And then, just as they found a rhythm, a voice cut through the haze. “Come on, Harvey,” it said-a voice that held authority, a hint of danger. Harvey turned, and there stood Rowan, flanked by one assistant, and two imposing men who looked like his guards. They were armed with guns and hidden knives and looked ready to defend their boss at a moment’s notice.
Harvey’s disappointment simmered beneath his skin. “You’re done already?” he asked, his voice edged with hidden frustration. He had silently hoped for more time.
Rowan’s lips curved into a half-smile. “Were you not eager to go home?” His words held a double meaning, and Harvey’s pulse quickened.
Harvey glanced at Amara, who stood beside him. Her eyes flickered with surprise as she took in Rowan’s imposing figure.
Rowan stood out in an all-black ensemble, his tailored suit exuding sophistication and authority. The sleek jacket, crisp shirt, and tapered trousers accentuated his commanding presence which he paired with polished leather shoes.
Rowan’s gaze shifted to Amara, a recognition came to his mind. “Who is she?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual.
Harvey hesitated, then made introductions. “Brother,” he said, “this is Amara-my new friend.” The words tasted foreign on his tongue. Friend? Or something more?
Amara nodded, her poise unyielding. She extended her hand toward Rowan. “Hello,” she said, her voice steady.
Rowan’s eyes, like shards of obsidian, narrowed as he assessed Amara. “Crimson will suit you better,” he remarked, his voice a low murmur. Amara’s confusion danced across her features-a fleeting waltz of uncertainty. Rowan clarified, “Your name.”
Amara squared her shoulders. “Thanks,” she replied, her tone measured, “but I am very satisfied with my original name.”
Rowan’s gaze intensified. “What is your original name?” he pressed.
Amara looked in his eyes as she said, “Amara.”
Rowan emphasised on his words, “Your Full Name.”
Amara hesitated, then relented. “Amara,” she said, her voice softer this time. “Amara Moretti.”
Rowan nodded, as if committing the name to memory. Then, with a shift of focus, he turned to Harvey, “Are you staying?” he asked.
Kyle, Rowan’s assistant, watched from the side, Rowan who rarely wasted words, now engaged in conversation with Amara.
He adjusted his cufflinks-the silver ravens that mirrored Rowan’s-while his mind raced. Why Amara? Why now? Was there something he didn’t know? Rowan’s interactions with females had always been curt, efficient. Yet here he was, discussing names and his given nickname with her himself
After what felt like an eternity, Harvey finally replied, “Leaving, bro.”
Rowan’s gaze shifted from Harvey to Amara, then back again. “Very well,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “Lets leave then.”
Then he turned around to ask Amara, “Are you alone here?”
Reflexively, Amara’s lips parted to deny it-to say that she wasn’t alone. But then, something shifted within her.
Perhaps it was the way Rowan’s eyes held both scrutiny and intrigue. Or maybe it was the pulse of danger that seemed to emanate from him.
“Yes,” she replied, her voice steady. “I am.”
In the dimly lit bar, Rowan’s eyes swept across the room-a predator assessing its territory. His voice, low and authoritative, cut through the haze. “Girls shouldn’t be here alone at night,” he said, his words a warning wrapped in concern. “Especially in a bar owned by people in the mafia.”
Amara’s spine straightened. She hadn’t expected this-Rowan, the predator himself, suddenly playing the role of protector.
“Come with me,” Rowan continued, his gaze unyielding. “I will drop you.”
But Amara, stubborn and self-reliant, shook her head. “Thanks,” she replied, her voice steady, “but I will manage.”
Before Rowan could insist further, Harvey interjected, His voice held a touch of vulnerability. “Yes, Amara,” he said. “It’s not safe. We will drop you. Don’t worry.”
Amara still wanted to refuse, but Rowan said, “A fight is going to happen here,” he said, his voice a low murmur, “If you won’t leave, you won’t be able to leave later.”
She glanced around the bar-the flickering candles, the worn floorboards, the faces etched with secrets. The neon lights seemed to pulse in rhythm with her heartbeat. She had born into a world where danger lurked behind every corner,
Reluctantly, Amara agreed. Harvey stood by her side. Rowan’s gaze held hers for a moment before he started walking, his steps were deliberate, each footfall echoing in the dimness.
