"Assault, organ trafficking, drug distribution... unauthorized dissection?" Luca muttered, his eyes scanning the pages with a cold, growing curiosity. "What the hell is she exactly? I thought she was a doctor."
Enzo scratched his head, looking genuinely baffled. "Well, for someone her age, the credentials are insane. A degree in forensic pathology and another in pharmacology. Her academic record is stellar, but most of the charges stem from illegal experimentation—performing procedures on cadavers without a permit. Apparently, she's a prodigy when it comes to synthesizing narcotics. That's all I've managed to dig up for now."
"Wow. A criminal and academic history this impressive? I wasn't wrong when I called her a serial killer in the making." Luca leaned back, his gaze hardening. "Are you sure she hasn't actually murdered anyone yet? She definitely has the vibe of someone who would."
He looked back at the file, his brow furrowing. "What's really bothering me is that every single one of these charges ended in an acquittal. How? With a face and a tongue like hers, she'd probably curse out the judge the second she stood in court. Does she belong to a syndicate? Is she loaded? Those are the only ways out of a mess like this."
"Wrong, wrong, and wrong," Enzo countered.
"Then how?"
Enzo pulled another sheet of paper from the folder and slid it across the desk. It wasn't just a record; it was information on a different person entirely. The name 'Sophia' was highlighted at the top in bold letters.
"Who's this woman?"
"Mmm... it turns out her best friend is a high-profile defense attorney," Enzo explained. "She hasn't lost a single case in her entire career. The two of them... how should I put it?"
"One ruins, the other repairs. Every time one dives into a mess, the other pulls her out. They're like two sides of a jagged coin. What's really striking is the lawyer's network—politicians, syndicate bosses, traffickers, CEOs. It's no wonder these two have been dancing around the law so brilliantly."
Luca smiled, the wine in his glass swirling in a slow, hypnotic circle. "She's perfect. Truly, fucking perfect."
"Perfect?" Enzo blinked, looking at the file as if it were written in a foreign language. "Are we looking at the same data? I must have misheard you. What happened to the man who wanted a 'heaven-sent angel' for a wife? Someone gentle, submissive, someone who wouldn't breathe without your goddamn permission?"
"That's my stepmother's fantasy, not mine," Luca countered, his voice dropping an octave. "She wants a weak girl she can grind under her heel."
Enzo stared at him, deadpan. "You're really going to lie to my face like that?"
"Alright, fine. Maybe I 'did' want that once," Luca admitted, a sharp glint in his eye. "But Elena is better. I want a woman who can wipe the floor with anyone who crosses her. A woman who fears no one—not even me. Besides, it's practical to marry a doctor. At least she can patch up my wounds, right Enzo?"
He was baiting him, but Enzo didn't flinch. He leaned in and whispered, "I'll remind you she's a *forensic* pathologist. Do you want her treating you, or performing your goddamn autopsy?"
Luca shot him a freezing look. "Enzo, you're a sadistic prick. You know what? I'm going to see my lovely wife. Being around you is killing my mood."
"Yeah, go to her," Enzo called out as Luca turned to leave. "Just don't come crawling back to me for help. And do me a favor—tell me what kind of coffin you want before she carves you up."
He pushed the door open, his eyes scanning the bed, only to find it empty. The mangled handcuffs and the wide-open window told a silent story. Luca ran a hand through his hair, a breathless, frustrated laugh escaping his throat. "Fuck," he muttered to the empty room. "Enzo will never let me hear the end of it if she slipped away again."
Luca strode toward the open casement, leaning out to scan the stone ledge for any trace of a desperate descent—scuff marks, torn fabric, a lingering shadow. Nothing. The ground below remained undisturbed, a silent witness to a ghost's departure.
A sharp, metallic glint on the mattress caught his eye. He turned back, his gaze anchoring on the mangled handcuffs. They hadn't been picked with a professional's kit; they had been brutalized. Resting beside the jagged metal was a heavy-duty, industrial-grade hairpin, bent and scarred from the sheer force used against the lock.
"So that's why..." Luca murmured, a low, dangerous hum in his throat as he picked up the pin. "You kept that ponytail tight for a reason, didn't you, sweetheart? Not for fashion... but for a goddamn contingency plan."
He straightened, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the perimeter of the room. A cold, calculating logic began to override his frustration. "No," he whispered to the shadows. "You're far too pragmatic to vanish into the night with a bleeding shoulder and no leverage. You wouldn't have gone far."
Then, a faint, melodic sound drifted through the heavy oak door of the adjoining dressing suite—a soft, rhythmic humming, as casual as a morning prayer.
He moved toward it, his strides silent, his hand already reaching for the handle.
only to stop dead in his tracks. There she was, perched calmly at the vanity, fixing her hair as if she hadn't been pinned to a bed an hour ago. The damp bathroom towel lay discarded on the floor, and the scent of expensive perfume hung heavy in the air. She was meticulously tracing her lips with a deep, cherry-red lipstick, humming a soft, rhythmic tune to herself.
He watched her for a long moment, fascinated by the sheer audacity of her—grooming herself with the practiced ease of a woman in her own home.
"How long are you planning to stand there and gawk?" she asked without looking back.
Luca shook himself out of his daze, his voice laced with disbelief. "An hour ago, you were screaming, biting, and cursing my existence. Now? You're sitting here playing dress-up like everything's fine. You took a goddamn shower with a wounded shoulder and didn't even try to climb out the window. What the hell is this?"
"Run?" She pulled back from the mirror, admiring the dark stain on her lips with a wicked sort of satisfaction. "I'm not an idiot. You've caught me three times already, Luca. I'd be a fool to try a fourth. Besides, I'm exhausted from all the sprinting."
She turned in the chair, her eyes locking onto his with a cold, sharp clarity. "I could leave if I really wanted to. But I refuse to live like a coward, scurrying around and hiding in the shadows like a fucking rat."
She spun around in the velvet chair, crossing one long leg over the other with a sharp, practiced elegance. "So, Mr. Luca Vitali," she began, her voice dripping with a dangerous blend of boredom and malice. "What's the verdict? Have you finally decided to quit this pathetic charade and sign the goddamn papers?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he closed the distance between them with slow, predatory strides until his face was mere millimeters from hers. "Sign what?" he whispered, his breath ghosting over her lips. "Aren't we already husband and wife? We signed the papers once; why the hell would we do it again?"
She searched his eyes—dark, calculating, and maddeningly steady. "You really have no intention of letting me walk, do you?"
He tilted his head, a slow shake of the head as he reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from her eyes. "Not a chance, sweetheart."