Chapter 3 The Line I Wasn't Supposed to Cross

I don't know why I went back.

Maybe I wanted to prove to myself that he didn't matter. That I could look him in the face and feel nothing. Maybe I thought if I could control it, it would lose its grip on me. Or maybe... I just wanted to forget for one night.

Forget the tattoo on my back.

Forget the name that used to be mine.

Forget who he was-and who I still was, underneath it all.

The bar had emptied. Rosa had gone home. The lights were low, humming quietly in the ceiling like they were keeping secrets. He was still there-same booth, same drink. Like he'd been waiting. Like he knew I'd come back.

"I thought you left," he said.

"I did." I walked to the booth and sat down across from him. No hesitation this time.

He studied me, like he was trying to solve something. "So... what made you stay?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. The truth wasn't pretty. It wasn't romantic. It was dressed in grief like anger and revenge...both twisted into hunger. I hated how much I wanted to be seen. Even by him.

Especially by him.

He leaned in. "You've got this edge to you... like you've seen things you shouldn't have. You remind me of something I lost."

I blinked and looked away. "Don't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because it makes it harder to lie to myself."

He didn't say anything after that. Not with words. But his hand reached across the table-slow, patient-and brushed against mine. I didn't pull away.

I didn't mean to let it happen. I swear I didn't.

But when he touched my face... when his thumb skimmed across my jaw, everything else slipped out of reach. The bar lights blurred. The music melted. And suddenly, I wasn't Lexa anymore.

I was Alexandria.

The girl who had nothing left to lose.

He kissed me, hard... Like he'd been waiting years. I kissed him back like I didn't care who he was... like I didn't care who his father was.

He tasted like danger and whiskey. I wanted more. I wanted ruin.

We didn't make it far. Just upstairs, to the small staff room I sometimes crashed in when it got too late to go home. It was cramped. The light was awful. But it didn't matter.

Clothes came off too fast. Breathing turned messy.

I saw him-really saw him-in that moment. The heat in his eyes, the way his fingers gripped my waist like he couldn't believe I was real. And for one insane second, I let myself forget. Forget who he was. Forget who I was.

I let myself want him.

After, we lay tangled in silence. I stared at the ceiling, heart still racing.

He reached over and gently tucked hair behind my ear. "You okay?"

I nodded. Lied.

"You don't talk much, do you?"

"I talk when it matters."

He smiled-slow, tired, satisfied. "This mattered."

I didn't reply. My throat was tight.

Because deep down, I knew...

This wasn't just a mistake.

This was a line I wasn't supposed to cross.

And now that I had...

There'd be no going back.

After the moments we shared, I woke up to silence.

No footsteps. No breathing. No warmth beside me. Just the ceiling... that cheap, water-stained ceiling I'd stared at a hundred times before. Only this time, it felt different. Like it was judging me.

I sat up slowly, the sheet slipping off my skin. My head ached-not from alcohol, but from everything else. I pulled the blanket around me, as if that could shield me from the night I just let happen.

The room smelled like sweat and faded cologne. His scent still remained in the air... but the man was gone.

No note.

No goodbye.

Just silence.

I didn't know why that hit me harder than it should have.

Maybe because I'd let him in-not just into my body, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere I thought I'd locked up tight a long time ago. Stupid.

I got up, grabbing my clothes off the floor one piece at a time. My shirt was inside out. My heels were kicked into opposite corners of the room. I didn't even remember taking them off.

When I finally looked in the mirror, I barely recognized the girl staring back at me.

My hair looked wild, my eyes heavy, and my neck flushed.

And then I turned... and caught the glimpse of ink across my back.

Damn! ... the map.

My breath paused as I stepped closer to the mirror, lifting the back of my shirt. The lines were still there-faint now, faded with time, but still readable and dangerous.

My father's voice echoed in my head: "If anything happens, keep it hidden." Don't let anyone see what I gave you."

Last night... I hadn't thought about it. Not once. I let my guard down and let his hands roam. And what if he'd seen it?

What if he recognized it?

No. He hadn't said anything. He'd left before the light hit. Maybe he didn't notice. Maybe I got lucky.

But certainly, luck runs out. And mine was always on a timer.

I left the room, stepped into the back hallway, and leaned against the wall.

Rosa wasn't in yet. No one saw me. Thank God!

But my heart wouldn't slow down. The guilt was louder than any footsteps I'd ever run from. It vibrated behind my ribs, whispering accusations into my spine.

I just slept with the son of the man who murdered my father.

What the hell was I thinking?

I didn't cry.

Didn't scream.

Didn't break anything.

Although, that would've made it easier and cleaner.

Instead, I walked back into the bar, fixed my face in the mirror behind the counter, and got ready to pour drinks again like nothing had happened. Like my skin wasn't still burning with his fingerprints.

But inside, I knew something had shifted.

This wasn't just a mistake.

It was the start of something.

Something I wouldn't be able to control.

Luca's POV

I should've left sooner.

I never stayed the night. Not in Spirales, not in Milan, not anywhere. It wasn't about manners-it was survival. There were too many names, too many lies, and too many memories I didn't want clinging to my skin.

But last night... she got under it.

Lexa.

The name still sat on my tongue like something I wasn't supposed to say. It didn't sound fake. It didn't sound cheap. It sounded real-like a name someone fought to keep.

And the way she looked at me... like she was sizing me up for a crime I hadn't committed yet. Like she was trying to decide whether to kiss me or kill me.

She didn't act like the other girls. No smiling to get close. No pretending to care. She kept her guard up, even when she let her body soften. That kind of control? That kind of silence?

It wasn't learned; it was earned through pain.

I leaned against the hood of my car just before sunrise, watching the sky turn from purple to that ugly Spirales orange. My jacket was still unbuttoned. My shirt still smelled like her.

It should've been nothing.

But it wasn't.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.

"Call Matteo," I said, voice low.

A pause, then a click.

"Boss?" Matteo sounded half-asleep.

"I need you to run a name. Lexa. Works at a bar called Inferno. Find out where she's from, who she talks to, anything we can trace."

He hesitated. "You think she's trouble?"

"I think she's hiding something."

"Anything specific?"

"No." I paused. "It's just a feeling."

I hated going on feelings. Feelings got people killed. But I've been around enough liars to know when someone's holding a story behind their eyes.

And Lexa?

She had a whole novel in hers.

There was something about the way she pulled back when I touched her back. It was quick. Almost too small to notice. But it was there-that trace of fear. Not the kind that comes from a bad date or a secret boyfriend.

No, this was the fear of being found.

I'd seen it before. In people on the run. In men who carried guilt like lead in their chest. In women who had lost more than they were willing to say.

But what would a bartender be running from? And why did I care?

I'd slept with strangers before. I'd have walked away cleaner than this.

But her name stuck to my teeth.

As I got into the car, I looked back toward the bar. The alley behind it was quiet. No sign of her. But I knew she was in there...probably awake and probably wishing she could forget me.

Too late...

I remembered her laugh. The tension... I asked where she was from. The way she kissed was like she was trying to shut herself up.

There's something about her.

And I don't like not knowing what it is.