She fled her abu:sive marriage and boarded a plane, unaware that the man sitting beside her wasn’t just a stranger—but one of the most powerful crime bosses in Europe.

The plane hit turbulence. Isabella flinched. Her sweater slipped slightly, revealing the constellation of bruises across her shoulder. The man beside her finally spoke.

“Are you all right?” His voice was low, even, careful — the kind of calm that made her want to lean on him without knowing why.

“I’m fine,” she said, automatically. A lie. Her eyes, however, betrayed the truth.

He tilted slightly, offering her space without crowding it. “If you want, you can rest. It helps.”

Rest. The word was alien. She had not slept freely in years. Slowly, carefully, she leaned against him. He did not move. He did not speak. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, she slept.

When she awoke, sunlight poured into the cabin. He was reading, calm and quiet.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, embarrassed.

“No apology necessary,” he said. After a pause, he added, “I’m Adrian Moretti.”

“Isabella,” she replied, hesitating. “Nice to meet you.”