He had a way of making the ordinary feel extraordinary. Every glance, every gesture was precise but effortless. He noticed the small things — the attentive compliment to a flight attendant, the subtle way he adjusted to turbulence. She realized slowly: he noticed everything.
Later, he asked her gently, “Are you running toward someone… or away from someone?”
Isabella froze. The truth burned in her throat, but she said nothing. He didn’t press. He only asked, quietly, “Do you have a safe place to land?”
“I… have a hotel for two nights. After that, mornings are mine,” she admitted, voice trembling.
“Good,” he said simply. “Mornings are a start.”
By the time the plane landed, he handed her a matte black card with only one word embossed: ADRIAN, and a number. “If you ever feel unsafe,” he said, “call me. Or don’t. Your choice.”
At baggage claim, two men in dark suits were scanning faces. Isabella’s heart raced. Adrian stepped between her and them casually, a shield of confidence. “Friends of yours?” he murmured.
“No. His men,” she whispered.
He snapped a photo discreetly and muttered something in Italian. It sounded like a promise. Minutes later, a black sedan whisked them away.