Burning Fire

Alessandro’s Pov

The Berlin night was colder than he’d expected — a sharp, biting chill that crept through the tailored fabric of his black coat. Alessandro Moretti barely noticed. His thoughts were far more brutal than the weather.

The dimly lit alley behind the Volkov estate still smelled of gunpowder and scorched metal — a silent reminder of the warehouse that no longer existed. His warehouse.

It had taken months of negotiation, millions in bribes, and years of carefully constructed alliances to secure that shipping route — a route now reduced to rubble.

And for what? A message.

The Volkovs didn’t just want to wound him; they wanted him to bleed in public.

Alessandro’s jaw tightened as he leaned against the sleek black Maserati parked just outside his hotel. His right hand, still faintly marked with a bruise from his last meeting with Mikhail Volkov, flexed at his side. The old Russian bastard had smiled — actually smiled — when Alessandro confronted him about the warehouse explosion.

It wasn’t the attack itself that made Alessandro’s blood simmer. No, it was what Mikhail had implied with that thin, cruel grin.

There is a rat in your house, Moretti.

Betrayal.

The word gnawed at him like rust on steel.

Someone within his own ranks had sold him out — fed the Volkovs information about the warehouse’s location, the shipment schedule, every detail down to the security rotations. The attack was too precise, too well-timed. There was no other explanation.

He’d thought of Luca first — but no, that was impossible. Luca wasn’t just his right-hand man; he was family. A brother.

Marco and Matteo? The twins were reckless and irritating, but disloyal? Never.

That left a much shorter list — men Alessandro had trusted with his business, his name, his empire. One of them had put a knife in his back.

And he would find out who.

Alessandro rubbed his thumb against the stubble along his jaw, his mind a tangle of strategies and blood-stained possibilities. His family’s legacy was built on loyalty — unwavering, unyielding. He’d built an empire out of fear and respect, never giving his enemies an inch of weakness.

Yet someone — someone — had dared to betray him.

And when he found them, there would be no mercy.

A sudden gust of wind raked through the street, and Alessandro finally pushed off the car, heading inside the hotel. The lobby was all sleek glass and muted gold accents, a poor attempt at elegance. His mood darkened further.

He wasn’t here for luxury. He was here for answers.

The Volkovs were holding their so-called “business conference” at a nearby venue tomorrow — a pathetic excuse for a show of dominance. Alessandro hadn’t been invited, of course. The explosion had made his absence clear.

But he wasn’t leaving Berlin without a reckoning.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A single text.

Unknown Number: It wasn’t the Volkovs who betrayed you.

Alessandro’s blood went ice-cold.

The message wasn’t signed. No name. No clue. Just those eight words, slicing through his fury like a scalpel.

Before he could respond, the number was already disconnected.

He stared at the screen for a long moment, the white glow reflecting off his sharp, angular features.

Not the Volkovs? Then who?

The only thing more dangerous than a known enemy was an invisible one.

He was still grappling with the implications when he entered the elevator, his jaw clenching tighter with each passing floor. The betrayal was an open wound, but beneath the simmering anger, something else lurked — the gnawing sense that this was far from over.

The Volkovs had drawn first blood — but they would not survive the next strike.

His reflection in the elevator’s mirrored walls stared back at him — a man carved from stone, eyes dark and unrelenting. He looked every bit the monster the world believed him to be.

And maybe tonight… he was.

As the elevator doors slid open onto his floor, Alessandro stepped into the dim hallway, his mind spiraling deeper into calculated rage.

And then —

Crash.

His shoulder collided with something — no, someone — and a familiar scent filled his lungs. Soft, feminine. A blend of vanilla and the faintest trace of jasmine.

His gaze dropped, already burning with a curse on his lips — until he saw her.

Sienna.

For a moment, the world tilted.

She stood before him, disheveled yet devastatingly beautiful — her silk blouse creased, strands of dark hair clinging to her neck, and those wild green eyes glaring up at him like he was the cause of every single misfortune in her life.

Alessandro’s grip on his fury faltered.

What was she doing here? In Berlin?

His mind scrambled for logic, but his body… His body remembered her — the way she’d felt pressed against him during their dance in Milan, the scent of her skin, the maddening fire in her voice when she’d walked away from him.

And now, here she was.

In his hotel.

In his city of war.

“Sienna,” he said, her name like a slow drag of whiskey across his tongue.

Her lips parted, but no sound escaped — only a quick, shallow breath. He watched her throat bob with a nervous swallow, and for a moment, he wondered if she felt it too — the unrelenting pull between them.

Her voice, clipped and tight, broke the silence. “Alessandro.”

He didn’t miss the way her voice wavered at the end, a crack in her armor.

Good.

She was affected by him, just as much as he was by her.

Alessandro’s lips curled into something close to a smirk — dark, dangerous, and unforgiving. “What a surprise,” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “Are you following me now, dolcezza?”

Sienna’s chin lifted defiantly, her green eyes flashing with fire. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she snapped. “I’m here for work.”

His gaze dipped to her wrinkled blouse, the flush on her neck — a telltale sign of stress or anger, though he hoped it was something more.

“Work?” Alessandro echoed, his voice like velvet and steel. “Funny. I didn’t know voluntary disasters were part of your job description.”

Her mouth opened — a sharp retort ready — but then she stopped. A flicker of confusion danced across her face.

Good. Let her wonder how he knew she was having a hellish day. Let her question the absurdity of this moment — of them standing face-to-face in a hotel in Berlin, thousands of miles away from where they’d last parted.

But not because he had been watching her.

No — this was something else entirely.

A cruel coincidence.

A dangerous one.

He stepped closer — not enough to touch, but enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. “Did you miss your way around, cara mia?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s it to you?”

Alessandro chuckled softly — a dark, throaty sound that made her shift on her heels. “Everything,” he whispered.

Because now that she was here, standing right in front of him, it wasn’t just about betrayal or business anymore.

It was about her.

And Alessandro wasn’t sure whether to curse the gods — or thank them.