CHAPTER TWO – VINCENZO'S POV

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse office, watching the Milan skyline bleed silver through the morning haze. From up here, the world looked quiet—obedient. Like it waited for my next command.

The junior executive’s voice broke the silence.

He stood in front of my desk, sweat soaking through his thousand-dollar suit, his face streaked with tears. Snot clung to his upper lip. Pathetic.

“Please, Boss… I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re wasting my time,” I said, my voice flat, colder than the steel beneath the city.

He flinched. Of course he did. They always do. The moment real consequences come close, the bravado shatters. Men like him always think they’re smart enough to cheat the system. Until they’re not.

I turned my back to him, picked up the gun lying on my desk, and aimed it with a calm hand.

One shot. No hesitation.

Blood splattered across the pristine marble floor.

“Clean this shit up,” I muttered to Liam, my bodyguard, who’d been standing silently in the corner like a shadow.

I didn’t look back at the corpse.

I walked into the adjoining bathroom, rolled up my sleeves, and turned on the faucet. Warm water ran over my hands, turning pink for a second before it cleared. I stared at the blood circling the drain, the coppery smell still clinging to my skin.

They say the first kill haunts you. You remember the sound, the recoil, the final breath.

I was eleven when I pulled a trigger for the first time. My hands shook. I vomited into a gutter afterward. Couldn’t sleep for nights.

Now? Nothing. No reaction. No guilt. No thrill.

Progress, my godfather would call it. He taught me that feelings are liabilities. Weaknesses. He was right.

By the time I stepped back into the office, the mess was gone. My staff was efficient. Loyal. Fear kept them that way.

I sat behind my desk, picked up the cup of black coffee—no sugar, no milk. Just bitter.

Just like me.

I reviewed the schedule Liam had placed neatly beside the keyboard.

Interview – Final round. Applicant: Ashley Robert.

I read the name again. Then again.

A ripple went through my chest. Nothing visible. Just internal disturbance—like something beneath my ribs was shifting, trying to wake up.

I pulled up her file.

Basic credentials. PR strategist. Los Angeles. Decent academic background. Desperate financial status.

Nothing impressive on paper.

But then I saw her photo.

And everything in me stopped.

Her eyes.

Those damn eyes.

Brown. Large. Familiar in a way I couldn’t explain.

For a second, it felt like I was staring into a face I’d seen before. Not just seen—felt. In some other time, some other place. But no matter how hard I searched my memory, it gave me nothing back. Just static.

I should’ve canceled the interview. Dismissed her like the others.

But I didn’t.

I sat still. Waiting.

Then came the knock.

Two taps. Deliberate. Nervous.

“Come in,” I said, my voice flat.

She stepped in.

Three minutes late.

I clocked it immediately.

She wore a secondhand blazer, probably borrowed or salvaged. Her heels were cheap but sturdy. Her hair had that soft natural texture women like her rarely leave untouched—but she hadn’t tried to hide it. Brave.

I didn’t look up right away, but I didn’t have to. Her presence filled the space in a strange, intrusive way. Like she didn’t belong—yet belonged too much.

Her scent reached me before her voice. Not perfume. Just something… warm. Real. Familiar.

“Good morning,” she said, voice soft but steady. “I’m Ashley Robert. I’m here for the PA job.”

“You’re late,” I replied without looking up.

“It’s only three minutes,” she said quickly.

Too quickly.

I raised my eyes then. Locked them with hers.

Everything stilled.

Her voice. Her face. Her posture. Everything about her scratched at something buried deep inside me.

It wasn’t recognition. Not quite.

It was something worse—almost recognition.

I didn’t let it show. I opened her file and pretended to study it.

“Why Vaitherium Technologies?” I asked.

Her hesitation was brief, but telling.

“Because I need to eat,” she said, before catching herself. “Sorry—I mean… I need to build a better life. Pay my debts. Create something I can be proud of.”

That answer should’ve annoyed me. It was too honest. Too raw.

But it didn’t.

It landed.

She didn’t say she was passionate about tech. She didn’t pretend to be fascinated by my company’s growth charts. She gave me the truth.

And I respected it.

I watched her face. Her mouth moved when she talked, but her eyes said more than her words. They held pain. Years of it. Not the fake kind people use to sell sympathy—but the kind that hardens a person from the inside out.

I closed the file.

“You’re hired,” I said.

She blinked.

“That’s it?” she asked, clearly expecting more.

I didn’t respond. Just studied her face again.

There was something in the shape of her cheekbones. The curve of her lips. The defiance in her eyes even when she was scared.

Something that didn’t belong in my world—but here she was.

She turned to leave. No thank you. No smile.

She didn’t even fake joy.

Most people would have. For a job at my company? They would’ve clapped. Cried. Begged.

Not her.

She left like someone walking out of a battlefield—relieved but unchanged.

When the door clicked shut, I sat back in my chair, gripping the edges of the armrests.

Something was wrong.

I’d met her before.

No, not met.

Known.

But how?

And when?

I scrolled back to her photo. Zoomed in on her face. Her eyes.

They were too familiar.

Like a bad dream that refuses to fade.

My heart beat faster—not from fear, but from something colder.

A memory I hadn’t unlocked yet.

But it was there.

Waiting.