The Art of Pretending
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Upper West Side, Manhattan – 8:32 PM
Private Gallery Showing
The room smelled like money and old ambition—polished wood floors, champagne flutes balanced on manicured fingers, and oil paintings that cost more than some people's childhoods.
Luca Moretti wore a charcoal suit tailored within an inch of its life. His cufflinks were subtle, understated—white gold, no flash. He moved through the crowd like he owned it, because in many ways, he did.
This wasn't his scene. He preferred low light, back rooms, private lounges with security at every exit. But appearances mattered. Especially now.
A gallery opening meant handshakes with real estate developers and whispered promises to politicians. It meant reminding the city that Luca Moretti was not a criminal—he was a patron of the arts. A businessman. A myth.
Rafa flanked him, ever the storm-dog in a tux. "You really think the rat'll show up here?"
Luca accepted a glass of champagne from a passing server, never taking his eyes off the room. "If Gio's testing loyalty, he'll want to know who I'm cozying up to. Who's kissing my ring in public."
"And if he's not the leak?"
Luca's mouth twitched into a dry smile. "Then we're just enjoying overpriced art."
Rafa snorted. "The only thing I understand in this place is the wine list."
"You're uncultured."
"I'm practical."
Luca took a long sip and turned toward the entrance—and froze.
She walked in like she belonged, all midnight hair and red lips and legs that cut through the crowd like a secret. Black satin dress. No jewelry. Minimal makeup. A statement in restraint. Her eyes swept the room with careful confidence and landed—on him.
It was her.
The woman from the hotel.
She looked exactly the same, and completely different. That was the trouble with smoke—no matter how familiar, it always shifted.
Rafa followed his gaze. "Friend of yours?"
"Not yet," Luca said softly.
Same Time – Emilia Hart
The second she stepped through the gallery doors, Emilia felt the shift.
Not in the room. In herself.
The air was thick with perfume and power. The crowd glittered, but underneath the gloss was something darker—predatory. It didn't scare her. It thrilled her, in a way she wasn't proud of.
She scanned the space quickly, her training taking over. Entry points. Exits. High-visibility zones. Surveillance coverage. All the variables.
And then her eyes found him.
Luca Moretti.
It was him—impossibly polished, effortlessly magnetic. The man whose body she'd memorized hours before he disappeared without a trace. Whose scent still clung to the pillow beside her that morning.
He hadn't seen her yet. Or maybe he had, but hadn't recognized her out of the shadows and into silk and heels.
Emilia swallowed the instinct to retreat. Her orders had been clear: get close. Earn his trust. Turn him inside out before he ever saw the knife coming.
He doesn't know who I am.
But if she made the wrong move tonight… he would.
She adjusted the clutch in her hand, posture straight, steps sure. She was supposed to observe him from a distance. Blend in. Feed the Bureau scraps from a table she was never meant to sit at.
But now…
Now the table had turned.
Back to Luca's POV – Gallery Floor
She walked toward him with the kind of grace that drew more than just eyes—it drew curiosity. Whispers. Quiet envy. And still, she never broke eye contact.
Luca handed his untouched champagne to Rafa without looking. "Give us a minute."
Rafa raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"
Luca didn't answer. He was already moving.
They met in the center of the gallery, between a dramatic portrait of a stormy ocean and a sculpture that looked like someone had melted a Greek god on purpose. Up close, she was more striking than he remembered. Her eyes held stories she hadn't told him. Her lips were the kind men regretted..
"You clean up well," Luca said, his voice low, a thread of amusement winding through it.
She tilted her head, playing the game. "You left before I could say the same."
"Didn't want to ruin the mystery."
"Is that what it was?"
He smiled, slow and deliberate. "A mystery worth chasing."
Her heart skipped, but her face gave nothing away. "Funny. I always thought one-night stands were meant to be forgotten."
"Some nights don't like being forgotten." He leaned in slightly, just enough that only she could hear. "What brings you to this side of the city, cara mia?"
A question. A hook. A test.
Emilia's answer came just as smoothly. "Art. Wine. The company."
Luca's eyes flickered. "You move in interesting circles."
"You'd be surprised the kind of rooms I get invited into."
He chuckled under his breath. "I believe you."
There was a pause—one charged with the unspoken. She felt it. So did he.
But neither moved.
Finally, he nodded toward the painting behind her. "What do you think?"
She turned slightly to glance at it—a brutal, moody piece, full of shadows and violence.
"It's honest," she said. "Ugly, but honest."
Luca studied her, not the art. "Then you understand it."
A bit. "Do you?"
"I live it."
Their eyes locked.
Somewhere across the room, Rafa's phone buzzed. A quiet signal. Luca ignored it—for now.
He wasn't done with her. Not yet.
"Walk with me," he said.
Not a question.
She hesitated just long enough to make him wonder… then stepped beside him.
Still Luca's POV — Gallery Interior
They moved through the exhibit slowly, as though they had nowhere to be, nowhere more important than right here.
The gallery's lighting shifted in waves—soft spotlights bathing each piece while leaving the floor dim. Shadows slipped over her shoulders like a second skin. Luca couldn't stop watching her.
