7. Elena
Chapter seven
Elena
The studio for today’s campaign shoot sits on the twenty-first floor of a renovated glass building.
Assistants flit around like nervous birds, carrying garment bags, clipboards, and trays of green juice I’m definitely not drinking.
Everywhere I look, there’s soft gold light bouncing off mirrored panels and sheer curtains. It’s the definition of aesthetically perfect.
Partnering with Maya Hart, social media’s sweetheart, a face-card-never-declining type of girl, will skyrocket my engagement numbers exactly to where I need them. My analytics team sent me a report this morning: engagement hasn’t recovered the way I want. I need this campaign to hit, and hit hard.
I adjust the sleeve of the silk robe the stylist gave me and catch my reflection in one of the long mirrors. My lips are slicked with a shade from the new line. It gleams softly, like crushed petals. The assistants murmur something about lighting adjustments, but I’m not paying attention.
Because I can feel him.
Adrian stands near the far wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on me with that maddening mix of irritation and vigilance. He’s in a black suit again today with a charcoal shirt that looks like it was tailored directly to his skin.
He hates being here. I can tell by the way his jaw ticks every now and then, like he’s fighting the urge to strangle someone. Probably me. Maybe everyone.
But he never takes his eyes off me—not for one second.
The photographer, Louis, a man in his late thirties with a curated stubble and carefree personality, comes toward me holding the tablet where he reviews the shots.
“Let’s do the next set,” he says, rubbing his hand lightly on my shoulder as he nudges me toward the backdrop. “Chin up a bit, Elena. I want to catch more of the collarbone.”
His hand slides from my shoulder to my neck, tracing along my collarbone. My body stiffens with discomfort. Get your hands off me, motherfucker, I nearly hiss, but the air suddenly shifts behind me. It’s almost like I know what’s coming before it happens.
A dark figure blurs in my peripheral vision. Adrian moves so fast that the wind reaches me before the sound does.
One second, Louis is adjusting the angle of his camera, the next, Adrian has him by the collar, driving an uppercut straight into his pretty face.
A sickening crack echoes through the studio.
Louis collapses onto the floor, clutching his jaw, cursing through bloodied teeth.
Gasps ripple around the room. The stylists scream, Maya nearly drops her water bottle, and one of the assistants stumbles away like she’s just witnessed a murder.
But Adrian doesn’t look at anyone. Not the bleeding photographer, not the horrified staff, not even Enzo’s men guarding the exits. Instead, his furious eyes lock on me.
“No one touches you,” he growls, voice low and commanding. “Boss’s orders,” he adds after a pause.
Heat flares low in my abdomen. I can’t decide if I’m mad or turned on, even if he’s trying to hide whatever it is he’s… feeling right now behind a pathetic blanket of Enzo’s orders.
Why does anger look so damn good on him? Why does violence pour off him like a cologne I want to bottle and spray onto my own skin?
But still, I’m concerned about lawsuits, my brand reputation, business relationships, and contracts.
I move closer to him. “I appreciate you looking out for me, but you can’t just punch people in the face. It’s bad for business.”
His jaw ticks, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Your business isn’t my job. Your safety is.”
“Fuck that. You could have gotten me sued. I could lose this engagement,” I whisper urgently.
“Those are easier problems.” He doesn’t bother to lower his voice. “A broken jaw is a lesson he won’t forget,” he growls, glancing at a groaning Louis.
I should be mad, but all I can think about is how possessive his voice sounds. How primal. How it hits the exact nerve I’ve been denying since the moment he walked into my life to ruin my peace. What is wrong with me?
Louis sputters, “Son of a bitch! I didn’t… I wasn’t…”
Adrian steps forward again, and the terror on the photographer’s face says enough. Two of the lighting techs quickly grab Louis and drag him back, insisting they’ll get him checked by the in-house medic.
No one dares blame Adrian. No one dares approach him.
Even Maya, the darling of six million followers, steps back behind her makeup artist.
The studio holds its breath. And so do I.
Adrian turns away without another word, fists still clenched, as if trying to stop himself from finishing what he started. When his eyes meet mine again, something in his expression flickers. Some mix of anger and restraint, then he looks away.
The director clears his throat and announces a short break, and someone whispers that a new photographer is on the way. People scatter fast, clearly grateful for the distance between them and this uncontrollable beast.
I swallow hard.
My heart is still pounding, and my thighs squeeze together involuntarily. Damn him. Damn the way he affects me without even trying.