And then, like a shadow, Rowan’s guard followed.
The night air outside the bar was cool, a stark contrast to the dim warmth they had left behind.
But as they stepped onto the sidewalk, a new tension filled the space-a discordant symphony of chaos.
The noise erupted from the bar like the shattering of glass, like stars falling to earth. It was followed by gunshots-a staccato rhythm that echoed off the nearby buildings. The streetlights flickered, casting elongated shadows on the pavement.
With the chaos of the bar behind them, the group moved swiftly towards their waiting vehicles, a sense of urgency propelling them forward. The guards took their positions, their trained instincts guiding them as they ensured the safety of their charges.
In the first car, one of the guards slid behind the wheel with practiced ease, his hands steady as he started the engine. Harvey quickly claimed the passenger seat, his expression still tense with the lingering adrenaline of the recent ordeal. Meanwhile, Amara and Rowan settled into the backseat, their minds racing with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.
As the engine roared to life, the car pulled away from the curb, its headlights cutting through the darkness as it navigated the deserted streets.
In the second car, Kyle took the passenger seat, his gaze fixed on the road ahead as the other guard assumed the role of driver. Like a silent shadow, they followed closely behind the first car, their movements synchronized as they maintained a vigilant watch over their companions.
As the cars made their way through the quiet streets, the sense of relief was palpable. The worst was behind them now, and they could finally allow themselves to relax, if only for a moment.
And so, with each passing mile, the tension began to ease.
Turning slightly in his seat, Harvey directed his gaze towards the back, where Amara and Rowan sat, their silhouettes barely visible in the dim light of the car’s interior.
“Amara,” he began, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife, “what’s the address of your house?”
Amara’s response was delayed, her gaze first flickering towards Rowan before settling on Harvey. There was a brief moment of hesitation, as if she were weighing her words carefully, before she finally spoke.
“Moretti Mansion,” she replied, her voice steady despite the underlying tension that lingered in the air.
Harvey’s brow furrowed in confusion at Amara’s response, his mind grappling with the unexpected revelation. “Moretti Mansion?” he repeated, as if trying to make sense of what he had just heard. Amara’s affirmative reply only served to deepen his confusion.
As Harvey struggled to process the information, Rowan’s voice echod in car. “Vincent Moretti’s house?” he asked, his gaze fixed on Amara with an intensity that bordered on disbelief.
Amara met Rowan’s gaze head-on, her expression unreadable as she confirmed his suspicions with a single word. “Yes.”
The revelation sent a shockwave of realization coursing through Rowan’s veins, his mind racing with the implications of what he had just learned. Vincent Moretti, one of the leader in underworld whose name was synonymous with power and influence, was Amara’s father.
For a fleeting moment, Rowan’s thoughts turned to his own tumultuous history with Vincent Moretti, a rivalry that had simmered beneath the surface for years. Their paths had crossed on numerous occasions, each encounter marked by tension and hostility as they vied for dominance in the cutthroat Mafia World.
But as Rowan stared into Amara’s eyes, he realized that this was not the time nor the place to dwell on past grievances. Despite their shared history, he couldn’t deny the attraction he felt towards Amara from the first time he saw her.
Pushing aside his reservations, Rowan forced a smile, his voice tinged with warmth as he addressed Amara. “Well then, it seems we’ve arrived at our destination.”
Amara’s gaze lingered on the imposing facade of Moretti Mansion as the car came to a halt, her mind awash with a whirlwind of emotions.
Turning towards Harvey, she offered him a grateful smile, her eyes reflecting the warmth of her appreciation. “Well, I should get going then,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “And thank you for the ride.”
Harvey returned her smile with a nod, his expression tinged with a mixture of concern and relief. “Of course, Amara,” he replied, his voice gentle yet reassuring. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
Amara nodded in response, her gratitude palpable as she opened the car door and stepped out onto the gravel driveway. The crisp night air enveloped her like a comforting embrace, its coolness a welcome reprieve from the stifling confines of the car.