The bass was loud enough to shake the floor.
Capri's most exclusive summer club pulsed with gold lights, ocean air drifting through open terrace doors. Alessia hadn't planned on going out tonight—but her friends insisted. "One last wild night before Florence," they'd said.
She wore a sleek black dress, simple but stunning, her curls loose around her shoulders. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. She just wanted to dance. To feel nineteen. To forget the shadows that had followed her all summer.
For a while, it worked.
Music wrapped around her, laughter spilling between friends as they moved under flashing lights. Alessia felt light. Free.
Until a hand slid onto her waist.
She stiffened immediately.
"Relax," a slurred voice said near her ear. "You don't look like you bite."
She stepped away calmly. "Don't touch me."
The man—mid-twenties, arrogant grin, expensive watch, too much ego—moved closer instead. "I was just being friendly."
Her friends noticed, circling closer, but the crowd pressed tight.
"I said don't touch me," she repeated, firmer now.
He laughed, reaching for her arm. "You think you're too good for me?"
And that was it.
Alessia Romano had grown up strong. Her father made sure she knew how to defend herself. She didn't scare easily.
As his fingers tightened around her wrist, she reacted.
She twisted sharply, pulling free and drawing her fist back—
But before her punch could land, someone caught the man's wrist mid-air.
The shift in energy was instant.
The music still pounded, but a cold current moved through the space.
Luca DeMarco.
He hadn't raised his voice.
Hadn't looked angry.
But the calm in his eyes was far more dangerous.
"You're mistaken," Luca said quietly to the man. "She told you no."
The grip he held wasn't flashy or brutal—just controlled. Precise. The kind of hold that said he knew exactly how much pressure to apply.
The man tried to pull away and failed. His bravado dissolved quickly.
"I didn't know she was yours," he muttered.
Luca's jaw hardened.
"She isn't."
The words were sharp.
"She belongs to herself."
For a brief second, Alessia felt something unexpected—relief.
Luca released him with a subtle shove, enough to send the message. "Leave."
And he did.
No dramatic fight.
No spectacle.
Just quiet authority.
The space around them slowly returned to normal, though whispers traveled like sparks.
Alessia turned to Luca, heart still racing—not from fear, but from adrenaline.
"I had it handled," she said.
"I know," he replied.
That caught her off guard.
"Then why step in?"
His gaze held hers. "Because you shouldn't have to handle that."
She crossed her arms, trying to steady herself. "I don't need rescuing."
"I didn't rescue you." His voice softened slightly. "I intervened."
The distinction lingered between them.
For a moment, the flashing lights reflected in his dark eyes, and she saw something she hadn't allowed herself to notice before—not possession, not control.
Concern.
"You shouldn't follow me," she said quietly.
"I didn't," he answered. "I was invited."
She raised an eyebrow. "Of course you were."
A faint hint of amusement touched his expression—the closest she'd seen to a smile.
"You're angry," he observed.
"I'm tired," she corrected. "Of men thinking they're entitled."
Silence stretched between them again.
"I don't think I'm entitled to you," Luca said carefully. "But I won't pretend I don't want you."
Her breath caught—but her voice stayed steady.
"Wanting isn't the same as deserving."
Something shifted in his posture then. Not dominance. Not retreat.
Respect.
"I'll remember that," he said.
Her friends returned, checking on her, and she gave them a reassuring nod.
When she looked back, Luca had stepped away, blending into the VIP shadows.
He didn't approach her again that night.
He didn't claim her.
He didn't linger.
But as Alessia stood on the terrace later, watching the moon reflect off the sea, she realized something unsettling:
The world he lived in was dangerous.
But the world without him suddenly felt different too.
And that frightened her more than the man at the club ever could.