade to the background and lock eyes with the girl in pink across the room. She stiffens, startled, as if she didn’t expect me to be aware of her. And then—God help her—she doesn’t look away.
The music seems to hush. The ballroom narrows until there’s only the two of us, staring at each other.
She’s absolutely fucking gorgeous.
“Ciao, bella,” I murmur, letting the word curl between us like smoke, low enough that the men around me can’t hear. Hello, beautiful.
She doesn’t hear it—she couldn’t possibly, from where she’s standing. But she sees it—reads it on my lips. Her full mouth parts, eyes widening, and then she looks away again, focussing on her tray. A blush stains her cheeks, deeper than before.
I smile—and not the happy kind. A slow, dangerous grin, one sharp enough to cut.
I’ve decided—she belongs to me.
The evening drags on, a jumble of business deals and threats carefully disguised as toasts. I let the others talk at me, tuning them out, only responding when Marco urges me to.
Every so often, I let my gaze drift back to her, savoring the way she startles, the way she tries not to be caught staring.
She can’t help it—none of them can. Every shade of eyes stick to me—brown, green, hazel. Some lined heavily with black, others more natural.
Her gaze feels different though. There’s no worship or fear—it’s something else entirely.
Curiosity, maybe. Intrigue.
By the time the last string of the quartet fades and the final glass is emptied, I’ve secured millions worth in deals, stitched together alliances that will outlast my very bloodline, and destroyed a rival without lifting a finger. And yet, none of it satisfies me. None of it matters.
Because she’s gone—left thirty minutes ago with the rest of the girls, leaving me with nothing but a final backward glance.
As the last guests shuffle out, I step back into the quiet, rolling my shoulders and cracking my neck.
Marco appears at my side. “Shall I arrange a car, Signor?”
“Not yet.” I hand him my empty tumbler and spin my signet ring around my finger, the family crest glittering proudly in the light. “Get me everything there is to know about the girl in pink.”
----
Marco doesn’t make me wait long.
By the next night, he’s trailing behind me in my office, a thin folder in hand. He sets it on my desk like an offering, and I take my time, turning the signet ring around my finger as I glance at him.
“Tell me.”
He taps the folder once. “Fiorella Leoni. Twenty-four. Works odd modeling gigs. Helps at her grandparents’ restaurant. Two roommates, Mia and Lila.”
He pauses on Luca Leoni’s file, eyes unreadable.
“Her younger brother’s been running errands. Nothing big—until recently. He’s been taking delivery work from the Moretti crew. Cash up front, no questions. Kid thinks he’s slick.”
“Does she know?” I don’t hide the sharpness in the question.
Marco’s mouth barely moves when he answers. “Doubtful. He keeps her in the dark. Typical brother bullshit.”
I lean forward, bracing my forearms on my desk. “Set a job near him. Find me something shiny. Make it feel like dumb luck. Make the money look… tempting.”
Marco’s mouth quirks in something like a smile, not kind. He nods once, slow. “We can make him see it.” He taps the folder again, then lets the rest fall into silence.
We both know what that means, and the pause says everything neither of us needs to voice. The plan sharpens in that quiet: a glint, a drop, a choice placed in the hands of a cocky kid. A baited hook.
“If he takes it,” I say, keeping my tone deliberate, “it gets me her.”
Marco’s fingers drum the wood, steady. “If not, I’ll bring her to you. Unbroken.”
I smile, dark and certain. “She’ll come willingly. I’ll make sure her brother’s life depends on it.”
Marco leaves my office without another word. He knows his job: set the bait, watch the prey.
I drop my eyes to my pretty girl’s file again, her picture clipped to the top. I trace my thumb over her full lips.
Fiorella. ‘Little flower’.
I spin my ring again and let the city light play over the crest. Outside, the night holds its breath. Inside, fate is blossoming to life.
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Stepping straight into Santo's head ?? How did you like it in there? ??