BROKEN IN HIS SHADOWS

Alicia's POV

The air in my Orlando studio apartment was heavy with mildew and defeat, the peeling wallpaper a mirror of my unraveling life. I leaned against the wall, my heart racing as Mr. Langley's fist pounded the door, each blow a countdown to my eviction.

"Alicia!" His voice slithered through the cracks, thick with menace. "Three months' rent, girl. You got my money, or you ready to pay another way?"

My throat tightened, my fingers clutching the chipped doorknob like a lifeline. I had nothing, every dollar from my diner shifts, every cent of my savings, had gone to Grandpa's nursing home fees, his cancer treatments, his final days. He'd been my anchor after my parents died in a car crash when I was 11, raising me with stories and strength until he passed three years ago, when I was 21. His last words, "You're my masterpiece, Ali," echoed in my mind, but masterpieces didn't pay bills.

"I need more time," I said, my voice shaking, hating its fragility.

Langley's laugh was a predator's growl. "Time's up, sweetheart. You're a pretty thing, no money, no family. My bed's warm, and it'll keep you off the streets."

Revulsion churned in my gut, his offer a poison he'd dangled before. I'd always refused, my dignity the last shred of myself I owned, but now, with Grandpa's medical debts still piled up and no one to turn to, his words gnawed at my resolve. At 24, I was a painter whose canvases sat untouched, my dreams buried under a mountain of $2,500 in rent and hospital bills.

"I'd rather starve," I snapped, my voice finding steel, defiance burning through fear.

Silence stretched, heavy and threatening. Then his footsteps faded, leaving me trembling. I sank to the floor, my knees to my chest, my dark curls spilling over my face. Tears stung my hazel eyes, but I forced them back. Crying wouldn't erase the debts or the ache of a life that had taken everything, parents, Grandpa, hope. My tiny apartment, with its cracked walls and flickering bulb, was all I could afford, and even that was slipping away.

I needed a way out. I had work tonight at the Blue Moon Bar & Grill, a downtown dive desperate enough to hire a girl with no experience, where tips might keep Langley at bay.

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The Blue Moon was a haze of cigarette smoke and broken dreams, its neon sign flickering like my resolve. I tied my apron over my last clean shirt, my deep brown skin glistening under the dim lights, my curls in a messy bun. The crowd was a mix of drunks and predators, businessmen with wandering hands, locals with crude grins, all seeing my curvy frame as a target, not a person.

"Hey, baby, bring that fine self over here!" a red-faced man in a cheap suit slurred, waving a $10 bill.

I clenched my jaw, forcing a tight smile as I slammed a whiskey on his table. "Enjoy," I said, my voice clipped, my stomach twisting.

His hand grabbed my wrist, his fingers greasy. "Stay a while, sweetheart. I'll make it worth your time."

Fury surged, my pulse spiking. I yanked free, the glass wobbling. "Touch me again, and you'll choke on that whiskey," I hissed, my eyes blazing, my heart pounding.

He laughed, unbothered, but the manager's glare from the bar stopped me from doing more. I needed this job, $5 an hour plus tips was my only shield against eviction. But as the night dragged on, the leers, the grabs, the insults chipped away at my soul. I was an artist, my hands meant for brushes, not trays, yet here I was, trading dignity for survival.

By 1 a.m., I couldn't take it. I stormed into the manager's office, ripping off my apron and throwing it on his desk. "I quit," I said, my voice trembling with rage.

He didn't look up from his ledger. "You'll be back when you're begging."

"Maybe," I shot back, "but not to this hellhole."

I walked out, the city's neon lights blurring as tears broke free. No job, no money, no future, what was left? The humid Florida night pressed against me, my sneakers scuffing the pavement, my mind a fog of despair. I stepped off the curb, not caring..

HONK!

Tires screeched, a black Rolls-Royce swerving inches from me, the air rushing past. My heart slammed against my ribs, my breath catching as I stumbled back, adrenaline flooding my veins.

The driver, a wiry man in a crisp black suit, leapt out, his face flushed. "Are you out of your mind? You trying to die?"

Something snapped, my fear igniting into rage. "Oh, I'm sorry, does my existence bother you?" I shouted, my hands shaking. "Maybe I should've let you hit me! Maybe then I wouldn't have to deal with this goddamn_"

I stopped, chest heaving, tears streaming. The driver's eyes narrowed, his voice cold. "Crazy girl," he muttered, stalking back to the car.

I turned away, my pulse racing, oblivious to the man in the backseat, his gaze fixed on me, a spark of fascination in his eyes.

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Adrian's POV

The Rolls-Royce glided through Orlando's garish streets, the city's chaos a far cry from the Tuscan villas I called home. I adjusted my hand, my green eyes sharp as I reviewed a Blackwood Software report on my tablet, the tech empire I'd built as a shield from my true legacy, the Blackwood Empire, the mafia of all mafias, ruling Europe, America, and Asia. At 28, I was a billionaire, my Italian-Greek heritage cloaked in tailored suits, but beneath it, I was the heir to a throne stained with my parents' blood, murdered when I was a boy by my uncle out of pure jealousy.

Vincent Rossi, my driver and bodyguard, steered through the night, his silence steadying me. In Florence, Nonno, Giovanni Blackwood ran the empire's business.

A flash of movement jolted me from my thoughts. Vincent slammed the brakes, the car swerving, a woman stumbling back from the curb, her dark curls wild, her hazel eyes blazing with a fire that stopped my breath. My tablet fell, forgotten, as she shouted, her voice raw, her pain a mirror to my own buried grief.

"Oh, I'm sorry, does my existence bother you?" she yelled, her deep brown skin glowing under the streetlights, her curvy frame trembling with defiance. "Maybe I should've let you hit me!"

Vincent dismissed her as "crazy," but I couldn't look away. She was a tempest, her anger veiling a sorrow I knew too well, her worn sneakers and fierce gaze telling a story of struggle. Her beauty striking, unyielding stirred something in me, a pull I couldn't ignore.

As she walked away, her shoulders slumped, I leaned forward, my voice low. "Find out who she is, Vincent."

He glanced back, puzzled. "Sir?"

"Everything," I said, my eyes still on her retreating form. "Name, address, life. I want it all."