"So," he said, hands casually in his pockets, "are you the type who actually appreciates the art… or just here for the champagne and stolen glances?"
Emilia glanced at him sideways. "Depends on who's doing the glancing."
"Then I'll take that as permission."
"You already did."
He laughed—quiet, genuine. It startled her a little. It startled him more.
They stopped in front of a series of abstract canvases in aggressive reds and blacks. Luca tilted his head, examining one of them with mock seriousness.
"What do you think it means?" he asked.
"That the artist needs therapy," she deadpanned.
Luca smirked. "So not a critic, then?"
"I deal in facts, not feelings."
He glanced at her. "That so? What kind of facts?"
The hesitation was almost imperceptible.
"I work in intelligence."
A truth wrapped in misdirection.
Luca's brow lifted slightly, intrigued. "Government?"
"Private sector," she lied smoothly, then offered a shrug. "Consulting. Lots of spreadsheets. Nothing half as exciting as this."
"And yet," he murmured, "you don't look like someone who lives in spreadsheets."
"Maybe I don't like being predictable."
Luca paused in front of another piece—this one a black canvas with a single silver slash through the middle.
He turned to face her. "Neither do I."
She held his gaze, and for a moment the game dropped away. What was left wasn't flirtation—it was recognition.
Two people pretending to be something they're not, in a room full of people doing the same.
Two liars, orbiting truth.
He stepped closer. Not close enough to touch—but enough to feel the heat.
"You still haven't told me your name," he said softly.
Her lips curved. "You never asked."
"I'm asking now."
She hesitated, just a second too long. "Lia."
He repeated it, tasting the lie. "Lia."
"You disappointed?"
"Not yet."
A server passed by with a tray of wine. Luca grabbed two glasses and handed her one.
"To stolen glances," he said, raising his glass.
She tapped hers lightly against it. "To mysteries worth chasing."
They drank.
Neither of them looked away.
Same Scene – Luca's POV
Their glasses were nearly empty. Their smiles? Carefully crafted masks.
Luca was about to say something—maybe ask where she'd go after this, maybe ask what she wasn't saying—when Rafa appeared across the room, a specter in black, phone pressed to his ear.
Their eyes locked. Rafa gave a subtle nod.
Something was wrong.
Luca's jaw tensed. He turned to Emilia—Lia, he reminded himself. Whoever she was, whatever she was doing here, he suddenly didn't have the luxury of finding out tonight.
"Business?" she asked, watching the shift in him with those calculating eyes.
"Afraid so."
She took another sip, not missing a beat. "Shame. I was just starting to enjoy your company."
He leaned in close, his breath brushing her ear. "Then I'll make sure you get another chance."
She smiled, but he could tell—she was studying him now. Not flirting. Not playing. Watching.
Luca turned and walked toward Rafa without looking back.
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A Few Steps Away – Quick Exchange
"What is it?" Luca asked under his breath.
Rafa handed him the phone. "It's about Gio."
Luca pressed the phone to his ear, jaw tight.
A voice came through on the line—gritty, familiar.
"You were right. He's been talking to someone. Fed, maybe. We got a time and a place."
Luca's blood ran cold, but his voice stayed calm.
"Text me everything. I want eyes on it in twenty."
He hung up, slid the phone into his jacket, and exhaled once.
Rafa murmured, "So what now?"
Luca's gaze drifted back to the spot where Lia had been. But she was gone.
He didn't know what she was.
Not yet.
But he was going to find out.
Later That Night – Lower Manhattan | Abandoned Shipping Lot
The air smelled like rust, saltwater, and lies.
Luca stepped out of the car, his coat catching in the wind off the East River. Rafa and two others—Matthew and Nico—fanned out behind him, their footsteps silent on cracked concrete.
Across the lot, a figure waited near a stack of rusted containers, hoodie pulled low. Not Gio. A runner.
"Where is he?" Luca asked, voice low.
The runner nodded toward a container with its door slightly cracked.
"He's inside. Alone."
Luca nodded once. Rafa moved first, yanking the door open while Nico and Matthew flanked the entrance. Luca stepped in last.
Gio sat on a crate, head low, a cigarette burning between trembling fingers.
"Boss," he muttered. "Didn't think you'd come yourself."
Luca didn't speak. He just stared.
"You think I sold you out?" Gio asked, looking up with bloodshot eyes.
Luca didn't answer.
"I didn't, man. I swear. I just—I was talking to this guy, said he had a buyer for that gun shipment. I didn't know he was with the feds."
Luca's expression didn't shift. "You think that makes it better?"
Gio stood, desperate now. "Come on, Luca. We grew up together. You think I'd really flip?"
Luca's voice was quiet. Too quiet. "I think you forgot who we are."
He turned to Rafa. A nod.
Two shots. Quick. Clean.
Gio collapsed.
Luca didn't flinch.
He stared down at what was left of a brother and said nothing.
This is what betrayal looks like, he thought. And I'm not done yet.
He stepped out into the cold night, the taste of smoke and blood sharp on his tongue.
And somewhere, in the distance, a woman with red lips and too many secrets was watching him.
She didn't know it yet—but she'd just stepped into the center of a war.
And Luca Moretti never lost.
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