I walk toward him slowly, my silk robe brushing against my legs, heels tapping against the marble floor. He’s by the large window now, staring at the city below like he’s trying to calm himself with the sight.
“Adrian,” I say quietly. “Y—”
“We’re done here.” He balls his fists and walks to a distant corner of the room, eyes sharp like a hawk’s.
And somehow I want to go after him. Ask why he did that, ask if he felt something, anything… But I know better. His walls are built high, impenetrable, and reinforced with barbed wire and bad memories.
I know because I’ve seen firsthand what it means to be in the mafia—worse, to be a man in the mafia.
***
Two hours later, after the replacement photographer finishes the remaining shots and Maya posts a behind-the-scenes reel that instantly hits fifty thousand likes, I finally collapse into the back seat of the SUV.
My body aches from holding poses all day. My mind buzzes with adrenaline and questions I can’t ask. Adrian sits in the front passenger seat, stiff and silent, staring ahead as if the city traffic had personally offended him.
I should feel angry, embarrassed… anything other than this maddening heat still coiling inside me. Since he won’t talk to me, and Annora is holed up in some bizarre master class, I unlock my phone and text Bella.
My twin sister and I have come a long way. We went from being pitted against each other by our father and stepmother, to Bella holding grudges against me, to her finally forgiving me, and now to us trying to fix our relationship.
I'm trying to make up for the years I was forced to stay silent or even actively participate in the injustice against her. To make up for the years where she was treated like shit, all because of her hair color or glasses or some other shitty perceived flaw. I still feel bad about those years. Heck, I found it difficult to forgive myself for the longest time, until I realized if I ever had a chance to truly fix things between us, I’d have to forgive myself first.
ME: Hey, sister girl. How’re you doing?
Tiny bubbles appear on the screen, showing she’s typing back. Excitement swells in my chest, pushing away the momentary feeling of emptiness.
She replies instantly.
BELLA: Hey, famous. I’m great. How’re you?
ME: I can’t decide if I’m having a meltdown or am happy. Are the kids asleep?
BELLA: Not yet. They’re in the living room watching cartoons, but their eyes are already drooping. Don’t tell me you’re feeling down because of the comments on your Instagram.
Ah, that too. A while ago, one of my videos sparked a lot of serious comments.
Once in a while, my comment section goes crazy, with different people airing their opinions on how I achieve my success.
After all, the Rossi family is famous for so many top establishments—hotels, real estate companies and more.
And somehow, carrying that name cancels out all my hard work.
I briefly contemplate whether I should name all my problems or drop them, but I decide on the latter. Today is for checking up on her.
ME: No. Just normal business stress. Tell the kids I miss them.
BELLA: We miss you, too. But you totally killed it today. The teaser pics look amazing. I’m so proud of you.
Warmth settles in my chest.
ME: Aww. We should hang out soon. TTYL.
Bella sends a heart emoji and a photo of the twins sprawled across the couch, one with a blanket halfway off, the other clutching a stuffed dinosaur.
I trace the screen with my thumb, letting the ache of missing them bloom quietly.
More than anything, I’m happy that she finally found love with Dominic, one of the most powerful mafia dons in New York—even if it took the universe rearranging everyone’s plans to get her there.
Funny how the life she never asked for turned out to be exactly the one she was always meant to have.
I’m glad that fate finally rewarded a girl who once doubted anyone would ever choose her, after all the hell she’s been through.
And that’s why I refuse to tell her about the death threats. I know she’d jump in and offer me protection through her husband’s mafia, but I don’t want my calamity to befall them.
I set the phone down, exhale slowly, and glance at Adrian through the rearview mirror. His jaw is still clenched, knuckles still pale around the armrest, rage simmering under his skin like a living creature.
And yet… he protected me today in a way no one ever has.
He senses me watching and turns his head slightly. Our eyes meet for a split second. The connection is sharp enough to steal the breath straight from my lungs, but he looks away again.
I sink back into my seat, my heart thudding softly, and stare out the tinted window as the city lights blur past. There’s so much I want to say to him, so many questions burning holes in my ribs, but the words stay locked behind my teeth.
Instead, I close my eyes and whisper into the dark leather interior, “I don’t know why it feels like you’re the only one who truly sees me.”
He doesn’t hear it, or maybe he does, but as usual, he chooses to remain silent. And I don’t know why that both terrifies and thrills me.
My phone buzzes. I think it’s Bella, but when I glance at the screen, my blood runs cold. It’s a text from an unknown number.
We’re coming for you.